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

by L. L. Muir

  "Wake, lassie." A man's voice. "Ye be dreamin’. Wake before ye slit yer own throat with yer thrashing about."

  "Wake, my lady!" The desperation in Deb's voice brought Jules fully alert.

  A man stood over her holding a long dagger against her neck. She looked up his arm and into his face. She was going to remember that face because she was going to make him pay for interrupting her dream, from taking her away from her Highlander when she’d just promised not to leave him.

  She was way too disoriented to see it any other way.

  "Get up nice and slow-like, else Debra be punished on yer behalf. Ye understand me well enough, aye? Yer the lass that big ruddy bastard was hunting last eve. How did ye slip away from him? Mm?"

  "Izatt,” Debra snarled, “you harm her or me and you'll be boiled along with your kilt next time." She elbowed a second man who held her. When he let go, she didn’t try to run. "Get up, lassie,” she said. “These two are harmless, and no mistake. But ye must do as they bid. She'll need her boots and her mantle, lads."

  Jules didn't know what Debra was talking about, but she was grateful to be given a chance to get her boots back on. To her, boots might mean the difference between escape and not. They also waited for her to put on her jacket.

  Once she was on her feet, the taller one pointed to the door with that same dagger. "After ye, milady."

  Debra winked at her as she walked past, then slid behind her and blocked the doorway. "Run, lassie!"

  Jules didn't dare turn around to make sure the washerwoman was going to be okay. She hadn't seemed particularly afraid of the men, so maybe she knew best. It killed her to leave her new friend in danger, but she didn't want Debra's sacrifice to go to waste, either.

  She picked up her skirts and hit her stride as she went into a curve in the road, then ran face first into the neck of a horse.

  "Mon Dieu!" a man shouted.

  Jules landed on her butt and raised her arm in case the animal felt the need to defend itself. The poor thing might have been even more surprised than she was. But the rider was able to calm it. The screaming had stopped.

  The swearing was only getting started.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Quinn was having that dream again, so he knew he was still alive. But the dream was so frustrating he simultaneously wished he would stop having it and wished it would never end. He’d been haunted by it for months upon months, but it was his own fault.

  Ewan had ordered Mhairi and Margot to stay away from the witch’s hole, so when Quinn had caught the Muirs wandering up out of the cellar again he thought they should be punished. As usual, they’d had a better idea. They thought they should pay for their misdeeds in another way. For instance, how would he like a bit of potion to help him dream of his true love?

  Of course, when he’d fallen for their little trick, he’d been hoping to revive his dreams of Libby, to remind himself how she’d looked, how she’d sounded. The memories had been fading since he’d left the modern world and he felt as though he was being punished for fooling with the natural order of things. He’d tried to convince himself that his memories were fading because they weren’t memories any longer; it was the fifteenth century, so Libby had yet to be born. But that knowledge didn’t take the soreness from his heart and he’d been desperate to get a tighter hold on those precious recollections.

  And he’d played right into the Muir’s conniving, clever hands.

  That night, he’d taken their potion, not knowing if he’d wake in the morning, not caring if he didn’t. And he’d dreamt, as they’d promised he would. Only it hadn’t been Libby in the dream, but Jillian, Monty’s wife! And oh, how he’d loved her in his dreams. His heart had wept at the sight of her, as if it had been Jillian who had died years before, only to return to him again in his hour of need. For in his dream, he’d been sick with desperation. Something was about to go horribly wrong. They wouldn’t have much time together.

  Knowing this, they’d knelt on the floor, in the darkness, holding tight to each other, measuring the moments. But something was between them. He’d supposed it was the thought of betraying Monty, for the thought of doing so—if only in his dream—made him sick. Sick while he was dreaming and after he’d awakened as well.

  This time, the dream was no different from that night he’d taken the potion, except for the fact he was finally able to kiss her! Always he fought the urge to betray his great uncle, but the urge to press his lips to hers had been too powerful. Nothing else mattered. When they were alone together, in his dream, this woman mended together the pieces of his soul, a soul that had been ripped and tattered by loss and loneliness. Of course he had to kiss her, possess her, make certain she knew she possessed him in turn.

  If they could only move a little closer...

  “Wake, Montgomery,” a woman whispered.

  “Jillian?” he mumured.

