The Curse of Clan Ross Page 3

  Jilly chose the path of self-medication and ordered a Green-Toed Faery, doing a slightly dignified, seated jig while she waited for the drink. A giant bag of chocolate was what she really wanted, but the only store in town closed at seven. Seven!

  You would think she was in...Wyoming.

  Clutching onto the bar and any excuse for conversation with the bartender, Jilly could feel numerous eyes boring cigarette-sized holes in the back of her jacket. Every now and then she would force herself to turn and look casually about the smoky pub if only to relieve the heat coming through her clothes. She could almost taste burning leather.

  The old Jilly would be sitting back at the B&B waiting for someone to tell her what she’d be doing next, but she wasn’t ready to go back to being the obedient help; she suspected that’s all she’d been to her grandmother.

  Nope. Her world was going to change—her life was going to change—if she could just keep from losing her nerve. Making her own decisions was a muscle she had to build, and so far, it was barely a swelling under her skin. Breaking into the castle to silence the voices was going to max-out that muscle big time.

  Screw the chocolate; what she really needed was some distracting company.

  At her quiet end of the bar, the handiest ear available for bending belonged to Jock, the unfortunately-named Scot who was mixing drinks and likely had never played a sport in his life. It looked completely probable that he saved all his energy to reach past his substantial belly to set a glass on the counter. And after watching for the last half hour, Jilly was sure the patrons were trying to keep their spills and watermarks close to the inside of the bar where Jock could more easily reach them, proving once again Scotland was the quaintest place on earth.

  But quaint also meant small, and it was entirely possible that Jock was the only one in town who had not heard about Jilly’s failed attempt to end the Ross Curse.

  Jock’s fussing brought him back to her end of the counter, a beautiful length of thick wood damaged and re-polished so many times it looked more like a long dark river rock made smooth by water and time. He flung one end of his towel over his red-suspendered shoulder and left it there while he gathered up dirty glasses.

  “Bad day at the jewelry shop?” he asked with a wink.

  Of course it was also entirely possible that Jock had been the one to spread the word.

  Jilly hung her head. She’d been struggling to hold it up all afternoon, and music or no music, she just couldn’t do it anymore.

  “Aw, come now, lassie. Dinna fash. Think of it this way, if ye’d have succeeded somehow, it would have ruined the tourist trade, aye? Turned our wee community into dust. A ghost shire with no ghosts.” He patted her hand with his large smooth one. “So we’re every one of us obliged.”

  Jillian raised her head and blew the man a kiss. He’d just moved to the top of her list of favorite Scots. But was he right? Would ending The Curse mess with the people here?

  A clang announced the opening of the pub’s wide door, and Jilly scooted closer to the shadows.

  She couldn’t help the clenching of her stomach when she imagined the old sisters hunting her down. If she were a clever girl she could think of a way to never have to face the pair again. She couldn’t blame the afternoon’s failure on Lorraine and Loretta, though. She’d latched on to the lure of Scotland like a hungry fish after a shiny bug. The Curse had merely given her an excuse.

  Ending the Curse may not be her destiny, but destiny was definitely calling her from the direction of the castle. She merely needed to break back into the castle and call it back. And she need not worry about conspiring Scots, since the place should be empty for the night.

  Jilly propped an elbow on the glossy counter, cradled her jaw in her hand, and sighed into her fluorescent drink. It was as sad as it was amusing, this temptation to pull aside the hair on her forehead and ask Jock if she might have a Harry Potter-esque scar on her brow that read “FOOL.”

  “Avoiding the Muir sisters, then?” Jock smiled at Jilly before turning to fill a pint for the newcomer.

  Jilly wasn’t surprised. Many of the local Scots had greeted the old gals by name when they’d arrived in East Burnshire.

  “They must have been here a few times.”

  “A few.” Jock laughed. “I’d say they’re here nearly twice as often as the others.”

  “Other what?”

  “Other ghost busters.” He frowned. “Did they no’ tell ye that’s what they be?”

