by L. L. Muir
James was right. She always had that back-up plan. Any moment she might come running back into the light, having bashed poor Percy up the side of the head.
“If she does,” Mhairi said, “the tunnel giveth the same. It will give ten years from stem to stern, but it gives naught more. She’ll gain the age she lost, but the memories will not be restored. ‘Tis a wicked curse. One meant to protect Clan Muir. What foe cannot be bested as a child? What better punishment for a fleeing enemy than to age him quickly without the benefit of wisdom?”
Margot pushed past his body and put her hand through the middle of the opening. She rubbed her fingers as if testing the texture of the darkness.
Chills assaulted Quinn’s spine and spread beneath his hair. He tasted metal on his tongue.
“‘Tis finished,” Margot said. “They are through.”
Quinn refused to believe it all. Of course they’d always called them Muir witches, but they’d never done anything so ridiculous before. They were just trying to keep him from following after Juliet. But why?
“Quinn Ross, how can ye be so unbelieving when ye’ve traveled from yer time to ours?” Mhairi was behind him, shaking her head.
“Come,” Monty barked. “We can cut them off if Percy tries to take her north. Younger or not, he might think to take her back to Gordon land.” He halted before his wife. “Jillian, my love. Ye’ll stay home, and ye’ll keep away from that tunnel. Mhairi, Margot? I trust ye to see to it. Doona fail me. Someone stay here, in case Juliet comes back this way.”
“Aye, yer lairdship. We’ll watch her like our own.”
Monty had taken half a dozen steps, but stopped short. Quinn nearly plowed through him as he turned back. “I expect the pair of you to do better than that,” Monty shouted. “Remember she carries my child.”
Jillian should have followed the men out of the cellar. The Muirs dried their faces and turned their clever smiles upon her. When they wrapped their arms around her shoulders, the feeling of deja vu should have sent her running, and praying, all the way to the twenty-first century, but she could never leave Montgomery behind. She’d done it once. She would never do it again.
“Jillian, dear. We have a great deal to talk about,” said Margot.
“Aye,” added her sister. “And not much time.”
Monty was about to lead them all out the kitchen door when Ewan put a hand up to stop the thing from opening.
“Monty, ye’re dead,” Ewan said. “No one can lay eyes on ye who doesna ken the truth. And neither can Quinn be seen. The funeral’s in the mornin’. I doubt the clan will believe that Montgomery Ross is dead while two men walk about who look just like him, aye? Our clansmen are no’ blind. Nor are they daft.”
Five minutes later, in ridiculous disguises, he and Monty waited by the door for Ewan and James to bring round the horses.
“She’s a fine lass, Quinn,” said his uncle. “Almost as fine as my Jillian.”
Quinn realized he’d been chewing off his fingernails and stopped. “Oh? I admit your wife is a fine woman. There was a time I wished I would have been worthy of her myself.”
Monty’s smile dropped.
Quinn held up a hand to discourage the other man from swinging at him. His head had only begun to heal from all the pounding of the week before.
“But Jillian was never for me, Monty. She was always as a sister, though in my dreams I believed myself to be falling in love with her. But when I laid eyes on Juliet, I realized she was the one I’d been dreaming of. The Muirs had a hand in that dream, but I cannot begrudge them for it. Which reminds me, if that tunnel is as cursed as they claim, it should be destroyed. I find it hard to believe that danger has lain below our feet all these years.”
“Auch, aye. We’ll see to it as soon as Juliet is safe.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Quinn allowed Ewan and Monty to take the lead. He was a poor hand at finding his way beyond Ross lands, but it was more than that. As desperate as he was to have Juliet safely in his arms, he was afraid of what they might find. He hoped someone else might catch sight of her and Percy before he did, so he might have some kind of warning. It was cowardly, he knew, but allowing the love of his life to be buried had almost killed him once. He was certain he couldn’t survive doing it again.
How unworthy he was.
