The Curse of Clan Ross by L. L. Muir

his urges.
    She couldn’t be his daughter. She couldn’t. And in truth, she hadn’t claimed to be. It was only the dream. In the dream, his wife had told him, but if the dream was correct about her being sealed inside the tomb, was it also correct about her being his child?
    Was it also correct about his wife?  
    She’d been a comely thing, and even in his dream he had known her as his own. His heart and body had responded to her even though he’d but seen her take a few steps, had heard her speak but a few words. His mind had told him she was his, and he’d found no reason to question it. And her eyes...
    His daughter had those same eyes—or what he’d seen of them between puffy eyelids when she stopped her greetin’. Perhaps his attraction was just the lingering of the dream, the memory of the mother.
    The buzzing in his ear was Ewan’s voice, droning on about something or other. His cousin was uneasy; Monty could tell by the speed of his speech. That day he sounded more fashed than Monty’s ever known him to be. Then realization made him smile. Ewan was worried Monty would put the lass back in the tomb to rot, as he’d vowed to do the day before.
    He’d not tell Ewan his plans for the lass; he didn’t have any. His main worry was how to rid himself of his odd feelings when he watched her sleep. Which was why he was outside now, sitting on the cool stone steps, as far away from his bedchamber as he could be and still feel as if he could protect her.
    Ewan took a long needed breath.
    “So, ye’ve a child.” Ewan punched his arm. “And ye’ve kept it from me.”
    “Don’t be daft, Ewan. She’s no’ my child.” Monty felt heat rising in his face. Ewan’s keen intuition was a flighty thing. Sometimes he kenned exactly what Monty was thinking, and other times he needed a good knock to the jaw to understand.
    “Ah, likely not, I suppose, and more’s the pity. Ye’d have had to sire her at no more than ten, I would think.”
    Just then, the widow Murray walked before them and gave the slightest nod toward her house. Monty gave her an equally subtle shake of his head in answer. Whether she wanted a conversation or a tumble, he had no mind for either—with her at any rate.
    God’s blood but he was a sick man.
    “Do ye not reckon?” ended Ewan.
    “Reckon what?”
    “Were ye no’ listenin’?  I said ye’d have had to sire her at no more than ten summers yerself, ye ken?”
    His heart lurched. She was a grown woman, to be sure. And he was all of nine and twenty.
    He was so relieved he could shout, but he only stood and frowned at the world as befitting a man who had just missed his wedding night. He was becoming quite the talented player.
    Ewan popped up as well, edging his way between the large door and his laird. Monty knew Ewan was itching to protect the lass and he couldn’t help but tease.
    “I’m going inside. I want ye to keep watch. I want no one contradicting me orders.”
    At the mention of orders, Ewan paled.
    Good.
    “Mont— Laird Ross.” Ewan cleared his throat. “I think it would be a mistake if ye punished that lass as ye planned to do yesterday.”
    Having spoken his mind, Ewan lifted his chin and waited.
    “She’ll not go back in the tomb, Ewan. I’d already decided. Did I not tell ye so?” Monty raised an innocent eyebrow.
    The relief on his friend’s face did not last long.
    “No, ye foosty skunner. Ye’d not told me so. I’ve been gumming my jaw all morning…”
    Monty did not wait around to hear the rest but laughed and pushed his way past the grumbling fool and through the door. In truth, he couldn’t have stood still much longer; so anxious was he to return to his chamber above stairs where that lovely woman, who was definitely not his daughter, lay sleeping.  
    Her face flashed before his eyes as his legs made quick work of the stairway. Straight black hair tucked becomingly around her shoulders. Odd length, that, but it was charmingly odd. Her eyes were