The Curse of Clan Ross
Read The Curse of Clan Ross Online
Authors: L. L. Muir
THE CURSE OF CLAN ROSS
SERIES
Includes:
GOING BACK FOR ROMEO
NOT WITHOUT JULIET
COLLECTING ISOBELLE
By L.L. Muir
KOBO EDITION
PUBLISHED BY
Lesli Muir Lytle
THE CURSE OF CLAN ROSS © 2014 L.Lytle
All rights reserved
KOBO Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to KOBO.com and purchase your own copy. The ebooks contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
ALSO BY L.L. Muir
Kiss This
Blood for Ink
Bones for Bread
Lord Fool to the Rescue
Under the Kissing Tree
Ruffles and Rawhide
Somewhere Over the Freaking Rainbow
Where to Pee on a Pirate Ship
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Book One
PROLOGUE
Castle Ross, East Burnshire, Scotland 1494
Odd.
The stone closest to Laird Montgomery Ross’s foot looked to be the same shape as the hole remaining in the side of his sister's tomb, but he refused to reach for it.
"Nay. I'm not ready to be finished.” Monty whispered his complaint to God, for surely it was God's hand that wrought such an appropriately shaped thing.
Behind him, one of the priests cleared his throat. Monty knew without looking it had been the fat one who could not cease rubbing his hands together, even while Monty’s sister was led inside her would-be grave. The bastard had been rubbing them for a fair two days, since he’d arrived to try Isobelle as a witch. No doubt they were itchy for the feel of a woman’s neck since Monty had cheated them out of wringing his sister’s.
He could let the priest live, or he could be silent, but Monty could not manage both.
"If ye canna seem to clean those hands, Father,” he said without turning away from his morbid creation, “I'd be happy to rid ye of them before I finish my task here. I'm sure my sister wouldna mind the wait."
A gasp of outrage was followed by silence, although the Great Hall was filled to the corners with his clan. Those who could not find space inside would soon enough hear of each stone lovingly placed as their laird buried his sister alive within their very hall, upon the stone dais, behind the great Ross Chair. Hopefully they would remember Isobelle’s bravery and not how oft his tears mingled with the mortar.
None breathed, none dared rub their hands. How could he possibly continue? How could he not?
“Nay, I wouldna mind a bit, if ye’re quick about it, brother mine.” Isobelle’s voice echoed eerily from the tomb and she smirked at him from within the tiny patch of light the same shape as the odd stone. “In fact, toss the bloody things in here with me and I’ll leave them at the gates of hell. Himself can collect them when he arrives.”
Her unholy laughter no doubt had even the dogs wishing they could cross themselves, but it was music to Monty’s ears. The Kirk’s men allowed her no blanket, but she’d have the image of revenge to keep her warm.
“Isobelle!” Morna screamed. Monty’s other sister stood off to his right, restrained by her puny Gordon husband. “’Tis all me fault. Forgive me.”
Isobelle’s sober face came forward to fill the hole as she searched for Morna, giving Monty one last glimpse of red hair.
“Morna, love. Dinna greet. The faery will come to make it all right again. Watch for the faery...and keep away from yer husband!”
“Silence!” the robed bastard roared.
Isobelle laughed again, backing away from the hole. After all, what could the man do to her now?
Monty would not ruin her trust in the blasted faery, but if the creature ever placed its magic toe on Ross land, it would be dead before it ever took a breath of heathered air.
‘Twas time
.
He looked at the stone.
‘Twas meant.
“I love ye, sister mine.” His words were quiet, for Isobelle alone.
“And I you, Monty. Blow us a kiss.”
When he raised his crusted fingers to his lips, his palm filled with tears but they washed none of the nightmare away. He blew a kiss that was instantly returned.
“I’m stayin’ right here, pet. Ye’re no’ alone.”
“Get on, then.” The whimper in her voice was slight. “I’ll have a wee nap if ye’ll but douse the light.”
With a final wink she disappeared.
Monty reached for the stone, dipped its edges in muck, and pushed it home, breaking his heart in the doing. After long moments of stillness, his hands slowly opened and dropped away.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Morna swoon, but someone else would have to catch her—someone without mud or blood on his hands. Morna wouldn’t welcome his comfort anyhow. She claimed it was her fault, but he knew both sisters blamed him.
If he’d have known the outcome, would he have acted differently? What kind of bastard would not?
There was no stopping the twisting of his face, the sob from his chest. He turned his head to the side and bellowed, “Out!”
