by L. L. Muir
Jilly didn’t breath. Surely it wouldn’t work. Surely he couldn’t mean to give up everything to live in medieval times.
“But...but you have family. How can you give them up? How could you leave them?”
“My family wants me happy, lass. And I can’t be happy here.” He cleared his throat. “I will be much happier in a time where the love of my life has not yet been born, rather than after she’s already passed, aye?”
Nothing was happening, but the silly man went back to grinning.
“Jilly, I think now would be a good time to tell me whom ye love.”
“Whom I...I love Montgomery Constantine Ross, Laird of Clan Ross in the year 1495.” Maybe they would write that on her tombstone.
Nothing happened. The flashlight did not go out; it was still stuck in Quinn’s waistband. In fact, there was quite a bit hanging from the man’s belt: a couple of water bottles, a hatchet—what she wouldn’t have given for that—, a second flashlight, and a first aid kit. Poor man, he thought this would make a fun camping trip.
But they’d gone nowhere.
“Sorry, Quinn. You tried.”
“Jilly?” He still kept his hands on her arms, but now they were lifting her slightly, as if he thought she was about to swoon. “Jilly, I want ye to look down.”
Oh, my hell, he’s not going to take this well.
She’d humor him until he caught on, then it would be her trying to hold him up, and how she’d manage that, she had no idea. The best she could promise was to keep him from hitting his head on the rocks. Maybe.
That’s funny. She thought they’d left the hole open.
Where the large hole had been, there was now a tree trunk plugging the hole. Not the carefully custom-fitted plug, but thankfully, not a two foot wide stone, either.
She looked up at Quinn. He was sobering a bit, thank goodness.
She looked down at the tree trunk. Ewan hadn’t even cleaned all the leaves off. They were still green, but dry.
At least she hoped it had been Ewan.
Wouldn’t it be nice if it had been Ewan!
“Quinn?”
“Yes, Jillian? I mean, Jilly?”
“I hope you won’t miss your family too badly.”
“I hope it as well. Have we arrived already, then?”
“Aye, yer lairdship. I believe we have.” Jilly had a wicked thought. “Would you mind plugging your ears?”
He smiled and cupped his hands against his head.
“Away!” she hollered. A minute later, she hollered again. “And if that doesn’t bring them running, we can use the hatchet.”
“Oh, look here.” Quinn shined his light in the corner. “Looks like a bucket of water, a dozen or so candles, and a chisel of some sort.”
“Water, light, and air, to be precise.” Jilly was so sick of tears, but she allowed them free access to her cheeks. After all, they were a different flavor of tears now. None of them bitter. All of them sweet.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The drugged wine in Monty’s mouth had gone nauseatingly warm, but he held on until the woman closed the curtain between them before spitting it silently in the piss pot. He’d be damned if he would spend another night here with these Muir lunatics. Never had his wishes been so ignored, except for Jillian of course; she hadn’t harkened to him much either.
Dear Jillian. The last he remembered, Ewan was promising to seal the tunnels to the tomb, and if his well-meaning cousin had done as he’d planned, Monty had to hurry.
When Morna had told him, that day in the boat, how she could feel Ivar’s feelings, imagine just where he was and what he was thinking, Monty had thought her silly. But now, even across centuries, he could feel such a connection with Jillian.
Of course, he had no way of discovering the accuracy of his feelings, but if there was truth to it, if he could truly sense Jillian’s emotions or thoughts, then she was on her way back to him. If it wasn’t just wishful madness on his part, she’d find herself buried again, even if she made it out of the tomb.
“Laird Ross,” sang a voice from the other side of the curtain. “Ye’d best be on yer way if ye’re going to save yer lass, do ye not think? And there was nothing in that last bit of wine. Ye wasted good drink, ye did.”
Never, even with centuries of trying, would anyone understand the mind of a Muir.
# # #
“Monty. Laird Ross. What are ye doing here?” Ewan was very surprised to see him. Very surprised indeed, from the speed of his speech. “How do ye feel, auld mon? Would ye care to sit on the stoop and greet some of the clan? I’ll bring ye out something for yer gullet, and something for yer parched throat.”
