The Curse of Clan Ross

by L. L. Muir

  “Quinn Ross,” he whispered. “You haven’t got any more sense than Juliet. Did the name James Bond tell you nothing?”

  Quinn pushed him off, but ran back at him again, anxious to keep the man from calling him Quinn again. But how did he know? Ewan wouldn’t have told him. Not if he’d come chasing after Juliet, to eventually see her eliminated. Ewan would have guarded the Ross secrets with his life.

  Quinn was surprised, actually, that Ewan hadn’t sent a marksman after him, worried The Gordon might torture those golden secrets off his tongue. After all, one man’s life was hardly worth the price the clan would pay if the truth got out. And they’d pay that price for generations.

  “Who told you my name?” He ground the question out through his teeth while he held his arm around the other man’s neck. Getting behind the bastard hadn’t been easy.

  “Ewan Ross told me,” the man grunted, then held tight to Quinn’s arm and flipped him over his wide back and onto the floor.

  The filthy rushes were a fine inducement to get on his feet again, and they began circling each other. The crowd made accommodations.

  “Liar,” Quinn said. “Ewan Ross would have taken my name to the grave. He’d tell no hitman—”

  “You idiot!” the big man roared as he rushed him.

  He wrapped his arms around Quinn’s entire body, trapping his arms to his sides. Their faces were inches apart.

  “Bond. James Bond. I’m MI6. Not some bleedin’ hitman. The FBI lost her at the airport. I was sent to watch her sister’s house. When Juliet ran from me, every time she ran from me, she never gave me a chance to explain.”

  Quinn gave the bastard a Glasgow kiss and heard the satisfying crunch of another man’s bones. The redhead stumbled back, one hand on his nose, the other flung wide in search of support. Two Gordon brothers were knocked on their arses, as was Betha. She was lost under the pile, but they heard her screeching clearly enough.

  “I don’t believe you.” Quinn spit at the man. “How long does it take to say I’m MI6?”

  He moved back and gave the man room to get up. He also needed time to recover. That head-butt was the worst thing he could have done to himself. The world was spinning around him, slightly off axis. The crowd watched closely and he could tell which men had bet against him by the frowns on their faces.

  Percy, surprisingly enough, was smiling.

  Bond wiped a bloody hand across his chest as he stood.

  Quinn smiled. At least he’d drawn first blood.

  The man hurried forward, and as prepared as Quinn believed he was, he still was unable to avoid the big man’s fist.

  He spun around once and though his face was numb and his neck burned, he was pleased to find himself still on his feet. That was, until he realized that the other man was holding him up with a flat hand against his chest. Disappointing, that.

  Bond’s big fist pulled back and held. Quinn was pretty sure he could drop like a sack of wheat just before contact.

  “I was warned she’d fight me,” said the taller man. “that she didn’t want protection. I thought she understood who I was.”

  Quinn couldn’t afford to listen. If that fist connected, it might just kill him. The man had no knowledge of the beating Quinn’s skull had already taken thanks to Gordon hospitality. He might kill Quinn whether or not he meant to.

  The fist came slowly. Quinn dropped his butt toward the ground, and when he found himself sitting on it, he also found his head was still attached.

  Lucky thing, that.

  Bond grabbed his hair in one hand and pulled him to his feet. Standing behind Quinn, he leaned close and spoke low.

  “Now quickly, I need you to act like you’ve passed out. I’m going to cut you. You’re going to play dead.”

  “Kiss my arse,” Quinn said, then spit blood on the floor.

  The crowd laughed.

  “Play dead, Quinn. Ewan’s waitin’ with horses. I’ll insist on taking your body back to Ewan.”

  Bond pushed him away and Quinn spun to face him. They danced in a circle again.

  “MI6? Truly?”

  “MI6, ye dense bastard.” The man rushed him and put his hands around his neck.

  Quinn bore down to turn his face red, but he couldn’t resist complaining.

  “It’s a bit too Romeo and Juliet, don’t you think? My playing dead?”

  “Well, just be glad you get to play the part of Romeo. I, for one, wouldn’t touch her with a ten meter pole.”

