“You canna kill him, Monty. I willna allow it. I’m still in Her Majesty’s service until I’m told otherwise. If ye try to kill this man?—”
“I am not dead yet,” Gaspar said with a smile.
Isobelle pushed herself between the men and held Gaspar behind her. “I will not allow it!”
Monty ignored her. “Fine, then. We will not fight to the death, but to first blood. That shouldna tax ye beyond bearing, Dragon.” He put his hands on his hips as he often did when he thought he could lay down the law. “If ye’re the victor, my sister may keep ye. And if I draw first blood, ye will climb back into the tomb and return from whence ye came. And if ye’d prefer not to face me blade, ye’re welcome to heigh thee home while I fetch my weapon.”
“No!” Isobelle shrieked. “He is in as much danger from the kirk as I ever was, Monty. He canna go back! The man from whom he saved me will send men to hunt him and kill him, and only because he defended me! And I’ve finished with it, brother. I’ve finished with others suffering because of my foolishness. Do ye hear?”
Monty turned away from her, still caught up in his own emotions.
“I love him, brother. I love him as sure as ye love yer wife! And ye, and Ossian, and Ewan—ye teased me all me life that no man could ever love me, but ye were wrong.”
Isobelle’s declaration fell on deaf ears. Monty avoided all eye contact and left the hall. Jillian was torn between running after him and keeping her eye on Gaspar. If the Muirs had some idea of what was going to happen, she thought the safest thing was to follow their advice andkeep the dragon away from the tomb. Besides, she knew better than to try and stop Monty when he was in warrior mode. He was going to be fighting a man with a sharp blade and she wasn’t about to cause him any distractions.
Gaspar and a distraught Isobelle moved away from the others and bent their heads together, and Jillian looked away to allow them a little privacy. This was no time to inform the woman that another man named Luthias had loved her so much her supposed death had driven him mad. That story would wait until Monty’s tantrum was over.
Quinn drew Juliet into his arms and they held each other silently, probably remembering how it was not so long ago they’d had to fight to be together.
Morna stood a bit behind Isobelle, ready to comfort her sister if she could, but all the while she carried on a silent conversation with her husband, Ivar, who stood holding Gaspar’s sword and sheath, waiting on Monty.
Always watching each other’s backs, Ivar and Monty. And she could imagine them as young boys, becoming like brothers, one test of bravery at a time. It gave her hope for her own sons, that one day they would have each other’s backs. Too bad they would probably support each other in some pretty stupid stuff too—like fighting someone with a real sword.
But she’d seen Monty fight. She’d seen all of them fight. And the one to worry about was Gaspar. Even if he were hiding some impressive dragon scales beneath his tunic, he was in trouble. And if Monty ordered him back into the tomb? She had to decide just how far she’d go to stop him. After all, they each owed Isobelle a debt for starting it all. If she’d never tried to help Ivar and Morna, none of them would be together.
None of them.
There was movement, and Jillian watched as Gaspar kissed Isobelle on the forehead and then turned her, to hand her off to Morna. Then he headed for the archway that led to the kitchens. Juliet frowned at her—Quinn had her locked in his arms and it didn’t look like she would be getting out any time soon. The guy had nearly lost her too many times to count, and he still wasn’t quite confident enough to let her get too far beyond his reach. Most of the time, they had to kidnap her and leave a note if they wanted to go shopping, and Quinn would still come looking for her. Poor guy.
Jillian found Gaspar standing at the head of the stairs that led to the cellars, but he wasn’t looking down, he was staring atthe kitchens. There was an addition there that he wouldn’t have seen in the 15thcentury version.
He glanced at her, then back into the kitchen where empty pizza boxes covered every inch of an old table.
“She will love it here, will she not?” he said. They both knew which “she” he was talking about.
“Yes. Actually, no one cares if you’re a witch nowadays—not that Isobelle’s a witch, because she isn’t.”
He nodded. “I know she is not.”
“And no one bats an eye when a woman speaks her mind.”
That got his attention. “Truly?”
She nodded and smiled. “Truly.” Then she realized what he was saying. “Uh. You know, you’re going to be very happy here too.”
He smiled politely. “We both know that is not true. Your husband seems quite capable of spilling as much of my blood as he wishes to spill. But I believe I can avoid causing Isobelle too much shame.”
“So you plan to fight?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at the bottom of the stairs. “I thought maybe you were looking for the tomb.”
He shook his head. “No. Just wishing for a quiet moment to prepare for battle.”
“Ah. Well. Maybe I can help you there.”
His brows rose. “You would aid your husband’s opponent?”
