by L. L. Muir
“Of course ye’re not Jillian.” The woman winked. “How silly of me. I can see the difference now.”
Jules resisted the urge to ask what the woman saw that made her so different. She never wanted to look like Jillian, of course, but she didn’t care for the feeling that she was lacking in some way. She wasn’t jealous.
Well, maybe just a little envious—it didn’t help that Jillian was married to the mouth-watering Highlander that had started to haunt her dreams for no reason whatsoever. The website for Castle Ross Tours said the man was Quinn Ross, but it must have been the name he used for tourists. Jillian’s husband was Montgomery Ross, or Monty, as Ewan called him.
In her dreams, she’d never known his name, only that they had to stay together or...something bad would happen. And she’d always been pretty sure it would be bad for them both. Pretty melodramatic for a dream with a stranger, but anyone who’d laid eyes on Montgomery Ross wouldn’t laugh. Even the shot of him on the website took her breath away and made her heart stutter—and this from a girl who never got breathy over anything but a great dessert.
Every night, when she’d fallen asleep, she’d willed herself back into that dark dream. She’d make it there, too, but only every couple of weeks when she went to bed early. Maybe their dreams only linked up when they were both asleep, and time-zone-wise, that meant earlier in New York.
Holy shit. What if the guy was really dreaming about her too? What if he might be sharing the whole emotional ride?
Jules shook her head and sighed. It wouldn’t make any difference if he was—he’d just think it was a dream about his own wife. And that thought made her instantly sad.
She dragged along next to Ewan, hoping he’d take her somewhere quiet where she could sit down and shut her eyes for a minute. What she really needed was to just confront her sister and get the hell away from her, and her husband, but the woman was even farther out of her reach than before. Over five hundred years away. And the only short cut back was through that tomb, now inconveniently guarded by Jules’ personal Angel of Death.
It was just so surreal. What had it been, an hour since she’d started running down that hill? She couldn’t have made it into another time zone, and yet she’d traveled centuries? What a crock. Maybe, after she’d rested a bit, she could figure out another explanation. And it was a great plan...
...until they rounded a corner.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Since she’d come through the back entrance to the castle, Jules had never seen the great hall except in a photo gallery on the internet. But this was no polished museum. It was a madhouse. Tables filled every corner except for the raised dais where three large items were the only decoration. The tomb—the one she had to have been inside. A giant carved throne which looked a little too imposing to sit in. And a massive statue of Jillian’s husband, in his kilt. It looked so much like him—or at least what he looked like through binoculars—that she expected him to walk right off the stage.
But the most shocking part, and the thing making her nauseous again, was the crowd.
They were all dressed in medieval garb. Every last one of them. Women, children—even the dogs looked a little barbaric.
She turned back to Ewan and took a good look at his clothes. His kilt was nothing like any kilt she’d ever seen in real life. In the movies, yes. But modern day Scotsmen did not dress this way, not even for their Highland Games and Scottish Festivals. She knew. Her parents had taken her to them every year. They’d always been searching the crowds for some reason. When she was big enough, she realized they were searching for Jillian.
Always Jillian. Their lives had centered on finding Jillian. If her parents hadn’t been driving across that long stretch of Wyoming highway, hunting down one more lead, they would have still been alive. But they’d been sure they were going to find her that time, just like every other time, and Jules had refused to go along. She found a friend whose parents would let her sleep over for a few days. She hadn’t even told them goodbye.
Of course, if she’d have gone along, she’d be dead too. No one could have survived, even with seat belts. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about that. But she’d been pretty damn sure how she felt about Jillian.
Out of habit, and a sort of homage to her parents, she’d kept going to the festivals. She’d even looked for Jillian, but her reasons were different. She wanted her sister to know she was responsible for their deaths, responsible for how they’d wasted the short lives they’d had—looking for a girl who never looked back.
Watching the Scots gathering around for their evening meal, all the anger came flooding back, swirling in her nearly empty stomach like the ghost of a rotten meal—anger so sharp it brought tears to her eyes. She nearly turned around and headed back to the cellar, ready to confront her sister, mad enough to rip off the hitter’s head and spit down the hole. But she’d never get past him. Not without a gun. And she wasn’t sure these people even knew what a gun was.
She let out a harsh breath. It was no use fighting it. She really was Dr. Who, and there was a monster inhabiting her tardis. She had to figure out a way to capture that monster so the friggin’ episode could end—so she could turn off the nightmare.
Or maybe the Monster would go back the way he’d come, see Jillian, and kill her instead, mistaking her for Jules.
One of the Muir sisters gasped, as if she’d read her thoughts. Then she frowned at Jules and shook her head. What was with her?
“Mind your own business, Witchy Poo,” she snarled.
I didn’t say I wanted it to happen, she thought, and she thought it hard, just in case someone was listening in. And she’d be damned if the woman didn’t nod.
Holy shit. I’m not in Kansas anymore.
