by L. L. Muir
“I pity you, Gordon,” Quinn jeered. “You have neither their love nor their respect. You have only their fear. But if that’s all you want in this world, you’ve got it. Do you know how history will remember you, Oh Mighty Cock O’ the North?”
Quinn had everyone’s attention and it was going to his head. He couldn’t have stopped had he wished to. Momentum was pushing him hard and fast, down a hill that might end at that scaffolding sooner than planned. But it was more than probable he was going to die. Today or tomorrow would make little difference.
The Gordon rolled his eyes, but there was interest there. He was still listening, waiting to hear about his legacy, even if he didn’t believe Quinn had The Sight.
“You will not be remembered,” Quinn announced. “The world will hear the name Cock o’ the North and have no idea what it means or who you were. In fact, lairds of Clan Gordon will use the nickname when it suits them. History will remember nothing of you.” It might not be true, but it might give the arrogant man pause.
The man’s face fell the tiniest bit, then recovered.
“Ye’re as daft as yer sisters,” he said. “What do I care about history?”
His wide shoulders turned away once more.
But Quinn had seen it, that spark of anger in the bastard’s eye and the set of his jaw when he heard that others would use his cocky nickname.
“That could all change, you know.”
It was a desperate promise, to get the man to turn back, to change his mind about hanging him tomorrow, but perhaps The Gordon had recognized it as such. After all, the man had seen no proof that Quinn was able to tell the future, and he wouldn’t be around to see if the Runt’s offspring took his place or not.
One by one, the Gordon siblings, including Betha, tossed a look over their shoulders before following their father out. The funny thing was, Quinn knew he wasn’t the one they’d been looking at. It had been his bone-thin companion in the next cell.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was morning again. As Jules and her kidnappers entered through the massive open gates, a whirlwind of emotions entered with them, nicely contained in her gut. First of all, she was relieved they had arrived anywhere at all. Her butt was sore and she was anxious to see if her legs would even work again. Secondly, she was intrigued by the sight of the huge castle perched on a plateau that hung over the sea, and it looked as if she was going to get to see inside. Next, she was pissed that she’d been taken so friggin’ far North, away from Castle Ross and her little escape hatch—so pissed she was going to make her new set of captors effing sorry they’d ever laid eyes on her!
And last but not least, she was nervous and excited to see what Fate had in store for her. For the last mile or so, she’d had the growing sensation that something very important was just ahead. It was like the foreboding she’d had before climbing up into the tomb, only this time it was a good foreboding. And since her premonitions were pretty reliable, she was almost giddy. But she wasn’t about to give these Bozos any points for escorting her there.
She threw an elbow into the ribs of the tall one sitting on the saddle behind her. “Get me off this friggin’ horse.”
He took a long deep breath, like he was trying to control his temper, and she realized she might be messing with the wrong guy. Just because she’d felt ten feet tall and bullet proof since she’d gotten away from the Feds, didn’t mean it was true. Besides, these guys didn’t use bullets, they used blades. And they all had at least one.
“Please,” she added.
The guy laughed and jumped to the ground. He was still smiling when he reached up for her, thank goodness.
When some ragamuffins ran forward for a good look at her, her captor told them she was a witch. The kids scattered. A few minutes later, there was a mob.
“We’re havin’ a hanging and a burnin’ in the morning, Cheval. We can easily add this one for kindling.” This news came from a grubby looking Scot with either a kilt that was too short or skinny legs that were too long. When he got close enough to see her face, he looked surprised. “Or perchance she’d be a poor choice for kindling after all.”
“Bonjour, Percy,” said the man she’d ridden with, apparently named Cheval.
“The fire might smell a mite better,” someone hollered.
Oh, hell. In what century did they burn people as witches?
She tried to think, tried to put years to movies she’d seen, then realized they probably burned witches in all of them. But they couldn’t burn her. She had a date with the New York District Attorney in eight days. And the only way to make that date was to convince these people she was worth more than a little firewood.