  Quinn went limp, then was glad the man tossed him onto his face so those watching wouldn’t notice any twitching.

  “Here. Finish him,” came Gordon’s voice. “Through the heart, Bond James. I’ll not have him rousing while he’s roasting on the spit. The women doona appreciate it.”

  “I can imagine,” said Bond. “Will you have my wife brought?”

  “Aye. Percy. Fetch her.”

  Someone knelt on Quinn’s back. “Sorry about this,” the man said.

  Hot fire sliced his back. There was no telling how deeply the blade had gone. He could only pray he’d put his trust in a true MI6 agent and not some lunatic whose mind was bent by a wee jaunt through time.

  He dared not move, even when warm blood puddled on his back and tickled his side on its way toward the floor. If Bond James Bond wasn’t MI6, Quinn was going to take him apart. Slice by slice.

  He concentrated on breathing as slowly as possible—not easy when his mind was reeling. He only needed to think calming thoughts. Immediately, his mind went to Juliet and the panic dissolved.

  His lungs were still working. Neither of them punctured, thankfully. His sweat was drying quickly on his face.

  The murmurs of the crowd turned to chatter. A dog trotted over and started licking his face. He fought his facial muscles, forcing them to relax when the beasts tongue slipped past his lips.

  He hoped the thing wouldn’t start licking up his blood, and even the thought of it pushed him over the edge—he couldn’t help it when his entire body shivered in revulsion.

  “There now, there’s a death rattle for ye,” said Gordon. “Ah, here comes yer wife now. Let her see that her lover is dead and she should look to you now.”

  Dear Lord! Juliet! How could he just lie there and let her believe him dead? She didn’t know yet that Bond was an agent. She would fight him. And how would she react when she thought she had sent Quinn to his death?

  He couldn’t stand it another second. He had to stand up and fight their way out. Use the fall back plan. Bash, fight, and run.

  A boot came down hard on his back.

  “Here, wife. Come. There is no reason for you to pretend. Tell Laird Gordon I’m your rightful husband.”

  He felt her coming, heard her slow steps, how she choked back a sob.

  “I’ll kill you for this,” she whispered. “You’ve just removed any leverage you might have had over me. I would have done anything to have him spared. Anything. Now you’re the dead man.”

  There was only silence while his heart beat loud in his ears. He couldn’t help but be touched by the passion in her voice and be thrilled that her feelings for him might equal his for her. The pressure on his back never let up and he was lucky it didn’t. He needed the reminder to keep his breathing slow in spite of his urge to shout for joy.

  When Juliet spoke again, her voice had changed.

  “Forgive me, Laird Gordon. We’ll get out of your way now. I’m sorry we bothered you with our personal problems. Come, husband. We really don’t need witnesses.” Her voice was sticky sweet. Her accent wasn’t pretty.

  “Hold a moment, Lady Bond,” the agent said. “We’ll go when I’m ready. Laird Gordon, allow me to return Laird Ross to his cousin. Ewan will wish to seal him in the tomb with his sister witch. Ye can hardly wish to have the likes of him haunting yer home.”

  There was a drawn out silence. The only thing Quinn heard was the sound of the crowd’s breathing.

  “Why would ye do such a thing, Bond James? Do ye n
ot believe the more pressing need is to meet out the woman’s punishment and set yer house to rights? Perhaps there is something ye mean to hide from me?”

  The agent laughed. “Nothing to hide. Ye’ve been right generous with me. I’ll be the same. ‘Tis the truth, Ewan Ross has something I need. I mean to trade the body of Montgomery Ross for it. I also meant what I said about Laird Ross’s ghost. It is only my opinion that a man’s ghost will likely be more bothersome than that of a woman, but I might be mistaken. Perhaps ye have a priest about who might have better advice?”

  In the silence that followed, Quinn could imagine dry wood being added around the pole in the outer bailey. If his enemy remained unmoved, how in the bloody hell was he going to escape that?