They’d been together for nigh a week and he’d never even asked her age. He had no idea how old the lass would be if she’d truly had ten years removed. If she’d been thirty to begin with... But she hadn’t. He was sure of it. And what teenager would want a thirty-five-year-old man waiting for her to grow up and fall in love with him?
Juliet wouldn’t.
Then he realized the answer rode before him.
“Monty! How old is Jillian?”
His uncle turned but did not slow his horse. “Doona think it, man. Just keep prayin’, aye?”
“Easy for you to say,” Quinn mumbled.
“Twenty-three,” said James. “The yanks forwarded her file, aye?”
Quinn gave the agent a curt nod in thanks.
That would make her thirteen.
Oh, God!
He could not wrap his mind around it. He could not conjure an image of her at thirteen, but hopefully, Monty could, so they’d know what kind of lass to be looking for.
Blasted Muirs! Blasted tunnel.
But wait!
If Juliet was now thirteen, he’d just have to go through the tunnel as well—and twice! He’d make Monty promise to pick him up and send him through again. He’d be fifteen.
Perfect.
But would he remember to fall in love with her? Aye, there was the rub. If he weren’t going to end up with Juliet by his side for the rest of his days, would he take that chance? Was he willing to live the horror of being a teenager—again—for the chance of winning Juliet’s heart?
“Please, God. Help me.”
He whispered the same prayer a dozen times while they came ‘round the northern tip of the wee mountain. Ewan dropped to the road and peered closely at every hoofprint.
“Nothing fresh. They’ve not come through yet.” Ewan remounted and they headed southeast.
Muir land was an odd stretch of territory that jutted from the sea to the hill that separated their clan homes. As if Fate had decreed the witches have access to Ross lives. They certainly had enough to do with their history, and their legends. But in modern times, Muirs had become a sept of Clan Gordon.
How Quinn hoped he wouldn’t be around to see that bit of history unfold. He could almost pity the formidable Gordons.
As the road turned due south and slowly filled with people, Quinn began searching faces. A boy there. A young lass there. The Muirs were a friendly lot, smiling and nodding as the four horsemen cut their way into their home ground.
An old man stepped back to give them a wider path. He looked at Quinn, then Montgomery, and back again, then slid a finger along the side of his nose as if it meant something. A heartbeat later, Quinn noticed the man again, only on the other side of the road, touching his nose in the same manner.
James leaned closer. “Twins,” he said. “There are many.”
Quinn was relieved he wasn’t losing his mind, but the presence of more Muir twins in their midst left him unsettled. Again, he tasted metal and wondered if it was new or just a phantom of the time before.
He tested his tongue. The taste was gone. Memory then.
A young lass with black hair turned away from her mother to watch their passing. Quinn looked closely, to see if her eyes were green. The lass smiled and shook her head as if she’d read his thoughts.
Another chill ran up his spine when he noticed something else. He glanced at James to find the man staring at him with eyes wide.
“It’s quiet,” Quinn told him. “Why do they not speak?” But he was afraid he knew the answer.
James shivered. “‘Tisn’t possible.”
Monty, being Monty, pulled his sword from behind his saddle. The Mu
irs stopped making eye contact and wandered their way off the road. A hundred yards later, the four horsemen were alone and Quinn was grateful for it.
Monty and Ewan fell back until they were four abreast.
“We will go slowly now,” Monty said, “to be sure we doona pass them in haste. I think ye should prepare yerself, nephew. I believe Margot and Mhairi might have been telling the truth. If anyone could devise the devil’s own tunnel, it would be these people, or their ancestors, aye?”
Quinn had come to the same conclusion.
Ewan laughed. “He’s been to Muirsglen before, aye?”
Monty grunted and faced forward with an unkind stare.
“I drugged him a year ago, when Jillian took Morna and Ivar into the future and left him behind. I thought he would kill himself with grievin’, wear himself out walking the path from the Great Ross Chair, to the witch’s hole, and back again. More than a dozen times a day, mind. And he wouldna eat. So I drugged his drink. Had him taken to the Muirs to keep him away while I had the cellar filled in. Turned out for the best that I only filled it with barrels of drink, for the lass came back for ‘im.”