She laughed loud, to get everyone’s attention.
“Burn me? Are you kidding? There is a huge red-headed man near Castle Ross who would pay a fortune for me. And you want to burn me?”
She’d broken her stick on the redhead’s face, but thankfully she’d slipped off the wolf’s tooth first. It was the tooth, held tight in her hand, that kept her from worrying too much. She’d gotten out of a lot of tight spots in the last day. What was one more? Wolfproof. Bulletproof. Fireproof. It was all just the same delusion; she just needed to keep it up.
She was getting mixed looks from the crowd. The kids were slack jawed. Some adults looked worried, like they expected her to burst into flame on her own. But some of them just looked...hungry, and she got that stew meat feeling again.
She was pushed and pulled through a door built for yet another giant, but before she got a good look at the vaulted ceiling, she was shoved into a side passage that eventually led to a stairway.
Going down. Again.
Maybe these guys have their own witch’s hole.
She picked up the insults where she’d left off when the castle had come into sight. Cheval, the Frenchman who’d insisted she come to this party, had tried to dish them back, but his were all in French. When he’d get pleased with himself, she’d just laugh because she had no idea what he’d been saying. Eventually, he stopped talking to her. Why he never thought to gag her was a mystery.
Izatt was still a viable target, however.
“I hope, Mister Izatt, that when Debra boils your balls, you’ll be able to feel it, even in your shallow grave.” Jules spit the words over her shoulder as she was pushed through the mother-of-a-castle’s mother-of-a-cellar.
She wanted to make sure the man remembered Debra’s promise, that if he harmed Jules, he’d be boiled along with his clothes next time. After riding sidesaddle for hours the night before, then again that morning, she was a little cranky and wanted her captors to be as uncomfortable as she’d been.
She should have kept her jeans. In a skirt, she’d had no choice but to ride sideways or the inside of her legs would have been rubbed raw by horsehair. Now her right thigh was sore and her left butt cheek was in a knot from trying to grip the strange saddle. Walking straight was impossible. Add a hump to her back and she’d make a great character for a horror film.
She was lucky the floors were flat since her eyes were having a hard time adjusting back to torch light after all that bright sunshine. After a few minutes, she wondered if her vision was stuck.
They went down another stairway, then came out into an actual dungeon.
Jail cells? Basement of a castle?
Yep. Dungeon.
“Percy Gordon wants this one locked up,” Cheval announced.
An old man came out of nowhere and juggled his keys, though he didn’t look at them. Cheval gave her a gentle shove, telling her to follow the guy. After the key man managed to open a cell that looked far too shiny to be medieval, he turned a sad smile in her direction. His pupils were white.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he said, as Izatt pushed her through the opening.
She reached out and gave the old man’s arm a squeeze. “Don’t you worry about me.”
Izatt grunted. “I thought you was blind, Martin Woolsey.”
“I am. Dinna tell me ye cann
a smell how pretty she is.”
Izatt slammed the gate shut behind her. She was sure he stole a little whiff in her direction before he released the bars and headed for the stairs.
“I smell naught,” he muttered.
“Maybe you should wash more than your kilt, Izatt,” she jeered.
Then she remembered, in Scotland, they didn’t call them balls, they called them—
“Ballocks! I meant ballocks! When Debra boils your ballocks, I hope you feel it! Every bubble!”
Izatt groaned on his way out. Jules started to laugh until she realized he was taking the last torch with him.
“God have mercy, let me be dreaming!” The anguished shout came from behind her and she spun around and backed against the cell door. She could see nothing in the dark.
“Who’s there?” She still had a voice, but the bravado had fled with the light.
“Jillian? Tell me ‘tis not you!” The man’s voice was deep, the brogue Scottish, but he spoke English. The chills it produced danced against her skin like musical notes.
It was him. It had to be.
Then her heart sank. She was dreaming again. But in her dreams, it had never been pitch black. She needed to see his face!