  “Devil take ye,” Gordon snarled. “Away with ye, then. Take Montgomery Ross. And someone clean his blood from my hall. I won’t have him coming back for it on Samhain!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Juliet Ross, brace yerself,” the redhead whispered in her ear.

  She was seated on his horse, basically in his lap, while Quinn’s body was strapped over the horse her supposed husband had brought along for her. The head and arms of her supposed lover hung down the side nearest them. She tried not to stare at the large bloodstain on the rough sack cloth in which they’d wrapped the body.

  “Quinn’s not dead,” the man behind her said carefully.

  “Just what is your name?” she blurted. “I can’t keep thinking of you as Gabby’s hitman.”

  He didn’t answer, so she turned to look at his face. It was located a bit higher than expected, so she tipped her head back. His mouth was hanging open.

  “Your name?”

  “James, actually. Did you not hear what I said?”

  She faced forward. “Yes. I know.”

  “You know?” Quinn’s words were muffled, but intelligible just the same. His carcass didn’t move. The hands still hung limp.

  “You’re doing a fine job, Quinn. You still look dead.” She knew if she was the one who had to play dead for miles and miles, she’d appreciate a little encouragement.

  James gave a rude laugh. She decided to ignore him.

  “How did you know?” came Quinn’s voice again.

  “I’m not an idiot,” she said. “I figured it out while I was still in the dungeon.”

  “You did not,” whispered James.

  Jules shrugged. “You’d be amazed how much clearer things seem in the dark.”

  “Bull. Shite.”

  His breath on her ear made her shiver.

  She shook her head and gave him a frown. “That tickles my ear.”

  “What?” Quinn demanded. If he wasn’t careful, their distant escort might hear him.

  “Hush,” she hissed.

  When she realized James had been tormenting Quinn on purpose, she glared over her shoulder. James grinned back.

  She rolled her eyes and spoke loud enough for Quinn to hear.

  “It was something Martin, the blind guard, said. That you didn’t sound like a monster to him. That made me consider what else you might be. And I remembered you’d never actually come out and said you were going to kill me or deliver me to Gabby.

  “There were only two possibilities when you chased me into Castle Ross. Hitman or cop. If you were a British babysitter—I mean agent—then you wouldn’t be beating my boyfriend to death. Then there was the small detail of you winking at me every chance you got.”

  Quinn grunted.

  James laughed. “Shut up, man. Twenty minutes and I’ll let you sit.” He then gave her a little squeeze around the middle. He was enjoying himself. For a few quiet minutes they were lulled by the clap of horses’ hooves on wet mud. Finally, Quinn’s voice interrupted again.

  “Did she say boyfriend?”

  James laughed. “She did.”

  Jules was mortified. The man was at least ten years older than her, and she’d called him her boyfriend.

  Gah!

  Somewhere, under all that burlap, he was probably rolling his eyes, wondering how he was ever going to get rid of her.

  She’d plunged into a special kind of hell when she’d seen Quinn lying on the floor and for that second or two afterwards—until she’d convinced herself it was a hoax. She would have thrown herself across his body and started checking for vital signs if it hadn’t been for the slow twitch of James’ eye. Then, she was able to do a little method acting of her own. But had it been enough? Was someone suspecting, even now? Would Gordon send men after them?

  Jules turned in the saddle. “Can’t this horse go any faster?”

  James gave her a little smile. “Oh, aye. But it will jostle our package to death in truth. We only need to get over that ridge. Just keep watching the ridge.”

  She realized his arm had inched up a bit from her waist. Then she felt his long fingers twitch. Maybe he was enjoying himself just a little too much.

  “You can let go of me now. I promise this Wyoming girl can keep her butt in the saddle. And it’s not like I’m going to run off, right?”

  “Oh, right ye are. I beg pardon.” He pulled his arm away.

  He still sat too close, and she could feel his breath against the top of her head, but she was done complaining.

  “James?”

  “Aye?”

  “Are you married?”

  “Uh uh.”

  Quinn mumbled something she didn’t understand, but James must have. He scooted his rump back behind the saddle, until their bodies were no longer touching.