James laughed, then laughed harder when Monty glared at him. As they rode on, the rest of Morna and Ivar’s story came out, including a few details that had never been included in Quinn’s script for the tourists of Castle Ross. Monty also explained how they’d gotten Isobelle out of the tomb.
A few minutes later, Monty and Ewan shared a horrified look, and Quinn knew just what they were thinking.
“Don’t worry,” Quinn told them. “James, here, will keep the secret like the rest of us. Who would believe him anyhow? When he starts telling someone that he’s spent time in the fifteenth century, they’ll stop listening.”
James frowned. “But what about Isobelle? Only a wee while ago, we were ready to go back into the tomb and never return, and no one made mention of her. Did she die?”
Monty turned away, silent.
Quinn didn’t feel as though it was his place to speak of Isobelle.
Ewan shifted in his saddle, then finally, he spoke. “We dinna ken where she is, James. Our man Ossian went with her, to get her safely settled. We received word from him once, that he and his travelling companion had decided to make a go it in Spain. We sent a letter there, only to have it returned. A note had been written upon it, claiming the pair had disappeared in the night. We’ve heard nothing since.”
James shifted in his saddle. “And she wasn’t a witch, ye say?”
“Nay,” said Ewan. “Bewitching to be sure. Red hair, like yers, but nary so many curls. Turned men’s heads since the day she was born. Always causin’ trouble.”
James turned to Monty. “Allow me find her for you, Laird Ross.”
Monty wiped an arm across his face before he finally looked at the tall man. “Why would ye say such a thing? This is not yer time. Ye canna locate her on the internet. She could be anywhere in the wide world—a world that is not so small as you might think at this point in history.”
James grinned. “To tell the truth, I’m not quite ready to go back yet. If this is the only chance I have, I’d like to see more of yer time. I may as well see Spain and look around for yer sister while I’m at it, aye?”
Monty shook his head. His brow was a threatening thundercloud.
“It willna matter,” he said. “The tomb’s a bit touchy. Only seems to work with Jillian and now, with Juliet. A Muir creation and not to be trusted. For all we ken, we’re stuck here for the rest of our days,” he turned and looked at the Muir clansmen who were once again making use of the road. “Here, among so many Muirs. A tomb. A tunnel. Only God kens what else. We’ll none of us be safe.”
James let the subject drop.
No matter what Monty had said, Quinn had the feeling the man was just touchy about anyone getting a look at, or getting their hands on, his sister. Even if it meant he might see her again. After all, hadn’t he become immediately protective of Juliet? It seemed it was just Monty’s nature. He hoped Jillian’s baby was a boy, or boys rather, because he pitied the lad who came to court any daughter of Montgomery Ross.
They reached the glen and headed for the side of the hill where a couple of youths might have emerged and perhaps had their presence noted.
“Keep a sharp eye. A young lass and laddie,” said Monty. “I’ve no ken how old Percy was, only that he was perhaps younger than our lasses.”
Quinn nodded. He was also hoping that since these Muirs seemed to read their minds, there might be someone willing to lead them in the right direction.
Juliet, sweet. I’m coming.
The village spread much further than expected. From a distance, it hadn’t looked like much. As they came nearer, a small city unfolded like a wild rose in bloom. Patches of mist clung to it like morning dew in defiance of the midday sun. Would the mist ever lift completely from a place that sheltered witches?
A tall fort stood at the Eastern edge of town and Quinn wondered if perhaps it hid a good-sized castle behind the wooden facade. At one point, they passed through the gates of an ancient wall that likely contained the entire settlement in decades past. Into his mind popped a fanciful image of a city wall that might hide everything and everyone within it from the eyes of their enemies standing ten feet away.
He shuddered.
Ridiculous. He needed to find a handle on his imagination.
An entire clan of witches? Nonsense.