  Jilly choked on her drink and wondered if tomorrow she’d be blowing fluorescent green crap out of her nose.

  “Oh, I knew they brought me here to listen to a ghost story, and to try on the necklace,” she confessed, “but the term ‘ghost busters’ makes it sound like they might have packed Haz-Mat suits in their luggage.”

  Josh laughed while he carried clinking glasses to the sink, but returned a bit more serious.

  “The ghost of Castle Ross is no joke to this town, mind ye. Nor to His Lairdship. Without the revenue from the telly folk, the castle would have fallen into American hands long ago.” He swallowed. “No offense, then.”

  Jilly waved away his concern. “Haunted Castles of Scotland, and all that?”

  “Aye.” Jock started polishing a glass that had yet to be washed, but before Jilly could point that out, he took the dirty thing to the sink and pulled out a clean towel. He came back to polish the portion of the bar he could easily reach. “Never underestimate the tourist trade. Quinn Ross is a shrewd mon. As was his fither before ‘im. Those telly folk pay a dear coin to get inside Castle Ross with their shade sniffers, aye?”

  “Shade sniffers?”

  “Shades are ghosts, lass. Ghost findin’ equipment, aye?”

  “Aye.” The word just popped out. It was a natural reaction but she hadn’t meant to mock him. His smile told her he didn’t offend easily either.

  “As I said, if there were no ghost of Isobelle Ross, or the Mighty Caretaker, there would no longer be an East Burnshire,” he puffed. Talking and scrubbing at the same time had proved too much. He flipped the towel over his shoulder once again and leaned against the shiny surface. “Even if the mon is not the actual laird of Clan Ross, he’s laird enough to the likes o’ us. He’s earned his title as much as any auld hielander, ye ken?”

  “Yes, I k…can understand that.”

  As the evening crowd multiplied, she lost Jock’s attention. Eventually, he completely abandoned the English language in favor of growling and grunting at his other customers, the latter merrily clearing their throats and spitting Gaelic in response. At least she thought it was Gaelic. Her grandmother had taught it to her—both for the sport of talking about others at church without being understood, and so Jilly might be able to understand their supposed enemies.

  The church thing would shock the Muir sisters right down to their T.E.D. hose.

  No more excuses, then. It didn’t look like Quinn was going to show, so she’d have to hope he didn’t peek out the windows of the manor house at the moment she broke into the remains of his tourist attraction next door.

  She checked her image in the mirror behind the bar one last time. Black straight hair and marble green eyes stared back, and she marveled at how she fit in to the local crowd. Who knew Scottish ancestry could be so prominent in a girl from so far away?

  She pulled her bangs across what may or may not be a word bubbling up on her forehead and turned to the doorway...which was blocked by her matched set of companions.

  Crap.

  The women she’d come to think of as the sweetest little old ladies in the world had mutated. Like a double-dose of Vanna White, they parted and pointed to the door behind them. As Jilly took in their steely smiles and raised eyebrows, she smelled a rat.

  Make that two. And they had something besides blue veins up their sleeves.

  Jilly looked back to Jock for help, but his attention was elsewhere. With no obvious options, she reluctantly preceded Loretta and Lorraine out of the
pub.

  The pea gravel crackled like cereal under her green ostrich boots as they walked to the rental car, the crisp sounds traveled easily in the moist night air. Apparently they were going somewhere; it was going to be a very late night if she had to entertain these two before turning to crime.

  Jilly climbed into the backseat of the rental. The whole silent treatment worked fine for her. There was nothing she wished to discuss. After the sisters got in, however, and didn’t turn the key, the silence got uncomfortable.

  “Okay, uncle. Where are we going?” Jilly hated that she’d spoken first. “Are we waiting for something?” She hoped it wasn’t a lecture on the proper way to let your companions know you are walking back to town instead of waiting for them.

  The ladies, she finally noticed, were watching the North road into East Burnshire.

  “Haven’t you guessed yet, Jillian dear?” The driver patted her hair with a veiny left hand. Lorraine. “We’re not waiting for something. We’re waiting for someone.”

