Not Without Juliet (A Scottish Time Travel Romance) (Muir Witch Project #2)

by L. L. Muir

  So. One wolf. In no hurry to attack her. So she’d attack him. She could do it—she was so bat-shit scared there was enough adrenaline shooting through her veins she could jump ten feet in the air and land in a tree before the wolf thought to stop her. Of course she wasn’t willing to test it.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw a long stick. It had little bark left, so it nearly glowed in the darkness, like a weapon sent from Zeus. And she wasn’t about to second guess Zeus.

  She circled slowly. The wolf mirrored her steps. Another wolf howled—not so far away this time. The first wolf stepped closer.

  “Aw, now, don’t jump the gun,” she cooed as she bent down for the weapon. It was far too light. There would be little strength in it. Her mind raced, searching for formulas, guessing at torque. If she could get the thing to bite down hard on the side of the stick, she could turn it quickly, maybe twist its neck. Scare the hell out of it.

  Maybe. But it was a much more feasible plan than jumping up into a tree.

  She refused to consider how surreal this moment was, that she was here, in these woods she’d wandered for days, without fearing wild animals. In the future, these woods had been a bit closer to society. But here, there was no society. The land was still wild.

  This isn’t real, she thought, as she swung the stick like a baseball bat, wishing it was a crowbar. The wolf dodged away, then came back mad. Its growl could probably be heard a mile away and it promised that his friends were a lot more dangerous than hers.

  She didn’t have a plan B, so she swung at it again. This time, the jaws clamped down on it in triumph. She tugged at it to make sure the wolf knew she would swing again if he let go—so it would hold tight. And it did. There was no give at all. Its fangs were sharp enough to sink into the wood like it was more like flesh than bone.

  But they wouldn’t sink into her, damn it!

  Twisting her arms as she went, she lunged forward, grabbing both ends of the stick in spite of the short end being so close to its mouth. Then she spun it, using her own body as leverage, putting all her strength into untwisting her arms.

  Something snapped. She both heard it and felt it. The wolf jumped back, yipping. It glanced back at her, over and over, while it ran away, as if it feared she might come after it.

  She looked down at her wimpy weapon. There, imbedded in the wood, was the wolf’s fang. Broken below the gum line. Red blood smeared across white wood.

  She’d done it!

  Before she had a chance to think better of it, she raised the staff over her head and whooped.

  “That’s right,” she taunted in the direction the wolf had run. “Go tell your friends, baby. Don’t mess with a Physicist!”

  And what if Gabby’s man might have heard her? She had no choice but to change direction again, just in case. She had a weapon now. Well, kind of. No chance she could get the hitter to sink his teeth into it, but it would give her a little false courage to get her out of the forest and to a road.

  Surely, there would be a road. If not, she would climb a tree in the morning and get her bearings. If he’d gotten away from Ewan and the Rosses, Gabby’s man was in these woods too. If she gave up looking for a road and circled back, could she get to the tomb first?

  If she did make it back, she would linger long enough to meet her sister, give her an earful, and get the woman to hand over her share of the inheritance. Then she’d tell the husband that his look-alike was missing and Ewan needed his help.

  If she was lucky, Gabby’s man would be stuck here. He’d use up his bullets, in the darkness, on an angry wolf with only three fangs. Then, for the rest of his life, he’d have to pick fights the old fashioned way.

  When the adrenaline wore off, she felt like she’d been hit by a truck. And she kept forgetting what she’d decided to do. Was she hoping to find a road? Was she hoping Castle Ross would be over the next hill? Although her legs moved just fine, she was having a hard time balancing the rest of her body on top of them, so she searched for a climbable tree. She’d never heard of a wolf climbing a tree and avoiding wolves was the only priority she could manage to hang on to.

  Finally, in spite of the darkness, she found a good one. A tall thick pine tree with plenty of lifeless branches at the bottom of the trunk, then healthy ones about ten feet up that were dense with pine needles—a little camouflage after she twisted and squeezed her way up through the natural ladder. Every time she figured she’d gone high enough, she pushed herself up a little higher. The only things that could get to her then were squirrels and birds.

