Lord Fool to the Rescue by L. L. Muir Page A

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 you’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. “You’ll learn more on him in a moment. I’m happy to see we’ve found you 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 you 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