  Even in the dark vehicle, Jilly caught the not-so-sly elbow Loretta gave her sister. It was a mild jab, no doubt in deference to the risk of shattering both Lorraine’s ribs and Loretta’s arm, but the meaning was the same.

  Jilly suddenly had a vision of haz-mat suits stuffed in the trunk.

  Headlights came down the road and the sisters ducked. Maybe it was what she planned to do later that made Jilly duck too.

  A black SUV rolled to a gravel-crunching stop near the rear of the pub and she reminded herself to breathe while she waited to see who would emerge. Scrunched into the shadows for no sane reason, she would have giggled if she weren’t so curious about what the twins were planning.

  As soon as the driver got his butt into the pub, the three of them were going to have their first serious conversation.

  Light reflected off all angles of the shiny black door as Quinn Ross climbed out from behind the wheel. He wore jeans and a dark jacket, a wonder to behold all right, and she realized what made the man an eyeful had little to do with the bare knees and kilt she’d seen him wearing earlier. She could only imagine what the ancient laird, Montgomery Ross, could have looked like in similar attire.

  Quinn glanced at the cars in the parking lot and Jilly prayed he wouldn’t notice the two piles of blue hair that hadn’t cleared the dashboard.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  If Jilly was going down, Lorraine and Loretta were going down with her.

  It was only when they were flying down the road that the sisters finally confessed their intention to break into Castle Ross. After hearing it come out of an old lunatic’s mouth, the plan sounded absolutely stupid. What the hell had she been thinking?

  Now she was a captive in the small, nearly airborne car at the mercy of an ancient Mrs. Andretti, whose memory of British driving rules came and went with every curve. They were holding on for dear life and Loretta’s help consisted of calmly repeating, “Left side, dear,” in rhythm with Lorraine’s strobe-light Alzheimer’s.

  With arms wide, both hands splayed against fogging windows in an attempt to subdue the storm in her stomach, Jilly sent an unkind thought to whichever high school student supplied the sisters with fake I.D.’s, claiming they were still young enough to drive.

  Sneaking into the castle unnoticed would be hard enough for Jilly alone, but with a couple of blue glow-in-the-dark, crisp-boned ladies picking a delicate path from shadow to shadow, they were doomed.

  She didn’t know what they called “breaking and entering” in the U.K., but surely the punishment would be harsher. With her luck, these two would assume a confused demeanor and she’d get an added charge of taking advantage of doddering Alzheimer’s patients.

  If the woman would only slow down, Jilly could try jumping from the car, but even though they were nearing the castle, Lorraine showed no signs of letting up on the gas.

  When the ugly beast that hardly deserved the title of automobile lurched to a stop, Jilly was too relieved to attempt an escape. In fact, she was already preparing herself for her extended, forced stay in a Scottish jail which she hoped to find as quaint as the rest of the country.

  Maybe that’s the way my world was supposed to change today—narrowing to a permanent view of cinder blocks and bars.

  The sisters took her by the elbows once more and led her down the darkened path toward the stone structure of the Scottish attraction. They followed the same steps they had taken earlier that day, all but skipping over the bridge like tourists arriving for an advertised midnight show.

  Jilly looked up at the battlements where she had first seen Quinn posing in all his plaid-swathed glory. Tonight there were only stars and clouds pushing at each other above the jagged merlons. Even now the image of him standing there sent chills tickling up her spine, as if he’d been the ghost of the other laird granting her a rare glimpse of his person.

  Creeping around the rear of Castle Ross in the dark was an adrenaline rush, making it hard for Jilly to breathe normally. The stars were losing their fight with the clouds, quickly snatching up their meager light and fleeing. And even though she balked at the telling of ghost stories, while the shadows stretched and overlapped around her, she was surprised how quickly she could change to the side of the believers.

  This is what it had felt like sneaking out in the middle of the night when she was an adolescent. Instead of lurking up and down the streets of her neighborhood with her friends at the age of thirteen, she was sneaking around private property with two old women whose fake I.D.’s said they were 69, but who couldn’t be a day less than eighty. And there wasn’t even the hope of getting a kiss out of the cute boy next door to make the adventure worth her while.