What was the man hiding? Or did he hope his laird was not angry about the tunnels being sealed? If so, he hoped in vain.
“I believe, Ewan, that I have yet to thank ye for the last bit of wine ye served me.” He walked toward his cousin, who was backing away, although grudgingly. “Out!” he shouted, and the rest of the hall cleared.
“Now Monty, I only did what I had to do, mon. Ye’d plum lost yer wits and needed a wee rest.”
“Oh, I rested, Ewan. For all the days from then to this, I’ve rested.” Monty stalked the man toward the stone dais. “Now it’s yer turn, cousin.”
Ewan braced himself, saw it coming, and still the power of Monty’s blow took him by surprise. At least his brows were high on his forehead as he spun to the floor to lie in a shaggy heap.
Monty looked about his empty hall and smiled. He would have a bit of privacy at least while he cleared the tunnels.
“Away!”
Monty turned toward the tomb. If it was someone wishing to tease him, he’d see his or her head on a pike. Did he dare hope it was Jillian? Could he stand it if it weren’t? Was the sound just a bit of Muir-spiced wine rising from a corner of his belly to possess him again?
“Away!”
He ran from the hall as he had a year before, only this time he did not worry that Isobelle or Jillian would be dead before he got to them. His thighs made quick work of the steps in spite of disuse. When they ended, however, he ran knees first into a barrel. Only it wasn’t just a barrel; it was dozens of them. The corridor was filled with them, and if the smell was any indication of the contents, Ewan had had the cunning to combine the task of sealing the tunnels with the practicality of sealing them with something useful.
Whisky.
An hour later a grumpy Monty pushed the last barrel out of the way so he could move a great tree trunk from the witch’s hole. In his haste, he had not thought to brace himself for who might be falling from the sky. Last time it had been Jillian, or who he thought was his daughter.
This time, it was...himself.
“The whisky fumes are potent,” he told himself.
“Aye, they are,” himself agreed.
“I’ve lost my mind, have I not? Or am I still in a bed amongst the Muirs?”
His other self laughed.
“Please, don’t say ‘Muirs’ before ye’ve poured me a drink of yer wares, Laird Ross.”
Well, then, at least his other self showed proper respect.
“Excuse me.” The man turned his attention back to the hole. “Jilly, he’s here. Jump down.”
Monty couldn’t breathe. Was his other self just teasing him? Was Jillian up there? The man stood beneath the hole and when Monty blinked, Jillian fell into his arms.
Into his arms?
“I’ll thank ye to put her down, mon.”
His image did so, but a bit too slowly.
Monty didn’t dare look at Jillian. If it were some trick he couldn’t bear it. For as long as he didn’t look at her, there was a chance she had returned. He wanted to drag out his hope a bit longer. It was too sweet, and too rare to let get through his fingers.
“Are ye by chance another Laird Ross?” He tapped the man’s shoulder.
“I am that.” The man smiled.
“And are ye the man who put Jillian in the tomb and let slip my wee
secret about Isobelle?”
“Oh, I see.” The man took a deep breath. “Aye, but not a purpose.”
“No matter.”
For the second time that day, Monty had the great satisfaction of striking a surprising blow to a large jaw. With the pain glancing about inside his fist, he hoped it would be the last of the day.
Finally he turned.
The lass was wearing plaid boots, the pointy kind she’d worn before. Her trews were in the same sorry condition, but she’d had the wit to cover her shift with at least another shift.
“I believe I left my leather jacket behind. Have you seen it?”
There was his Jillian. His breath was sucked away by her smile. His heart soared with one twinkle from her wet green eyes.
“Is that all ye came back for, Lady Ross?”
The bastard had ruined her jacket. Handsome, wonderful bastard, but still...
Her well-worn, well-loved, second-hand leather she’d sought for years, had treasured more than any possession and had babied like a pet, was reduced to the size, shape and utility of a sporran. The arms had been turned into a 15th century version of leg warmers with ties that criss-crossed up his sculpted calves. He might have considered keeping a memento of her near his heart, but not this.