  ***

  As it turned out, they had to leave Quinn across the saddle for a lot longer than planned because at the top of the ridge, there were a dozen Gordons guarding the border. All of them watched James and her like they were suspected pick-pockets leaving a jewelry store. She could feel their stares while they headed down the other side of the ridge with their package in tow.

  When the ground leveled out again, James finally turned off the road and into the woods. Remembering the wolf she’d faced, she didn’t know if it was time to relax, or time to worry harder.

  “This is the straightest shot toward Ross lands. They would expect us to leave the road here,” he said.

  As her eyes adjusted to the shadows, she realized they were on a well-worn trail. A minute later, the hairs rose at the back of her head and on her forearms. They were no longer alone. She frantically looked around for a stick and discovered they weren’t surrounded by wolves, but by Highlanders all decked out in blue paint like they were headed for a Colt’s game. Then she remembered. War Paint.

  Shit.

  They didn’t have time for this. They needed to get Quinn off the horse and treat his wound, not defend themselves again.

  She took a deep breath and prepared to pull out her best bravado, when James gave her a little squeeze. He’d scooted close again.

  “Don’t move,” James said clearly, and she knew his warning was for Quinn too.

  The biggest painted man urged his horse forward until he was in their faces. He held a heavy sword in one hand, reins in the other. He glanced from James to her and back again. His expression told her nothing.

  “Hello again, ye ruddy bastard,” he said.

  James laughed. “Ewan, is that you? Only my own grandda calls me that.”

  “More like he’s the only one to say it to yer face.” Ewan suddenly grinned and his paint cracked around his lips. His beard looked like he’d cleaned the blue off his fingers with it.

  To Jules, he looked beautiful. And only when her body relaxed did she realize how tightly she’d been wound. She nearly fell off the horse, shaming the state of Wyoming.

  Ewan looked at the other horse. He had to know whose body it was.

  “And where’s me cousin, then?” he asked anyway.

  Quinn groaned.

  Ewan nearly jumped off his horse. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

  “He’s not dead,” James announced, like he should get credit for that.

  “But
I am bleeding,” Quinn mumbled.

  James had promised that as he was tying Quinn’s body to the horse, he’d been sure to place pressure over the wound in his back, promised that pressure was the only thing they could do for him until they met up with Ewan. He’d also promised the hole wasn’t deep, but that didn’t keep Jules from worrying.

  Frankly, she was surprised he hadn’t passed out, hanging over a horse, all that blood going to his head.

  Jules swung a leg over her horse’s head and jumped down, but when she ducked beneath its chin to get to Quinn, a big man was blocking her way. She tried to step around him, but he was already lifting Quinn’s body off the horse and onto his shoulder.

  “Quinn!” It was pitiful, really, but she had to let him know she gave a damn that he was bleeding.

  The big man turned to look at her and she tried to read his expression through the slashes of paint. He looked an awful lot like—

  And he looked just as shocked as she was.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded. She could feel herself blush, for all the things she’d fantasized about this man in spite of the fact he was technically her brother in law.

  “Juliet, is it? We’ve come to bring ye safely home, lass. To the arms of yer family.”

  And just like that, her insides started falling apart, like she was a human sized pastry that had just had all its filling sucked out. Pieces of her broke away like crust, including the words she’d intended to say to this man once she got up the courage to knock on his door, the words she’d laid out in her mind to make damn sure his wife suffered enough in five minutes to make them even. If they were going to be nice to her... If they were going to be nice to her, she was doomed. None of the mental weapons she’d prepared would be effective against nice.

  She fought the urge to turn and run, not sure her legs would cooperate and damned sure she didn’t want to leave Quinn.

  “Monty Ross,” came Quinn’s muffled voice. “Keep yer bloody arms to yerself. She’s mine.”

  The big man put Quinn’s feet on the ground and steadied him, then began unwrapping him, carefully, frowning at the wide bloodstain as he pulled it away. Quinn grasped at the plaid at his waist when the unwrapping might have gone too far. Jules couldn’t have looked away if she’d tried. His back was a bloody mess, but the hole looked small. And she was relieved to see he’d stopped bleeding for the moment.