[Highlander Time Travel 01.0 - 03.0] The Curse of Clan Ross

by L. L. Muir

  “You’ve what?”

  He sighed and raised the light higher. His shadow swung around on the wall behind him as he turned back to her. “I’ve lost his great-great-nephew.”

  Jules shook her head. “I don’t understand. How could you have lost someone that can’t possibly have been born?”

  “Jules, is it? I told ye plain. ‘Tis the year fourteen hundred and ninety-seven, and so it is. Monty is from this century. The nephew is from yers.”

  The wall wasn’t much to hold onto, so she leaned sideways onto a stack of smaller barrels. She started shaking her head but then couldn’t seem to stop. If she hadn’t eaten the chocolate, she probably would have been passing out again.

  “So I’ve somehow gone through time? This tomb is like some kind of tardis?” She’d watched only a couple of episodes of Dr. Who, but apparently it was a couple too many. She wouldn’t have even known the word tardis if the bookkeeper at the restaurant and one of the waiters hadn’t been big Dr. Who geeks.

  “I dinna ken the word tardis, lass. But they go inside, they doona come out. ‘Tis all I’ve seen. I’ll not try it myself, mind ye.”

  “You’re Montgomery’s cousin? He’s from...here? No wonder.” Then she realized what this Ewan had been trying to tell her. “And a little boy is missing?”

  “The lad’s name is Quinn. But he’s no wee laddie.”

  She was so relieved. The thought of a little kid—from the twenty-first century—getting lost out there in Medieval times, was just too sickening to think about. If, of course, she believed that Medieval Scotland was truly out there.

  “Quinn’s a man grown. Looks to be Monty’s own spit, he does. So when Monty needed to go to your time, to be with Jillian, Quinn came back here, to take Monty’s place. And now, The Gordon has ‘im.”

  No friggin’ way! There was another Highlander, just like Jillian’s husband. Just like him.

  Maybe, just maybe, I should say my prayers more often.

  Above their heads, there was movement. Not from the great hall, but from the tomb.

  “Where the devil are ye?” a man muttered.

  The hitter!

  How the hell had he gotten inside the tomb without going through the bottom, like she had? No way could he have broken through the wall, or she’d have heard it!

  Her missing boot fell through the hole and landed on unholy wet ground.

  Holy shit!

  Jules snatched the boot up and put a finger over her lips, then motioned for Ewan to hurry out of the room with her. Thankfully, he followed without argument, bringing the torch with him. The door opened outward and Jules shut it behind her, then leaned against it.

  “Can we block this door?” she whispered. “That’s the man who’s after me. He’s got a gun. I’m sure he’ll kill anyone who gets in his way.”

  The Scot nodded, handed her the torch, then rolled yet another barrel out of the dark and in front of the door.

  “This should hold him for a mite,” he said. “But yer only way back home is through that tomb, lass. If ye and Jillian are to meet, ye must face this man first, and no mistake. Sooner or later.”

  “Later sounds good to me.”

  The hitter beat on the door, having found his way out of the tomb with little light to help him.

  “Juliet Bell! When I get my hands on ye... Listen, lass. If ye let me out now, it will go much smoother for ye. Ye have my word. No harm will come to ye.”

  She could hear him breathing against the door. He was probably listening to her breathe too. After a few seconds, he went back to beating on the door.

  “He’ll just blow the hinges off,” she warned the Scot.

  “Truly?” The big man rolled his eyes in the torchlight. “Perhaps ye underestimate the quality of a Scotsman’s carpentry, or the strength of a full barrel of spirits. He’ll not get out so easily. Now come up into the light. Let me get a good look at ye, and I’ll decide the message I wish ye to give to Monty, once ye’ve got the courage to go back, of course. But tell me, why does yer pursuer call ye Juliet Bell?”

  “Bell is a long story. And I don’t let anyone call me Juliet.”

  The door seemed to be holding up well to the pounding, so they moved away. Ewan took back his torch and led her along the dirt-floored hallways. She was so turned around, she had no choice but to trust him.

  Dirt floors. God, help me. I’ve lost my mind.