“What have you done, husband?” Jilly pointed at his crotch where he hung his guilt for all to see. “Do you know how long I waited for that jacket?”
While she stood staring into the smoldering eyes of the man she loved, Jilly realized she was finally, for the first time in her life, exactly where she wanted to be.
Monty—her real live, warm, non-stone Monty—grinned.
“Tis good to see ye remember ye’re married, wife. Do ye know how long I waited for ye?”
# # #
Laird Montgomery Constantine Ross took to giving tours as a Scotsman takes to plaid. Only now, the tours at Castle Ross, outside the town of East Burnshire, Scotland, take twice as long.
THE END
Dreaming again...
It was dark, just like always.
His head fell forward, his black hair made it hard to see his face. When he moved, she would see just a little curve of his cheek, a reflection of light from his eyes. She wanted to reach out and push that hair behind his ears, but she didn’t. Why didn’t she?
At least she could hear him breathing and feel his arms as they came around her. So warm. So soft. So hard.
“Stay with me,” he begged.
“I will. I promise.”
“Stay with me, just until the end. Then you may go.”
“‘Til the end of what?”
“‘Til the end, lass. You’ll know when it’s over.”
Frantic desperation hung in the air all around them.
“I’m not who you think I am,” he said.
That was what she was supposed to say.
“Neither am I,” she confessed.
He pulled her closer, but there was something between them, again. She needed to get closer, to feel his hard chest against her cheek, to know, just for a minute, that she was safe.
But something was stopping her.
NOT WITHOUT JULIET
PROLOGUE
Gordon Land, Scotland, 1496
~
They rose from the heather like dead men rising to complain of their bumpy purple graves, and Quinn knew by the sneers on their faces, he was the dead one.
“Greetin’s, Laird Ross.” A long-legged man sporting an ill-fitting Gordon plaid offered a mocking bow, not bothering to knock the dirt from his body. “Ye be a long drink from home this day, but we heard ye’re no longer sensible of boundaries, since summer last.”
Quinn wished he could have called the survey folk to come spray-paint the bloody borders of Ross land, but he couldn’t have afforded the extra charges to bring them all the way back to the fifteenth century. And oh, how he hated being babysat by young boys who knew from birth where Ross land ended and Gordon land began.
“I beg pardon, sir.” Quinn nodded. “I trusted my horse to keep me on home ground. I’ll be sure to punish him accordingly.”
He laid the reins against the scapegoat’s neck to turn back South, but when more Gordons blocked his way, he turned again to Long Legs and awaited the filthy man’s pleasure. If they killed him, at least he wouldn’t be around to watch Ewan’s eyes roll back in his head when he learned of yet another of Quinn’s foolish mistakes. All that rolling surely gave the new laird migraines.
“I be ridin’ the horse, yer lairdship. And you be walking.”
“I’ve no doubt you ken I’m no longer laird of the Rosses,” Quinn said clearly so they all would hear and maybe reconsider harassing him.
“We do,” said Long Legs. “But once a laird, always a laird. Ye were a shrewd mon to give yer clan over to Ewan Ross though.” He pulled Quinn from the saddle, not caring whether or not he landed on his feet. “If ye hadn’t, they’d be leaderless this night, I reckon.”
Long Legs shoved, but Quinn stood his ground easily enough. The man snorted at him and mounted. He motioned another Gordon forward who tied Quinn’s hands before him, then handed up the slack. Quinn felt the comforting weight of the knife in his boot and decided to bide his time. No sense taking on the lot of them at once when it might not be necessary.
The sound of approaching hooves turned all attention to the meager road. A horse was coming fast, seemingly riderless but for the two wee legs flapping at its sides.
Dear Lord! It was Orie, the smithy’s son.
Quinn turned to Long Legs.