They split up. Monty took James and followed the edge of the hillside. Quinn and Ewan dismounted and led their horses into the village, following the flow of its citizens who seemed much too busy to stop and read the minds of strangers. He was relieved to hear the rather normal hum of voices and laughter.
Eventually, they followed a curve and through a light crowd, they saw a well at the top of the street. Two dozen women stood in line awaiting a turn with the bucket. While they waited, they turned their attention to a young woman who stooped before a youngster while she washed his face. The lad was seated on a low stone wall beside a large white-washed cottage.
Quinn froze.
The woman wore Juliet’s leather coat over her plaid gown. The mist made the colors unclear. Her hair was not nearly so neat as Juliet’s had been, and the color was dark, but again, unclear. When she turned to the side, to take a bucket of water from another woman, she didn’t look a day less than twenty.
“But that can’t be!” Quinn’s voice stretched across the distance between them, daring her to turn and prove him wrong. But she didn’t turn.
The boy might have been Percy. He looked like a lad of ten wearing his father’s clothes. His sleeves hung nearly a foot past the bend of his wrist. For once, his plaid covered his knees. When the lad turned and noticed Quinn, there was no hint of recognition. His attention returned to the woman washing his face. She took a handful of his hair to hold him still while she scrubbed.
Turn. Please, turn.
And yet he dreaded her turning. What if she looked at him, as Percy had done, and she would see a stranger. If she, too, turned away from him, what then? Who might stand beside him for the rest of his life and remind him to breathe in, and then out again? Because he would need reminding.
But if he couldn’t find the strength to move his bloody feet, he would never know.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Juliet laughed at something the lad said and for Quinn it was magic enough. Just enough.
He kicked a foot forward, then the other one, as if he were kicking his way out of his own grave. His boots stomped loudly on the packed earth of the street. With no attention to spare his horse, he dropped the leads as he went, determined to face Juliet again, no matter what reaction he might see there.
“Juliet!” he cried as he strode, feeling like a man walking into a wall of spears aimed at his heart. If he stayed back, he’d be safe—he’d never know if she’d forgotten him. But what would it matter? He’d win her heart all over again, even if he had to enlist the aid of a
Muir witch to slip him back into her dreams. Even if he had to bide his time while she grew a half-dozen years.
The lad pointed at him. Juliet turned, her eyes following the small filthy finger. Then she straightened and waved to Quinn, waving off that wall of spears.
She knows me!
When he heard Ewan laugh, only then did he realize his distant cousin was still at his side.
“Quinn,” she called, and in her smile, he saw the reflection of all the relief he felt himself.
No one would need to bid him breathe again.
“Quinn! Ewan! Come and meet this young man. His name is Percy. He’s a terribly brave boy who saved me. I was lost in a cave, and he saved me.”
“Jillian Ross!” Montgomery’s bellow filled the misty air.
Quinn turned in the direction of the sound and saw Jillian running from the road to the right, toward her sister. Mhairi and Margot appeared next. Montgomery, on horse, was headed up the street behind them. James followed.
Jillian and Juliet embraced as the older sisters slowed and stopped behind them. Quinn was a little disappointed she had yet to throw herself into his arms. He closed the distance to make it easier for her to do so, but Juliet only winked at him and turned back to her sister.
After a flurry of conversation that was too fast for Quinn to understand, Juliet stood speechless while Jillian moved over to the little wall and stooped to speak with Percy. The Muirs patted Juliet on the shoulders and laughed.
Quinn prepared to shoo them away just as soon as Juliet gave him permission, but it looked as if Montgomery wanted that pleasure all to himself.
“Mhairi Muir,” he shouted as he dismounted. “Ye’re done for, do ye hear? That goes for yer sister too. But ye’ll be placed in separate dungeons. Mayhap even separate centuries.”
The very pale laird pushed the twins aside to get to his wife, then physically wrenched her attention from young Percy—he took her by the shoulders and gave the slightest shake. “Why would you risk such a thing, Jillian? Why?”