  “But mayhap you could find yer courage sooner, rather than later,” Ewan said. “As Quinn may not live long enough for Monty to be of any help. I would send others to bring his wandering hide back to Ross lands, but none else kens who the lad truly is. I fear a close look by our own lads might give the game away. We’ve been careful to keep the clan from getting too close. I imagine word of an imposter would be the type of tale to pass through the generations, aye? And Jillian was ever one to go on and on about the dangers of changing history.”

  Jules snorted. “Yeah, I’ll bet she was.”

  Ewan stopped and looked at her. “What do ye mean, lass?”

  “She’s got the world at her feet. Why would she wish anything different? She’s probably thrilled with the way things have turned out. Changing the past would screw up her little fairy tale, right?”

  And just like that, Jules was glad she’d gone back in time. Maybe there was a reason she was there. Maybe she could fix all kinds of things. Screw Jillian’s rules about changing history.

  “Lass,” said Ewan. “Jillian has a kind and gentle soul. If she believes that changing history will ruin lives, I have no doubt it is not her life for which she fears. She loves Monty, and yet she was willing to give him up so that Morna and Ivar could be together. You’ll find no selfishness in yer sister’s heart.”

  “I hope so,” she said. It was the nicest thing she could think of to say since Ewan was clearly on Team Jillian.

  Finally, he stopped yakking and started moving again.

  But inside Jules’ heart, there was a giant scrapbook of pain, and it had Jillian’s name written on the front in big jagged letters.

  Chapter Five

  Quinn woke to a painful throb at the back of his head. He was lying on a cold dirt floor, in the dark.

  For a moment, he thought he was still stuck in his dream and waited for the softness of his mattress to register, but it didn’t. Then, as he had hundreds of times in the last year, he remembered which century he was in. But this was the first time he’d awakened on the ground.

  Was it still night?

  His last memory was of going stir crazy inside the castle, of sneaking away without his young escort... And then he recalled the heather. He could still feel the scratches on his arms from gathering the branches. Finally, he remembered the scratches from sharp little knives.

  “Shite.”

  He rolled to his side to take the pressure off the back of his broken skull, and every muscle in his body complained. At first, he wondered if they’d beaten him, after he’d lost consciousness, but then he remembered all those hours of kneeling at attention to keep those blades from breaking his skin. The pain from a beating wouldn’t have gone quite so deep.

  A smell wafted around him when he moved—the smell of a tomb where a body would have rotted away for years. The smell of stale urine was a pleasant relief—he only hoped the urine wasn’t his.

  No. His kilt was dry. Thankfully, the ground below him was dry as well. The blade was gone from his boot.

  So, this was the famous Gordon dungeons. They were so close to the sea, he expected it to be damper—not that he was complaining. But if he was going to die here, he could wish for harsher conditions that might speed along his demise.

  And even as the thought presented itself, his stomach tightened.

  He remembered now. That moment at Gordon’s table, when he realized he wanted to live. Lord help him, when had that happened?

  Quinn sat up and searched the darkness, straining to capture even the smallest hint of a reflection. He needed to know what surr
ounded him, but he would not go feeling about. He could only wait for someone to come with a light. Of course, he might be able to persuade them to come sooner...

  “Gordon! Gordon! You can either grant me some light or I shall have the devil call up a fire, here, beneath yer home. Which do ye prefer?”

  There was movement, but he had no idea how far away it had been. Were there others sharing his dark hotel?

  “Who’s there?”

  When no answer came, he tried again in Scots. Still no answer.

  The pain in his head bid him lie down again, and he did so, gingerly. As he was just about to drift off to sleep, the room grew lighter. Someone must have heard him after all.

  He suppressed a groan as he pushed against the floor and forced himself up to sit. There was nothing in his ten-by-ten cell to sit upon, so he stayed put. A young lad with bulging eyes carried a torch to light the way for a tall, thin man. At the entrance to the dungeon, about thirty feet off to the left, an old man took a seat. Considering the bandages across his eyes, Quinn guessed the man was blind—a natural babysitter for a prisoner kept in the dark. He must have been the one to carry his message to The Gordon.

  Quinn was also pleased when he recognized his visitor, Long Legs.

  “Why Long Legs! What a pleasant surprise ye make.”