  And hopefully, they were all asleep.

  She picked a sturdy spot and sat down facing the trunk. She hoped the tilt of the branch would keep her from falling backward. Then she wrapped her knee over one branch and tucked the toe of her boot under the next. If she started to slip in her sleep, her leg should catch. The pain would wake her up and she’d be able to save herself. But there was no question about it, she would sleep. She was lucky she hadn’t collapsed already.

  Her hair was the most convenient cushion to protect her cheek from the bark. She then hugged the trunk and laced her fingers. Her coat protected her skin. Once she realized she wasn’t at all uncomfortable, she tried to imagine her worries, one by one, falling to the ground like so many brown and crunchy pine needles. It was the last thing she remembered.

  When she woke, Jules found that she hadn’t moved a muscle. The sky had a strange blue glow and mist swarmed like a shallow river against the forest floor. She could almost taste the pine sap in the moist air. She didn’t think it had rained. Surely she wouldn’t have slept through that.

  A bird flapped its wings above her head, then settled again. Dawn wasn’t far away, and she was afraid Gabby’s man wasn’t either. If she was lucky, he had stopped to sleep too, and if she moved quickly, she could put a bit more distance between them. She would head east for a little longer, then turn south toward Castle Ross.

  She made her way back to the ground feeling pretty refreshed considering she’d maybe only slept an hour or two. After walking about a mile to the east, she found a small track that could be called a road. The feeling of safety, of humanity, increased with each step on the rutted dirt. Someone had been there. Someone would be there again. Someone with two legs and no fangs.

  “Woohoo,” she said, but only in her smallest voice, just in case. A moment later, she came around a bend and found herself in the dooryard of a little cottage. It looked almost lived in. Her first instinct was to move away, quietly, before she woke someone. She really didn’t need any help, after all. Of course she was starving, but she didn’t need anything quite so much as she needed to get back into that tomb.

  But.

  If someone inside knew a good wolf-less road that would lead her straight back to Castle Ross, she’d be a fool not to ask. Of course, when the sun came over the trees, she’d know which way was east. The problem was, she wasn’t quite so sure how long she’d actually gone north. She’d checked the North Star a couple of times, when she’d been able to see through the trees, but there was a chance she’d gone in circles. What if Castle Ross were due south?

  Damnit.

  All that wondering drained away her confidence and suddenly, she didn’t dare take another step without a little guidance. Of course, there was also a chance that no one lived in the little cottage, but she wasn’t going to wait until the sun came up to find out.

  She walked to the door and knocked. “Hello?” She knocked again. “Anybody home?” Then she realized she needed to speak Gaelic and repeated herself.

  The door creaked wide, but it was too dark to see who opened it. She stepped back so she wouldn’t seem too threatening.

  “Oh, we’re home, lassie,” the man said as he stepped out into the yard. “It just doesna happen to be our home.”

  The laughter of more men—many more men—came from inside, and Jules stepped back, but the first man hurried around behind her.

  Hadn’t she just gone through the
same thing with the wolves? Easier to escape one than the whole pack?

  She had just decided to turn and rush the guy behind her, maybe knee him where it counts, when another man emerged and her chance was gone. This one was a lot taller and had to bend over to get through the opening. When he stood, long curly hair fell around his shoulders and in spite of the blue cast of the sky, she recognized his face. Laughing hazel eyes. Slashing brows.

  Gabby’s man. Only now, he was wearing a kilt and looking a little too at home in the fifteenth century.

  “Juliet Bell.” He tossed his head, to swing his wild mane out of his smug face. “You should have let me out.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ewan fidgeted in the great Ross Chair. He’d a bad feeling and it wasn’t due wholly to the fact that he didn’t belong in the chair, but that was part of it. Montgomery had obtained the clan’s blessing to put the Rosses into Ewan’s care over a year ago, but it didna make the chair or the mantle of leadership any the more comfortable.