Nearly everyone fled or slithered from the hall, all but The Kirk’s henchmen who would stay until they believed his sister dead. Only then did he hear the muffled sobs of Isobelle. She sounded as if she were deep in the ground.
His heart shuddered with cold. Dear God, what had he been thinking? His plan was madness; she would never last. Not enough time. He had to get her out!
He reached for the odd stone...and was struck soundly from behind.
CHAPTER ONE
Castle Ross, Present Day
This wasn’t the first time Jillian MacKay had felt a holy-crap-moment coming on. She wouldn’t worry about it now, except for two things. First, her premonitions of holy-crap-moments were never wrong. And second, she was only minutes away from testing The Curse of the Ross Clan.
Jilly was alone for the moment, poised to enter the Great Hall of Castle Ross, the right heel of her green boots rocking nervously while she waited for the tour group to catch up to her. No sirens sounded. No trumpets announced that a simple girl from Wyoming was about to do anything noteworthy, even though, for the first time in her life, she thought she may actually
be
about to do something noteworthy.
She took a deep breath. Then another. Then tentatively stepped into the dimly lit Hall, turned to her left, and froze.
Holy, holy crap.
Silence stirred from its dreamy corner and rose to fill the Hall, pushing into every nook and cranny. There was no echo of her steps on the wood floor, no muffled voices of the tour group nearing the massive outer door—as if this moment was so pure, so important, that sound could not be allowed to sully it.
And all she’d done was look at his face.
The stone Highlander before her was as broad in the shoulder as a football player in full pads. His triceps must have been formed with soft wet clay smoothed and stroked with passionate hands, not chiseled from stone as she’d been told.
She wondered if it had been responsibility or defending his misdeeds that had layered muscle upon muscle with no thought for the tailor who must cover those arms. But considering the stories the Muir sisters told, Jilly’d bet the latter was true.
Montgomery Ross had earned his way into the Historical Arse section of the Scottish Hall of Fame.
Handsome Historical Arse, she amended, and couldn’t help gaping at him like a stupid fish. Good thing she was alone.
His wild hair draped and waved behind his shoulders. Small braids at his temples kept it from his eyes. And those eyes, while hard as stone, were softened by laugh lines. One corner of his mouth quirked a bit higher than the other side and Jilly would have given anything to have heard the man’s voice, or a snippet of his laugh.
If such a sound still bounced around the chamber, somehow, her ears couldn’t catch it. And her ears were not the only parts of her straining—her hands ached to
slide up that chest and around his neck, but a voice in her head warned her to resume breathing and run away. If she ignored it, would she turn to stone as well? Was the Hall so silent, not because she didn’t move, but because she couldn’t? Then again, would it be so bad to stand here next to
him
for a couple hundred years?
Ho. Ly. Crap.
She touched her own chin. Still dry, still soft and fleshy. And so she continued her inventory, somehow feeling she might be tested on the details someday.
Wide cloth draped over his bare shoulder, slanted over his heart, and wrapped around his hips and bulging thighs. Jilly had to ignore his navel outright, even though he certainly couldn’t complain about her peeking wherever she pleased. Of course she wouldn’t; she should get points for that.
Large fists rested on his hips along with a belt for his sporran. Another strap crossed his chest under the material and no doubt held his sword to his back; its hilt peaked over his shoulder. Ties crisscrossed his calves over thick-looking socks that must not be trusted to stay up on their own. The too-perfect package ended with square-toed boots.
Jillian whistled. “The Muir sisters didn’t do you justice, laddie.”
Immediately behind him, a rough block of stone held him prisoner, as if the castle itself were trying to absorb him, sucking at the backs of his legs, his kilt and boots, demanding he return to the depths of the rock from which he’d sprung.
Jillian had never believed in ghosts, but she couldn’t argue with the feel of a tangible presence in the room with her. She jerked around to look behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck jumped up to scream in protest, only to still once more when she turned again to face him.
She grinned.
He must not want her to look away.
“Hello, Montgomery,” she murmured, then paused, insanely wishing he would return the greeting.
He smirked on.
Bright lights flickered on in the high raftered ceiling, illuminating the Great Hall and beckoning the tour group, and their voices, to flood the huge space. The silent spell shattered. The Highlander was no longer shrouded in shadows; his face was lighter, his amusement more pronounced. His kilt was still frozen mid-flutter, but Jillian could discern the slightest hint of lines in the cloth that had looked smooth when dimmer light streamed through the narrow windows. The sculptor had at least bestowed a hint of plaid to a man who’d probably lived or died by the pattern in his clothes.