  The thin man laughed. “Ah, but ye were not so pleased at our first meeting, were ye, Laird Ross?”

  “Mmm. No. I can’t say as I was,” he admitted, wishing now he had taken his stand back in the heather and perhaps gotten away before Orie could have come along.

  “Ye bellowed?” Long Legs raised a patient brow and folded his arms.

  “Yes,” Quinn said cheerfully. “The Gordon promised me a tour of his dungeons, and I had no light by which to see it.”

  “Well, then, look yer fill. I suggest ye be quick about it.” Long Legs turned to go.

  Desperate for a few more minutes of light, Quinn looked about him, searching for some topic of conversation. His eyes caught the white reflection of bare bone in the next cell.

  “Perhaps ye could pass on a request to The Gordon,” he said.

  It worked. The man came back, and his light-bearer with him.

  “Aye, sure. What would ye like, yer lairdship? New straw fer yer mattress no doubt? A better wine with yer supper?”

  Quinn gestured to his left, to the only other cell between his and the entrance. “A bit of housekeeping is in order, aye? Seems this one’s overdue for a grave. Was his crime the same as mine? Stepping on Gordon soil?”

  Long Legs expanded as he filled himself with a deep breath. His eyes, in the shadows, flickered with some emotion Quinn could not identify. If it were possible, the young man grew taller and looked down upon him as a hawk about to rip apart the mouse in its grip. And Quinn found himself grateful for the bars between them. Otherwise, he might be forced to kill the man in defense of himself—that was, if he somehow found the strength to get to his feet. It had been a mean blow he’d taken to the head.

  The light moved as the small lad stepped to the side and raised the torch. Shadows quivered as the boy took in the sight of a skeleton wearing meager rags and even less flesh. It sat at the back of the cell with its arm raised, its wrist dangling from a ring in the wall.

  Long Legs, Quinn noticed, turned his head away, but slightly. And though he refused to look at the body, it seemed as if he were concentrating on it just the same.

  Quinn could not resist prodding. There was a story there. He would hear it.

  “Would ye look at that?” he said. “He’s thin enough now to free his hand, and yet he willna flee. Perhaps he has come to love The Gordon’s famous dungeons and prefers to stay.”

  Long Legs swallowed. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with emotion, though he tried for nonchalance.

  “Famous? My father’s dungeons are famous?”

  So. Long Legs was a son. And here was yet another chance to mess with a Gordon’s head. Besides, the damned prophecy, the one that had shaped his life, might make the difference for him. If they believed he had real power, they might free him in the end. He needed only to plant enough seeds of unease. And if they wanted to be rid of the unease, they’d need to be rid of him. He only hoped they would believe it was safer to release him, than to burn him.

  And Long Legs had already proven that he was a sucker for rumors.

  “Aye. Famous. Five hundred years from now, folks will still speak of these dungeons by the sea. Tell me of this fellow,” he pointed to the skeleton. “Perhaps he is also famous. Or will be.”

  The light quivered harder than before. He’d done a better job of scaring the young one than an emaciated corpse had done.

  Long Legs stood for a moment, staring into Quinn’s eyes. He opened his mouth once, but thought better of it, Quinn supposed, because he soon turned and walked away.

  “Come,” he said to the torchbearer.

  The lad backed away, as if he was too frightened to turn his back on Quinn.

  “Leave the light, Son of Gordon. I care to stay awake for a wee while. And I meant what I said, about getting firelight from the devil if I must.”

  Long Legs snorted and spun around. “It is my leave to deal with ye as I will. Ye’re my prisoner, not my father’s. So I will leave ye the light—if you answer my question with the truth.”

  “Ask it,” Quinn said, pleased a seed was already taking root.

  Long Legs nodded to the lad who walked to the wall and dropped the torch into a loop, then he shooed him to the entrance where the laddie hurried up the steps and away. “Leave us,” he said to the old man, who followed the boy, albeit slowly.

  Long Legs walked back to the cell but stood away from the bars as if Quinn might jump to his feet and get a hold of him. Quinn tried not to smile.

  “Ye wish to ken if what I said was true, if the Runt’s child ends up ruling yer clan.”