His breath was ragged, like he’d just returned from a run. He was waiting for her to say something.
“Mister Ross?” she whispered.
His breath caught, then he moaned. “Jillian! Tell me it’s not you, lass. Make me believe it!”
“Okay. I’m not Jillian.”
There. The truth was out there. The fact that she’d been flippant and he wouldn’t believe her wasn’t her fault, right?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Castle Ross, 1496
Ewan Ross, laird of Clan Ross, groaned into his hands. “Oh, God!”
Jilly looked at Monty and shrugged. “After being gone a year, that’s not the reception I was expecting.”
Monty looked a bit disappointed too. “I’m no’ here to ask for the chair back, if that’s what ye’re worrit o’er.”
Ewan shook his head and tried to stand, then thought better of it, but his butt missed the seat and he slid down the front of the Great Ross Chair. She averted her eyes when his sporran and kilt started to rise along with his knees as he sank to the floor.
“I’ve been drinkin’. Quite a bit, as a matter of information.” The shaggy man peered around the dim hall. “Looks like they all ran away, the cowards.”
No fires were lit. There were only the torches that Monty had lit when they’d come into the hall. Jillian had tucked her little flashlight into her sock for safekeeping. The last time she’d come back to the fifteenth century she’d realized the only things that traveled with her were the things she was touching, so she was careful to keep it in hand. But now they were out of the cellar, she had to keep it out of sight. She had no intention of being burned as a witch.
“Who ran away?” asked Monty as he approached the dais.
“My clan. No, yer clan. The whole bloody lot of them.”
Jilly laughed. “It sounds like they’re having their supper outside.”
Ewan perked up. “Aye? Well, then. That’s fine. Hello, Monty,” he said, like he’d just noticed his arrival. “Did you see? Jillian has come back to kill me.”
This time it was Monty’s turn to laugh as he helped his cousin lift his backside onto his chair.
“And why would harmless little Jillian wish ye dead, cousin?”
Ewan leaned toward Monty’s shoulder. “Because I’ve lost her sister is why.”
His whisper was loud enough he might have been heard outside. Why did men always go deaf when they drank?
She tried not to panic. After all, Juliet was her age; it wasn’t as if she were a child wandering aimlessly around a jousting tournament without enough to sense to stay clear of the horses.
“I’m sorry you’ve lost her.” She tried not to sound worried. “Do you remember where you lost her?” For all she knew, the woman was outside having supper with the rest. She could hardly trust what Ewan said, as drunk as he was.
“I lost her out the hall door,” he gasped, as if the hall door were the gate to Hell. “That ruddy bastard got away from us and went after her, but he didn’t get her either. Do you ken why?”
Okay, the gunman didn’t get her. It was a start.
Monty gave her a wink and put both hands on the arms of the chair, demanding Ewan’s full attention.
“That’s fine, cousin,” he said. “So how do you ken the ruddy bastard didn’t find her?”
“Because I’ve men watchin’ the Gordon Keep. They came upon Gordon allies who were taking the lass with them. They’d have taken her back had they knows she was ours.” Ewan turned a little green, but swallowed hard. A few seconds later, he looked at Monty again. “So the ruddy bastard didna get her. But alas, the Gordon bastards did.”
Ewan started slipping again. Monty stood back and let him pour into a puddle on the floor.
“By way of information, Monty darlin’,” Ewan said, “did I tell ye that I’ve lost your great nephew?”
Jilly took a deep breath and looked at her husband. It was their worst fear...
She’d lived a wildly exciting and wonderful year as the wife of Montgomery Ross, made doubly so by the fact that she’d gotten the best of both worlds, or both centuries at least. He was bold and beautiful and unrepentant. He saw things clearly, simply, like an old cowboy. He loved and never analyzed why he loved. He judged only himself. The dangerous life he’d come from made him enjoy every minute he had. Nothing was wasted, especially not a chance for a nap together—or whatever else they could think of.