  “Who is Jillian?”

  Quinn hid his anguish at being jarred from his dream and rolled onto his side.

  Betha stood before his cell door with her man, Boyd, by her side. The man smirked. Betha, even from his sideways view, looked furious.

  “I dinna ken,” he lied.

  Betha considered for a moment, then nodded to Boyd. The man dropped his smile and moved to unlock the cell door.

  “Hold!” The Runt himself moved out of the shadows and Quinn was strangely relieved.

  After his dream, as disturbing as it was, he was loath to pretend affection for another woman. Of course he would show no affection for Jillian either—even if she weren’t more than five hundred years into the future.

  Quinn rose from his fresh pallet. Thus far, he’d been allowed to bathe and eat a decent meal, but all within his cell. He supposed the pallet was merely to keep him clean until Betha was ready for him, for the lass couldn’t mean to lie with him in the dungeon. He’d seen yet another reason to get to his feet, however—no use lying about—he feared leaving his head within easy reach of the violent little man when it might take little to kill him.

  “What do ye here, sister?” Cinead jeered as if he knew full well what was afoot.

  The Runt was not alone. Another shadow, much larger, separated itself from the wall and joined them. Either it was The Gordon or else the man had a son that looked just like him.

  “Father!” Betha sounded genuinely horrified, but Quinn had to give her credit for not cowering.

  “Answer the question, daughter.” The man’s growl sent shivers up Quinn’s spine. It was the first time he’d seen the chieftain truly angry. How did Montgomery manage to survive so many years as this man’s enemy?

  Quinn took a smooth and slow step backward. It was one of those primal instincts to avoid the attention of an angry animal. Out of all the times he'd had a visitor, since waking in the dungeon, he never felt closer to a noose than he did at that moment.

  Other Gordon siblings slithered through the entrance carrying torches and fanned out. The place was lit up like they were about to have a party. Quinn just hoped it wasn't a lynching party, but he was afraid he was wrong.

  "I only came for my due, father." Betha squared her shoulders. She was either very brave, or very stupid. Perhaps, she was just very Gordon, for she looked overmuch like her father as the pair stood facing each other with their hands on their hips.

  "Yer due? Ye think ye're due a romp in this man's bed? Ye think ye have some right to his seed? Nay daughter. Ye’ve the right to a cell there next to him if ye're as addlepated as to believe that."

  She glanced at the cell, at the remains hanging against the wall, and swallowed, but she didn’t back down. Once again, she faced the old man and raised her chin.

  "Ye promised, Father."

  The runt frowned, but quickly smoothed his features. Quinn could understand why no one would wish to reveal their thoughts among such an emotional bunch. The rest of the brothers leaned forward, listening closely.

  The Gordon’s nostrils flared. "I promised noth—"

  "
Ye did! Ye promised me that if I bore ye a grandson," Betha pointed at Quinn. "A fine grandson that resembled him, that it would be my child to rule once ye’re gone."

  Her father barked with laughter. The sons didn’t seem to find humor in their sister’s words. Perhaps it had sounded like something their father would promise.

  Finally, the old man stopped laughing when he noticed his sons’ faces.

  "Ye daft wench,” the man spit. “Ye thought I'd place a bastard in my stead when I have sae many sons?" His voice boomed louder with each word. Betha finally took a step back, shaking her head, edging away from the bars as if she now believed she might end up on the other side of them. Then she stopped and lifted that chin again.

  Was she crazy?

  "He wouldn't be a bastard...if I marry him." Betha lifted a shrewd eyebrow, but her father never noticed, busy as he was, glaring at Quinn.

  "He's no longer laird of his clan. There is nothing noble about him, lass. Look ye. Look ye past his breeches and ye'll see for yerself. He's a broken man. Hardly worth the rope to hang him." The Gordon leaned close to the bars. "And mark ye well, Ross. Ye've caused enough grief between me bairns. Make yer peace with God. Ye hang on the morrow.” Then he turned to make what was sure to be a grand exit.

  Quinn lunged forward. If this was his last chance, he’d have his say.

  “Why, you mewling warty bastard!” He spit through the bars.

  That got the devil to turn at least. The siblings stood perfectly still, only their eyes followed their father as he retraced his steps.

  “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 boile
d 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 canna 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.