“Hold your men. You will not harm this child.” He spoke quickly while he held the man’s gaze. “Do what you will to me, but if this boy is not allowed to return home without so much as a scratch, I will call upon the devil himself to see you and your posterity swept from the face of the earth.” He glanced over his shoulder. Orie was closing. “You remember my sister, Isobelle, was a witch. Do you doubt I can do it?” Quinn stepped close so no others could hear him. “Satan himself came with Isobelle in summer last, to dance with her upon her own tomb. Did no one tell you?”
Long Legs’ eyes were wide as he raised a hand, freezing his men where they stood. Orie and his horse kept coming, and he’d soon see the ties around Quinn’s wrists! It would be too late!
“Is that what drove ye mad, Laird Ross?” The man swallowed. “Did the devil take yer wits? They say—”
“Laird Ross, sir!” Orie waved one hand and slowed his horse. “You forgot your sword, sir. And you forgot me.” The boy looked around at the Gordons spread about the field of heather.
“‘Tis all right, Orie.” Quinn looked to Long Legs, who nodded and discreetly cut the ropes from his hands.
“If ye touch yer sword, the ladboy dies no matter,” the man whispered.
Quinn nodded and turned to the boy, who looked him over, his small brow furrowed. A patch of dirt-colored hair poked up from the back of the lad’s head and a well-defined line ran all the way around his small face showing he’d at least tried to wash up. Grime stayed to one side of the line, pink skin to the other, like he was peering out through the only clean spot of a filthy window. The next chance Quinn got, if he got one, he’d toss the boy into some good clean water.
“No worries. We are but cutting flowers.” He gestured to the Gordons who then looked for a nod from Long Legs before bending and using their bare blades to chop at the blossom-covered branches. Tiny purple balls began flying. “We’re taking them to Morna’s grave. I will have no use for my heavy blade this day. The Gordon lads will see to my safety, will you not?” He turned to Long Legs.
“Aye. We will, that.” The Gordon man grinned.
“Laird, why does he sit yer horse?” Orie pointed, as if Quinn hadn’t noticed. All the Gordons stopped cutting flowers and waited. Quinn could feel them all itching to get their hands on the child.
“Twisted his foot is all.” He waved away Orie’s concern. “I’m sorry I did not wait for you, but I couldn’t take su
ch an important lad all the way to the Gordon Keep. Go home now. Have the stable master take my sword to my chambers, and I’ll see you when I return.” He dared not step closer to the boy and the sword, but bent instead to gather the heather another man had cut, holding his breath and praying for obedience.
Thankfully, the boy was quick to follow orders, and Quinn continued his acting until the sound of Orie’s retreat faded to nothing.
Long Legs’ sudden burst of laughter sent a chill up his spine.
“A grand idea, that. Ye’ll be carrying the flowers, but they’ll be for yer own grave, not yer sister’s.”
Quinn was content with the irony that Morna was neither dead, nor his sister, but was living happily ever after in the twenty-first century. A year before, Morna had faked her death and then been taken into the future, along with the real Montgomery Ross. Quinn had volunteered to switch places with him, due to the plain fact Montgomery had the love of a fine woman to live for, and Quinn had naught.
And if Isobelle, Morna’s sister, danced, it wasn’t with the devil as she, too, was alive and well, though it was uncertain where she hid. It was a fine trick the Rosses had played on their neighbors, and all for the health and happiness of their women.
Ultimately, if Quinn was about to die, history would play out as it should, and no one would know the Gordons would be killing the wrong man.
CHAPTER ONE
Something dripped on Juliet’s head.
“I swear, if it rains on me one more friggin’ time...” She looked up and watched a squirrel disappear against the trunk of a pine tree. The small branch he’d run across still bounced, flinging little drops of moisture from its needles. “Damned rodent.”
She was sure he’d done it on purpose, but she wasn’t going anywhere. He’d just have to deal with having his forest invaded for a while longer.
She stood among the trees on a hillside that ran along the west and north sides of Castle Ross, close enough to keep an eye on the place while she worked up her courage. She’d been working it up for two days, arguing with the same stupid squirrel. At least, she thought it was the same one.