  None had known Monty was leaving and not coming back. And they still didn’t know, thanks to the fact that Quinn Ross had taken upon himself the role of former laird. If they’d not looked so similar, the switch would have never worked. And many a time, Ewan had wished Monty’s great nephew had never thought to make his sacrifice, for keeping the man home and hale was taking up far too much of Ewan’s time when he had a clan to care for.

  Of course he was grateful. Had Monty disappeared a year past, the Gordons would have poured in from the North and taken over with no thought for the blood spilt. But with Quinn on hand, The Gordon was held in check whilst Ewan earned his title. Now, instead of holding off for fear of Isobelle’s ghost defending her brother and her clan, they held off for fear that Ewan Ross had an impressive hatred for all things Gordon and would lay to waste any who strayed South. There would be no more alliances between them.

  It was also rumored that the Gordons had offered protection to Clan Muir, no doubt to counter the Ross Ghost with a witch or two. Ewan hoped the rumor proved false, though. The Muirs lived but on the far side of the hill to the east. And although he and Monty had been searching since they were wee laddies, they’d never been able to find the existence of the tunnel they suspected of running beneath that hill.

  The Muir sisters were forever popping up out of the cellar, as if there were a leak in the floor and they a bit of sea water determined to get into the boat.

  Nay, if the Gordons won over the Muirs, I would wake one night with Gordon’s boot on me throat.

  Since Quinn knew so few names and faces, the clansmen had believed their laird had gone addlepated. They paid him every respect, but their glances were full of pity. Poor man. It was not the easiest way to live, with people speaking to him simply and slowly all the time.

  But this day, he pitied Quinn Ross for another reason entirely. This day, the Ross Pretender was in the hands of Clan Gordon. The lad Orie hadn’t been taken, praise be, and had been able to ride home to tell Ewan where the wayward man could be found. And considering the many grudges The Gordon held in the name of Montgomery Ross, Quinn might find it a fine time indeed to deny that name, to tell The Gordon that he was not truly Montgomery Ross at all.

  And if The Gordon was able to ferret out one secret, he might be able to ferret out the rest, that although Montgomery had buried his sister Isobelle in the tomb that stood inside the great Ross hall, Ewan and Ossian had tunneled beneath and freed her from it while Monty kept the bastards at bay with his rantings. The kirk’s henchmen believed she’d died inside, as the clergy had decreed. The priest had ordered the tomb be placed upon stone so such a rescue would be impossible. And it nearly had been. If they’d gotten to her only a few hours later, it would have been her grave in truth. If the kirk discovered the deception, the entire clan would be punished, cut off.

  If The Gordon discovered their secret, Clan Ross was doomed. And a clan cut off from the kirk might be unhappy to have lost their souls in order to save the life of one lass. No matter that it had been their laird’s own sister.

  If the Gordon were to squeeze the truth from Quinn...

  Although Ewan blanched at the thought, even as he thought it, the notion came upon him that Quinn’s life might not be worth a clanful of resentful Scots, let alone souls—especially if Quinn had taken on his current role of Pretender in order to keep that secret.

  Ewan took a long drink of aqua vitae before he allowed his thoughts to go farther, for strong drink might prove a fine scapegoat for the argument he saw coming.

  Quinn Ross was no’ so keen on livin’ in any case. Hadn’t he said so many a time when he first arrived?

  Before Ewan thought better of it, or had the chance to sober, he hollered for Daniel.

  “Send Enos to me.”

  Daniel swallowed, but his feet didna move. “Enos?”

  “Have we more than one Enos among us?”

  “Nay, praise be.” Daniel took the bag from around his neck and kissed it. A superstitious man was his second in command.

  For the first time, Ewan wished he had such a talisman around his own neck.

  “Then send Enos to me,” he said.

  “Can we not call everyone to arms and go after our lost laird?”

  Ewan shook his head. “Nay. Quinn Ross would tack me bloody hide to the curtain wall if I allowed one man to be harmed in his stead. He’s told me so a dozen times.”