And she’d been able to enjoy the gloriousness that was Montgomery Ross in the comfort of the twentieth century. She didn’t have to worry about losing him to infection or disease. She had toilets and hot showers and fast food. The winters would not threaten the lives of their children. Neither of them would have to break their backs to put food on the table, or keep a sword close by to defend that table.
But her double blessings had come at a price, and it was Quinn who had paid it. Willingly. Eagerly.
The most she and Montgomery had paid was the worry. Was Quinn safe? Was he happy? Was he regretting the choice he’d made? Should they go back and ask him? History hadn’t changed at all. They had no record of what had become of him.
Of course Jilly hadn’t been nearly as worried as Montgomery was—not that they talked about it much—because her husband knew the world in which they’d left the man. He knew much more about the dangers than she’d learned in history books. And every time she’d seen a shadow cross Monty’s face, she suspected he was thinking about Quinn, or Ewan, or Isobelle—the ones they’d left behind.
Of course, they couldn’t have brought through the tomb everyone Monty had ever cared about. Ewan had a clan to run, Quinn had asked to go back, and Isobelle was lost to them. It just wasn’t possible to make the world the way they wanted it, even with the help of a passageway through time.
The look on her husband’s face when Ewan announced Quinn was lost? It was that same old shadow of worry, but multiplied by a hundred. Beneath that quite surface, she imagined the ground was crumbling.
She knelt next to Ewan and pushed his knee down and straightened his kilt.
“Ewan? Where did you lose Quinn?” She asked it so Monty wouldn’t have to.
Ewan shook his head slowly. “Poor bastard. Can’t remember where our land leaves off. Doesn’t pay close mind to much, that one.”
“Does he live?” whispered Monty.
Ewan nodded carefully. “For the moment, cousin, but nae for long.”
“What do you mean?” her husband demanded. “Where is he?”
“He’s in The Gordon’s dungeon. And now Jules is there as well.” Ewan peeked at Jilly, then looked away quickly. “Dinna let her hurt me, cousin.”
Jules? Her sister’s name was Jules, not Juliet?
The sound of it made her stomach do stra
nge things. Or was it the baby? She thought she was going to be one of those lucky women who didn’t get morning sickness, but maybe not.
She looked at Monty. Just the sight of him always seemed to calm her.
He stared at Ewan and took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He certainly didn’t look like he was freaking out. It was enough to give her hope. Things must not be as bad as she’d thought they were. Monty would know just what to do, just like he always did.
“Och, Ewan,” he said. “No one is going to hurt ye. It’ll be ever so convenient to collect them both at the same time. Ye’ve done well, cousin. In the morning, we can have this entire conversation again, aye?” Monty pulled the big man up, then hefted him over his back. “We’ll just put ye to bed first. It’s a fine way to hurry tomorrow along.”
Jilly numbly followed as Monty headed for the archway and the stairs beyond.
Ewan grunted. “I doona wish the morrow to hurry along, Monty darlin’. ‘Tis the day your great nephew is to die. If not by Gordon’s hand, then by mine.”
Jilly’s heart stopped.
Monty halted and tipped forward, dumping his big cousin off his back and onto the floor. Then he fetched a pitcher of water from the high table and headed back for Ewan with murder in his eyes.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Quinn swallowed hard. As much as he wished Jillian away from that place, he couldn’t help but be thrilled to see her again. He’d never imagined his dream took place in a dungeon, but then again, he never thought his dream would become reality either.
“Come here, lass. Let me touch ye, just enough to know that ye’re real, that I haven’t conjured ye to comfort me in the dark.” He shouldn’t have said it. He couldn’t have not.
Of course he had no intention of dishonoring his great uncle, but just like in those dreams, he seemed to have little control over his need for her. And now, awake, the need was much more intense. If it was the last thing he’d ever do—which it very well might be—he was going to hold her close and press his lips to hers. Just one perfect kiss. It was all he wanted.