  Long Legs shook his head.

  “Truly?” Quinn was surprised. The sons of clan chieftains often fought wars over their father’s power. Why would the Gordon’s sons, of all people, be different? “What do ye wish to know?”

  The man waved a dismissive hand. “Cinead is an ambitious bastard. He has much to prove, as ye well ken. I was not surprised to hear his seed would one day rule the clan, but I would know how ye ken this is to be. And do not think me daft. I will hear the truth of it, not silly tales of the devil whispering in yer ear. For if the devil is all the threat ye have, ye’ll get nothing, including yon torch. Ye see, the devil will be easier to appease than my father.”

  So much for playing on the man’s superstitions. But there was a weakness there, to be sure. If Quinn told the younger man the truth, would he win an ally?

  Suddenly he was struck with an idea. “What is yer name?” he demanded.

  “Percy.”

  “Percy Gordon, I will tell ye the truth, if you think ye can bear it?”

  The man smirked. Close enough.

  The only sound was that of the fire, fighting itself at the end of the torch. Percy was as quiet as the guest in the next cell. Quinn felt the urge to cross himself against the blackness at his back, lest the devil feel he’d been invited, but he could not show such weakness.

  “My name is Quinn Ross. I am from the future, from the year twenty-twelve. Muir witches brought me here, to stand in the stead of Montgomery Ross.”

  “And they changed yer face to look like the laird?” Long Legs looked unimpressed. He’d have to do better.

  “There was no need to change my face. I am Montgomery’s great nephew twenty times over. I carry his...looks.” He’d almost said DNA.

  Long Legs weighed the information for a minute. Indeed, a year ago, it took Quinn days to digest it all when Jillian MacKay disappeared in front of him, when she’d first slipped back in time to fulfill the prophecy. The fact they’d been standing in the tomb when it happened had not made it any easier to believe.

  “Even if this were true, how can ye be of any use to m
e?” Percy stepped closer.

  The man may not believe him, but he was hopeful. It might be enough to win the Gordon’s son to his side.

  “Because I have the ability to move between the future and the past, I can change the future. Because I ken what will happen, I can change it from happening.”

  Okay, that wasn’t quite true and wasn’t the most logical argument, but it was all Quinn could think of at the moment considering the bump on his head and the pain in his legs. His best chance of rescue might be from within Clan Gordon itself. And what better reason could Long Legs appreciate than to have Quinn change the future so that Percy Gordon ended up with the Gordon scepter?

  “Ye think me simple.” Percy shook his head and backed away. “I can change the future, simply enough, by slittiin’ Cinead’s throat before he has his offspring.”

  Quinn wasn’t about to point out the man’s new bride might already be pregnant. He wasn’t going to be the reason behind the murder of an innocent woman.

  Or was it already too late?

  He’d broken one of Jillian’s sacred rules. He’d told the Gordon brothers who their enemy was, and now Long Legs was considering killing his brother to change the future. Quinn had promised Jillian a hundred times over that he would be cautious. She was going to kill him unless he thought of a reason why Long Legs and his brothers should keep their hands off The Runt.

  Then he had it. God and Ewan might damn the Muir witches, but they were often the answer to his problems.

  “There is one thing ye should know, Percy,” he said gravely, “about the man who kills Cinead Gordon.”

  Percy took a deep breath and waited.

  Quinn stared him in the eyes. “It’s part of the prophecy.”

  Percy rolled his eyes. “What prophecy?”

  “Oh, come now. Even the Gordons ken about the prophecy given by Isobelle before she died.”

  Percy nodded once. “I’ve heard a bit. Tell me the whole of it, then.”

  Oh, but that was the easiest request Quinn had ever heard.

  He’d been an attorney, back in the real world of the twenty-first century, but after Libby died, he’d walked away from it, gone back home. And for all the years since his wife’s death, Quinn’s role at Castle Ross was to tell the tourists all about the prophecy. It was almost a relief to get to tell it again, even though he’d told it a thousand times before. It had been over a year since he’d done it last, and he was eager to see if he remembered the script. Of course he could not tell it verbatim. Percy Gordon would not know of Shakespeare and the tale of Romeo and Juliet.