The Curse of Clan Ross Read Online Free Page A

better, to Monty’s thinking. In but a day’s time, he’d have someone other than his hulking cousin at his side. Surely, after he and his wife spent some time together, the blasted loneliness would be gone, as if it had never been.
    Although he was never one to ignore one of Ewan’s foul feelings, surely this time his cousin was allowing his emotions to rule his tongue. Ewan had ever been as loyal to Morna and Isobelle as he’d been to Monty, and the man begrudged the Gordons not making Morna welcome. After a year, the stubborn woman continued to be unhappy, but their cousin refused to believe any fault lay at her feet.
    At this time on the morrow, Monty would have a wife, his clan would have a reason to celebrate, and Ewan’s foul feeling would be proved as naught but a foul humor.
    Anything less and someone would bleed.

CHAPTER THREE
    “The Pub”, East Burnshire, Present-Day Scotland
    Jilly really had no choice; she had to break into Castle Ross or start taking schizophrenia meds.
    That flight-or-fight voice in her head had been joined by a decidedly masculine set of vocal chords insisting that flight was no longer an option. She kept hearing, “Get back here!”
    Thankfully, the imagined summons was cut short by a band of sorts, made up of the Muir sisters’ contemporaries striking up an almost-lively tune. Soon the only tension left in the air was the fiddle player’s bow as it squealed across the strings. One man pounded on a bodhran, another played a small version of bagpipes, pumping air with a bellows under one arm instead of blowing with his mouth. Only a statue could have resisted tapping its toes to the tempo.
    During the castle tour, Quinn Ross had plugged The Pub and mentioned he came here “of an evening.” As soon as he showed, if he showed, she planned to borrow one of the dozens of bikes propped up around the village green and do something she’d never done in her life...  
    Break the law.
    It was still coming, that holy-crap-moment, and the warning was getting louder in a way she could never explain. Jilly only hoped she wouldn’t be explaining it to a bobbie, or someone from The Yard who wouldn’t have the slightest appreciation for Americans who broke into castles when ordered to do so by the voices in their heads—voices that were fond of whispering, “Here it comes. Here it comes. Ope. Not yet. But it’s coming...”
    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