by L. L. Muir
"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 strange 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.
It was all.
She moved along the bars. He could hear her hands bumping each one as she came slowly toward him. The anticipation twisted his chest and made him want to groan with the exquisite frustration of it. There, in the dark, she was merely the woman from his dream, not Jillian, his friend.
"Montgomery Ross?"
Her whispered question cut through his fantasy, sobering him.
"Nay. I cannot pretend that I am Monty. It is I, Quinn. Has my homely uncle returned as well?"
She stopped moving. Her small gasp came from only an arm's length away. He wanted to reach out and pull her to him, to give her no choice in the matter. But surely she would come to him, even as a friend, Jillian would come. They’d comforted each other before, when they’d been in the depths of despair—he still mourning Libby, and she rent in twain after leaving Montgomery in the past. Now, tossed in the enemy’s dungeon, she would need a bit of comfort again. Why did she hesitate?
Why, oh, why couldn’t he have let her believe he was Monty, if only for a few moments?
"Quinn?” Her voice broke, as if on a sob. “Quinn Ross? The one on the website? I thought Quinn and Montgomery were the same man."
He suddenly felt as confused as she sounded.
"Jillian. Dear Jilly. Have ye lost yer senses? Do ye not remember me? We spent the better part of two weeks together, greetin’ over the loss of our loved ones. Do you remember none of it, then?"
"I'm...I’m not Jillian. I'm not Jillian. I swear to you, I'm not Jillian." She laughed, but it only served to worry him more.
He’d never been so desperate for light.
"Martin! Martin, can ye give us a wee bit o' candle? Just a quick bit of light, aye? Martin,” he whispered as loud as he dared. “Can ye hear me?"
There was movement near the door. A few minutes later, the old man approached.
"Trusting a blind man with fire is terrible foolish,” said Martin. “But lucky for ye, they're a foolish lot. But ye mustn’t risk more than a moment or two before ye must douse it."
"Don't move," Quinn told the woman. He pressed himself against the cell door with his hands outstretched and clicked his fingers. He could not wait to prove this angel from his dream was not Montgomery Ross's wife.
An eternity passed, then a box crashed into his hands. He took it, gave Martin’s hand a squeeze, then opened the box. He located the flint, the tinder, and a short nub of a candle only two inches long.
"God bless ye, Martin," he said, but the man was already shuffling away.
"I'd stay to have a peek at her, but I doona wish to interfere," Martin said, then laughed.
After a lifetime of tries, the candle took. By the time it did, he was worried that he’d imagined it all and there would be none but Skully in the adjoining cell.
His hands shook as he put a protective hand around the flame and turned. Each step he took gripped his heart tighter...
Tighter...
Tighter still.
There was a bit of shine to the woman’s coat. Leather, like Jillian wore the first time she set foot in the Ross hall. A plaid dress, like the one Jillian was wearing when she brought Morna and Ivar through the tomb and into the twenty-first century.
His stomach dropped when he noticed the Western cowboy boots. How could she not be Jillian? Dare he hope the way she was dressed was but coincidence?
When he finally stood before the dimly lit form beyond the bars, he removed the hand that blocked the light from her face.
His own face fell. He could not help it from doing so, he was that disappointed. The only thing different about her was that her hair looked a bit darker than before, but it might only be the lack of proper lighting.
"Jillian." He wanted to demand why she would have lied to him, but it was hard enough to just say her name. He wanted to take her by the arms and shake her, to make her understand how her pretense had hurt him.
"I'm not Jillian. I'm her sister, Juliet. I go by Jules. Apparently, we're twins."
He shook his head. How could she tease him like this? Especially now, when he might actually hang in the morning.
"Ah, Jilly. Surely ye didn't find your way in here only to tease me." He held out the candle. "Here. You take it."
The thing was small. She tried to take it from his fingers, but couldn't do so without them losing the light altogether.
"Forget it," she said sharply and turned away, leaving him holding he candle up to empty space. "And I'm not Jillian, asshole."
He stood there in stunned silence. Was she telling the truth?
Then, with no more warning than a low keening to precede it, a painful scream shot through his ears and head and ricocheted through the dungeon. Jillian’s scream. When he finally thought to shield his eyes from the candle, he found her, whimpering with her back against her cell door. She was staring at the corpse.
"I'm sorry, lass. I should have warned ye. I call him Skully.”
The pet name was no help. She didn’t seem to be listening on any account.
“He’s harmless, lass. Look at me.”
She took a few deep breaths, then turned her face. Eventually, her eyes turned too.
“And by the way,” he said. “I believe ye're not Jillian after all."
"Oh yeah?" She took a deep breath and choked, then she pulled up a t-shirt from under her blouse and covered her face. It muffled her voice. "Why? Don't I scream like her?"
"I don't ken about that,” he said. “But I do know she would have never called me an arsehole. Ever."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The replica of Montgomery Ross, the man she’d prayed for, the man she recognized in the core of her being, reached through the bars again, his hands open, palms up. The candle was perched on one.
"Take the candle, lass, but for pity sakes, look at me, not Skully."
"Who is he?" She couldn't seem to let go of the bars behind her. She'd seen her parents in their caskets, but she didn't remember it clearly, only that they didn't feel real anymore. Other than that, she'd never been around a dead body before. Except for Nikkos, she reminded herself. But Nikkos had still been bleeding.
"It doesn’t matter,” the Quinn said. “Just pretend he's but a decoration for Samhain."
"Samhain? Oh, right. Halloween. Decoration. Got it." She still couldn’t stop staring.
"Look at me, lass. Am I so disgusting you canna stand to glance this way?"
She heard him talking, but all she could do was shake her head. Disgusting? Hardly. But it was hard to face him when just a moment ago, looking at her face had somehow disappointed him. That Muir sister had noticed something that made her different from Jillian. Apparently, he noticed it too. Maybe Jillian
was a real beauty or something.
"I don't believe you,” Quinn said. “I must be repulsive indeed.”
Him? Repulsive? Yeah, right.
She’d only gotten a quick look so far, but repulsive he was not. He was obviously just being nice, trying to distract her. Calling him an asshole had been a little harsh—maybe—but being mistaken for someone else was new to her and damn hard to get used to. The fact that he’d been disappointed when he’d looked at her just added insult to injury.
You idiot, said the voice in her head. He was disappointed when he thought you were Jillian!
Oh my gosh! That’s true, she answered back.
She smiled and turned. He grinned and held the candle up in front of his face. She was finally able to release her grip and move closer to the side bars to look her fill. He did look just like the picture on the website, and she told him so.
“Oh, that.” He sounded a little disappointed. "Yes, that was me. A long while ago, I'm afraid."
She caught herself licking her lips and she turned away, mortified. Why didn’t she just reach over and start running her fingers through his hair? Just because she was so intimate with the man in her dreams, didn’t mean she could jump on this guy. But there, in the darkness, it was hard to believe it wasn’t that dreamland where they already knew each other. She was just going to have to try harder to put that dream aside.
"Tut! Doona do it, lass. Just a decoration."
She nodded and brought her attention back to him, reluctantly. She’d almost forgotten about being scared shitless.
"Just a decoration," she said. "No biggy."
He nodded. "Happy Halloween, aye?"
Other than his build and his coloring, he really didn’t look that much like Jillian’s husband—at least the face she’d stared at through binoculars. There was something a little more intense about him. His cheekbones were a little higher. Or maybe it was just the darkness. Shadows do funny things to a face. She could look into his smoldering eyes forever, especially while he was staring into hers...