The Curse of Clan Ross Read online

  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

  www.llmuir.weebly.com

  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

  Going Back for Romeo

  Not Without Juliet

  Collecting Isobelle

  Christmas Kiss

  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

  GOING BACK FOR ROMEO

  NOT WITHOUT JULIET

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  COLLECTING ISOBELLE

  GOING BACK FOR ROMEO

  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.

  “I see ye’ve met Montgomery.” Laird Ross, the ancient Highlander’s spitting image, walked up to her. His voice sent a shiver up her spine. It was a deep rumbly voice she imagined his ancestor might have had. “Ye’ll learn more on him in a moment. I’m happy to see we’ve found ye again.”

  “I’m sorry. I fell behind. A woman suggested I wait for the rest of the group in here.” Jilly smiled.

  The man’s eyes narrowed in concentration.

  “Have ye by chance taken our wee tour before, then?” His gaze searched her face, her eyes, and lingered on her hair.

  “Nope.” Jilly shivered and hoped her nerves didn’t show. “I think I just have one of those common faces, you know?”

  He smiled and shrugged, then walked to the head of the crowd. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

  Jilly had been thrilled to have Quinn Ross, the token Scottish Laird, giving the tour. He was single, she’d heard one of the other tourists say, a widower. Jilly had listened long enough to learn the self-proclaimed ruler of those ancestral stones supposedly turned to the history of this remarkable building to distract himself from his broken heart.

  Before she’d lagged behind, she’d followed the enticing swing of Laird Ross’s kilt through the crumbling maze of his playground. It hadn’t been difficult to catch the purring in the man’s voice as he’d pointed out how incredibly advanced the castle had been for the renovations made in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. For example, he’d explained, the system engineered for cleaning the garderobes was eerily similar to modern day toilet flushing.

  Lordy, how the man loved his castle. They were lucky he allowed tourists through it.

  In his mid-thirties, Quinn Ross was easily the most glorious creature Jilly’d met on her first trip out of the United States, excepting the literally chiseled Montgomery. Women of all ages blushed near him the duration of the tour; she wondered if it was sorrow or simple humility that made him oblivious to it.

  It was just Jilly’s luck to be more attracted to the stone version of him. Though silent as the rock that held him prisoner, Montgomery stole her breath, while she sensed something missing from Quinn. Shouldn’t it be Montgomery who was lacking a certain something? Like flesh and blood? The ability to detach himself from his home, for instance?

  Maybe she’d just heard the tale one too many times and the medieval man was becoming real to her.

  Reminded of her storyteller companions, Jilly looked about the Hall and saw the two standing just inside the doorway with their heads bent together. When they noticed her, their faces lit up.

  The Muir sisters, sweet identical ladies far too old to be traveling abroad, filled their immediate area with a blue glow. There was nothing magical about it; their thick knit sweaters were periwinkle, their hair was a respectable bluish-gray, and they each wore their swollen blue veins like a set of jewelry along their necks and hands.

  The only thing not identical about them was the pattern of those veins. Lorraine had a large one running down the middle of her left hand; Loretta had one on her right. Through their weeks of planning and traveling together, Jilly needed only to glance at their hands to keep their names straight.

  It had been the most natural thing in the world for her to gravitate to these two. They had a joy about them that was just the opposite of the cantankerous woman who’d raised her, and anything contrary to Jilly’s former dull life was welcome. Grandma had been flannel and overalls; these two were perfume and polyester.

  Perfect.

  She walked to meet them as the tour resumed. One sister slipped a veiny hand around Jilly’s elbow and held on. Right hand. Loretta. She couldn’t tell which of them was shaking harder; Loretta from age, or herself from excitement.

  Along one wall the hearth stretched wide enough to accommodate a dozen men in its dark, but clean maw. Along the opposite wall stood an ornate series of cabinets in which all manner of weapons and armor winked from behind glass doors, tempting even adults to ignore the signs requesting they not be touched.

  A
maze of red velvet cordons led the guests to the far end of the fifty-foot hall where a large pedestal graced the center of a thick stone dais. When the group neared the display, the tone of the presentation turned somber. No doubt the Curse of Clan Ross was about to be revealed.

  Holy crap. This is it.

  The sisters, one on each side, squeezed her upper arms as if they were thinking just that.

  Quinn Ross began the tale with a combination of respect for the superstition and the disenchantment of a modern man.

  “The curse of the Rosses is not unlike the tale of Romeo and Juliet,” he explained. “Imagine the Montagues were the MacKay Clan, the Capulets, the Rosses. But in the year 1494, the duty to one’s clan was far more important than any notion of love. Clan meant survival. Allegiances meant...survival. And when our fair Morna’s hand was the price we had to pay for aligning ourselves with the powerful Gordons, Morna did her duty; her Romeo, Ivar MacKay, understood.”

  Men’s heads nodded. The women sighed. Apparently they didn’t see anything wrong with Ivar sitting back and letting someone re-assign the love of his life to another man. Maybe, just maybe, Montgomery hadn’t been the only medieval jerk in this little tragedy.

  Quinn leaned forward, weakening knees with eye contact as he continued.

  “Isobelle Ross was a witch...and Morna’s sister. And even though she was a strange and opinionated woman for those times, Isobelle loved her sister dearly. She would have changed places with Morna, but the Gordons would not consider a union with the wilder sibling who was already suspected of not being right in the head. But Isobelle couldn’t bear to see Morna suffer over the loss of her Ivar, so she placed an enchantment on a simple torque.” He indicated the large C-shaped piece of metal displayed upon the pedestal. “This very torque.”