  The young man’s shoulders dropped as he left the hall, and inside, Ewan’s soul sagged as well. It was an unholy thing he must do. And as he waited, and drank, the weight of the great Ross Chair seemed to be upon him instead of beneath him.

  He’d send Enos to the Gordons. Enos would dispatch Quinn Ross to Heaven, where selfless men like him were sure to go. And the secrets of Montgomery Ross would be safe, as Ewan had vowed to keep them, if indeed they hadn’t already been told.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Jules walked along the road trying to enjoy the lovely day and ignore the hitman who held her upper arm in his grip. She needed to enjoy the fresh air—the breath she shouldn’t still be breathing. Why hadn’t he killed her already?

  The smell of pines and birch trees warming in the sunlight reminded her of Star Valley, Wyoming, where she’d grown up. She could just imagine the smell of campfires from the hunters, the sound of gun shots ringing out, echoing through the Grand Tetons that had been her backyard. She would have killed to have a shotgun in her hand at that moment. But all she had was her lucky stick.

  Why hadn’t he taken it away?

  If the hitter wasn’t all dressed up for a Scottish festival, it would be easy to believe they were just walking through some woods in the twenty-first century. But there was a different kind of quiet there. Was it just because it was Scotland? Or because it was Ancient Scotland? Or maybe it was quiet because everything was lush and heavy with moisture?

  The road was uneven and had been cut deeply by flooding rain. The wild growth was so brilliantly green, it looked Photo-Shopped. It was like God was making up for the fact the country was so wet.

  Sorry about all the rain. Here, I’ll tweak the landscape a little. It’s on Me.

  The last minutes of her life could have been spent somewhere much worse, but the anticipation was killing her. She didn’t really want to remind him to kill her, but she wanted to know who she should thank for her Stay of Execution.

  “Why am I still alive?” She turned and watched his face, hoping she’d be able to tell if he lied to her. She didn’t trust her own judgment much anymore. Not since Gabby had gone from father-figure to cold-hearted killer in a split second.

  The hitter was more handsome than a killer should be, to her way of thinking at least. His hair was gorgeous and wild even though he’d tied it together at the back of his head. The loose copper ringlets were almost painful to look at when the sun hit them.

  She tripped, but he caught her and helped her get her balance back. She expected his hands to be cold for some reason, but they w
ere nice and warm.

  Nice? Gah!

  “Why are ye still alive? That’s a fine question,” he said, implying that she was a klutz and was lucky to have survived as long as she had.

  "You know what I mean.”

  “Do I?” He cocked a brow.

  "Oh. I see. You’re going to pretend like you’re not a brutal son of a bitch who could snap my neck at the drop of a hat?”

  He laughed. “Aye. I suppose I could at that. Though I’m only brutal when it’s called for.”

  What was he trying to do? Get her to let her guard down? Get her to cooperate? Not a friggin’ chance.

  "I know your kind. I know what you're like,” she said.

  "Oh, do ye now?” He snorted.

  "I do."

  After the feds had taken her into custody, she’d begun to suspect the line between law and crime was as fine as that between love and hate, and some of the good guys weren’t on the side they thought they were on. In fact, Agent Dixon, on whose watch she’d escaped, had gotten pretty comfortable on that other side. He was willing to ignore all kinds of rules that were meant to keep her safe, especially if there was anything in it for him. He’d even teased her, said Gabby was probably pay a literal fortune to some agent willing to forget to lock a door and leave her long enough to get some take-out, like he’d done a dozen times already. But lucky for her, Gabby Skedros didn’t have the address. Yet.

  She thought she’d been safe when she’d slept? She hadn’t been.

  And the next time she and Dixon had been alone and the taunting resumed, she’d egged him on, told him just what she thought of him, gotten him all worked up. And when he’d lost control—grabbed her hair and even reached for his gun to prove how he held her life in his hands—she’d had all the excuse she needed to put a nice heavy pan to the side of his head. Then she’d used Dixon’s phone to send an email to the DA, promising she’d be back in time to testify. Then she’d slipped away.