She and the sisters were led toward the dais. She couldn’t tell which disturbed the people more, the Muirs or the fact Jules wasn’t wearing a dress like all the other women. Ewan gestured for them to sit at his round table, just in front of the dais where the giant chair, the tomb, and the statue stood like three pink elephants in the room that everyone pretended not to notice. The crowd quieted when Ewan took his seat. But they weren’t looking his way anymore. They were looking back at the doorway, the one that led to the kitchens—and the cellar—where a very angry, though slightly confused hitman stood with his forearms braced against the walls to either side of him. In one hand, he held a shiny black gun. His black leather coat and blue jeans stood out as badly as her own. It took three seconds for him to locate her.
Ewan reached out and squeezed her hand. Under his breath he said, “Stay calm, Jules. We’ll catch him and cage him. Just ye stay calm.”
Calm? He didn’t know what he was talking about.
A baby cried off to her right. She noticed a toddler on his father’s knee. From behind layers of her mother’s skirts, peeked a little girl. Jules couldn’t let these people get hurt because of her. But if she surrendered, she was dead.
Ewan stood and Daniel fell in step beside him as they ambled toward the red-headed stranger. The man laughed as he tucked his gun behind him, then rubbed his hands together and egged them on. The fact that he hadn’t shot them was a damned good sign.
She’d have only a minute or two, so she’d just have to move fast. And going back to the cellar, back into the tomb, was not an option at the moment. Her only chance to get him away from these people was to run.
She was a great runner. She’d dragged the FBI babysitters around by the nose, insisting they let her run or she wouldn’t testify. It was the best way to pretend she was free of them. Eventually, they realized she was dead-set on testifying no matter what they did, so they’d stopped dancing to her tune. They’d made her settle for a treadmill. Still, over the months, she’d become quite the long distance runner. All she needed was a little head start.
Ewan growled and attacked. Men jumped up all around her, suddenly ready to fight. The crowd blended quickly and in a matter of seconds, all those men were standing in the center o
f the room with the women and children to their backs and their enemy before them. The women were shuffling along the wall and taking the children with them, out a half-hidden doorway near the statue of Montgomery. It was like a dance they’d danced before, or a fire drill.
Ewan had flung his arms around the enemy’s stomach and plowed him into the side of the archway, but the big man just laughed. When he noticed the small army waiting their turn for a piece of him, he laughed harder.
Jules had to move. Now.
She hustled to the giant wood door that stood open to the night air, then paused. It was covered with metal and rivets and looked like a shield for a giant. It was probably part of that Scottish carpentry that Ewan was talking about. But that’s not what made her stop.
She realized if she slipped away, Gabby’s man would keep searching for her there, among all those innocents. They might be slaughtered. She needed to go, but she needed the hitter to follow.
Jules searched the back of the room for those long red curls.
“Hoo hoo!” she hollored. “Hey! Red!”
The red head popped up and he scanned the crowd until he saw her. He looked none too happy to be pulled away from a good time, like he was in the middle of a neighborhood basketball game and she’d told him he had to come home for lunch. He really was enormous. Ewan looked like a kid hanging on his back with one arm around his neck. The hitter was all but grinning. Ewan, on the other hand, looked furious.
“I’m going now,” she called, as if she were popping out to the store. “Give me a few minutes’ head start, Laird Ross. Would you?”
Ewan sputtered like a fish.
“Bell! Don’t do it!” The hitter’s voice died in her wake. And she made damn sure she left a wake. Dogs scattered. She pulled a pile of wooden buckets over next to a wagon, making sure a mess pointed the way out of the torch-lit inner bailey, through the opening where the old Muir sisters had been waving at her.
She was standing on the bridge before she remembered about the moat. But it was no land bridge, just a wide, sturdy piece of construction built across a large creek. The cheerful gurgle of water over rocks was not the toxic water full of vicious creatures she’d always imagined a moat to be.
Once she was on the other side of the bridge, she realized that old crumbling curtain wall was now perfectly intact, probably two stories tall, and caging her in. And more importantly, caging in a hitman among a clan’s worth of collateral damage.
She kept moving.
Little buildings were scattered around the edges of an expansive outer bailey that had once been, or rather, would one day be, a huge parking lot. Light glowed orange from behind a window here and there, but for the most part, the structures were random gray shapes in the blackness. The air was cool against her face and the combined smells of grass and manure reminded her of Wyoming, but she pushed the memories away—not out of pain this time, but from necessity. She had to stay alert.
Thanks to torches lit on either side, she could see where the massive main gate was closed up for the night. It stood where, not long ago, the chain had hung between two modern posts with the little sign that read, “See Us Tomorrow.”
The long stone battlements had torches burning every fifty yards or so. Some of them moved back and forth—probably carried by guards. Above the gate, the torches held still while men moved back and forth just below them.
Jules hurried toward that gate, past the buildings and out into a dark stretch of ground that seemed to move in waves. She walked right into something short, nearly toppling onto her face. When her hands shot out to steady herself, she felt something soft—and mobile.
Sheep.
The wool-covered creatures bumped around her for a second or two, then moved away when they realized she wasn’t one of them. She said a little prayer, grateful they’d stayed quiet, then she got moving again, bracing herself to step in sheep dung.
The wall was gigantic. She couldn’t believe there wouldn’t be more of it left in five hundred years. Something that big couldn’t just erode away. People would have to tear it down and carry the stones away. But why?