  The absurdity of it made her laugh. Then she couldn’t stop; the cute boy next door was down at the pub and they were here to steal his necklace.

  A silky smooth, but bony hand slid over Jilly’s mouth. Right hand. Bumps. Loretta. The humor of the situation evaporated. Of course she couldn’t tell in the dark, but she was sure the old woman was still smiling sweetly.

  “Hush, Jillian dear, or I’ll conk you on the head.”

  Jilly wouldn’t put it past either of them.

  As if on cue, Lorraine slid a crowbar out of the elastic waistband of her slacks. When Jilly backed away from it, Loretta chuckled. “It’s only for the door, dear.”

  Lorraine wielded the weapon like a familiar friend and popped the padlock from the entrance where a sign read “Personnel Only.” Loretta touched where the hardware had split the wood and gave her sister a scowl.

  “Well, we didn’t have a key, sister, did we?” Lorraine said quietly.

  Loretta shook her head and started inside, paused, and grabbed hold of Jilly, tugging her to the now open doorway.

  “I don’t want to break a hip while on vacation, so you go first, please,” she whispered.

  “Well, I don’t want to go to jail on vacation, but no one seems to care,” Jillian whispered more forcefully.

  Neither sister was inclined to comment.

  Once all three were inside and the door pressed shut, Lorraine pulled a flashlight from her pocket. Thus armed, the crowbar in one hand and the light in the other, the shriveled woman took the lead, Jilly and Loretta shuffling along in her wake.

  Like so many castles, this one had seen additions and renovations a number of times through the centuries, and with all the stairs and hallways they traversed, Jilly would not have been surprised if they were hopelessly lost in five minutes flat. On the brighter side, they might stumble upon a group of tourists in the morning and blend in until they found their way safely—and legally—out.

  Since the light was essentially blocked from Loretta by the two ahead of her, Jilly walked carefully, leading the old girl as if she were blind. So Jilly was shocked to hear Loretta’s clear voice ring out from the darkness behind her.

  “Should be the next right, sister.”

  So much for getting lost. Just how many times had these two toured that castle,
anyway?

  Jilly stopped dead in her tracks. Loretta bumped into her with a grunt. Lorraine must have noticed they weren’t following and returned with the light.

  Two weeks ago she’d been an innocent, law-abiding girl before she’d run into these two...rats...in the genealogical library. How incredibly helpful they’d been.

  What a crock.

  “What is it, Jillian?” Lorraine whispered.

  “How many others have there been?”

  Silence pressed in on the little gathering plugging up the narrow, low-ceilinged hallway.

  “How many?” Jilly demanded.

  “Patience, dear, we’re counting.” Loretta patted her arm.

  Counting? So many they had to count? No wonder Jock had known the Muir sisters. No wonder he’d been so nice to her. He knew she’d been conned.

  “Nine, hasn’t there? Before Jillian?” asked Lorraine.

  “That’s what I got.” Loretta sounded pleased with her math.

  Great. She was Booby Number Ten.

  As it turned out, these two hadn’t even been employed at the library. They’d just been passing through. No doubt about it now, they’d been trolling for another MacKay/Ross sucker.

  “Out of these nine people, how many were you convinced were the right one for the job? How many had ‘Immediate Blood’?”

  No pause this time.

  “Nine,” they said in unison.

  Immediate Blood. Someone with one parent a Ross and the other a MacKay. The old gals claimed it was a nearly impossible combination to find in Scotland since the feud began, just after Isobelle Ross had been buried alive.

  Dear Lord, these two were out of their gourds. Jilly had to get away from them. She had her passport, her Visa. Thank God for Visa.

  A bony hand tightened its grip on her upper arm.

  “Lorraine, let me out of here,” Jilly said through clenched teeth. She just needed to get back to town. She’d walked it before. She could do it in the dark.

  “Oh, she’s not Lorraine dear, see?” The speaker shined her light on her own veiny left hand.