She moved more carefully as she neared the light of the gate torches, but the two guards manning the wall there were facing outward. A grid covered the wide opening, and on the inside, giant doors stood open. Apparently, they weren’t expecting an attack. Too bad they didn’t realize it was going to come from within.
Off to the left, there was a staircase that led to the top of the wall. What could she do, climb up there and explain things, then ask them to lift the gate and let her out? Oh, and leave it open until the killer left too? Wouldn’t they be a little suspicious when she described the guy as being dressed just like her? Jeans and black coat?
Yeah, she needed a better plan. And she couldn’t just wait around for something to come to her. She moved silently until she was next to the stairs, then plastered herself flat against it, in the shadows, while she figured out what to do.
Come on, Jules. Think!
If it had been the twenty-first century, she could just pass herself off as Lady Ross, and they’d do what she told them.
A woman’s scream rang out from the inner bailey, maybe the castle itself. Had the hitter gotten free? Had he killed someone?
“Go!” a man shouted from somewhere above her. Then fast footsteps on the stairs. Then more muffled strides as a man struck out across the dirt and grass toward the castle.
One man left. Or at least, she thought it was only one.
Her only hope was to sway one man into helping her. She just hoped she had a good idea by the time she got up the steps because she couldn’t waste any more time.
She ran to the end of the staircase and started up. The stairs were suddenly well-lit. The problem was, a man was standing at the top holding a torch, looking right at her. He glanced in the direction of the other guard, probably wondering if he should call him back, so she distracted him.
“Hello!” She smiled and gave a little wave.
He didn’t wave back, but she had his attention. She knew the moment he realized she was wearing pants, because he caught his breath. As she made her way up the stairs and stepped onto the wall walk, he moved back and rested his butt against the battlements. She figured he didn’t think a woman—even a woman in pants—was much of a threat. He set the torch in a ring, folded his arms and smirked at her, like some club bouncer who wasn’t going to let her in.
“And just where do ye suppose ye’re goin’, lass?”
“I’m just coming to pay my penalty,” she said, hoping her accent wasn’t too horrible. But Ewan hadn’t had any trouble understanding her.
“Oh, aye? And what penalty might that be?”
She looked out over the wall, to gage how far she’d have to run to reach her precious hillside, but she saw only darkness. She would have the distance of at least a road before the beginning of the slope. The man followed her gaze and tensed, pushing himself away from the wall.
“Who be ye?” He looked toward the castle, then back at her.
“I’m just visiting. With the Muir sisters,” she said coyly.
He froze and his eyes bulged for a second.
“Oh, I’m not one of them,” she said, and he looked relieved to hear it. “But I did lose a wager. And my penalty is to find a guard and give him a Glasgow Kiss.”
By the guy’s reaction, she could tell he didn’t know what she meant, that he assumed a kiss was just a kiss. She looked down the wall walk, to where another torch was perched against the stone. She saw no guard there. Maybe all of them weren’t manned. The sentry followed her line of sight.
She gave her best impression of a pout. “But if you’d like me to find another man, I can—”
He was already shaking his head. “Och, nay. There’s none on this wall with me tonight that would be worth the kissin’, lassie. Ye’re right lucky ye found me first.”
He stepped up to her. She looked behind her, to make sure she wasn’t too close to
the edge, since there was no railing of any kind. The man grabbed her arm gently, like he was promising to keep her from falling.
She blinked a lot, trying to look innocent. Hopefully, he thought she was a harmless idiot.
“If you’re sure,” she said. “You’re such a tall one. You’ll have to bend down a little.” He didn’t resist when she put her hands on his furry cheeks and angled his head down. “And I think we’re supposed to close our eyes.”
She closed hers for a couple of seconds, then peeked to make sure he’d fallen for it. Then she reared back and gave her first Glasgow Kiss ever, putting her weight behind it to make sure she got it right. A half-hearted head-butt would only get him mad.
The impact surprised her, but she was most surprised by the fact she was still able to stand. Everyone in the castle had to have heard it, like someone hitting a coconut with a hammer. She was just grateful her head got to be the hammer. Her forehead was numb, but at least she wasn’t falling to the ground, like the sentry was.
Unfortunately, he crumpled forward without time for any reaction whatsoever. She had to ignore the gong sounding in her own head while she broke his fall without them both pitching over the side, onto the steps. It wasn’t easy getting out from under him.
She’d been trying to leave a trail of breadcrumbs for the hitter, and Kissy-face was going to be the last crumb. His body, with his arm dangling over the edge of the walkway, was well lit. Anyone looking toward the gate would see it.
Perfect.
She walked carefully to the center of the gatehouse—carefully, because she was pretty sure she’d just given herself a concussion—and found the mechanism for raising the metal gate. It was much easier than she thought it would be to turn the gears to bring the thing up. Unfortunately, she couldn’t figure out how to keep it suspended if she let go. In the end, she jammed the handle of a torch between cogs and it held.
It had taken so long, she was expecting the hitter to meet her at the bottom of the steps, but he wasn’t there. Of course, there was a chance Ewan had managed to get the man locked up again, but she couldn’t risk going back to find out.