by L. L. Muir
“Please, Mister,” she said. “Do me a favor and climb up into the hole. Just for a few minutes. I wasn’t kidding—a killer is gunning for me, and he can’t know you’re in here. There’s nothing you can do for me, so you may as well save yourself.”
She stopped trying to move the barrel. The guy was shaking his head, standing there with his arms crossed like she’d said something to piss him off.
“I’ll never stick so much as me nose in that tomb, lass. And no man is coming. Daniel would have made a great clattering if someone tried to get past him.”
Great. Well, at least she’d given it a shot. It wasn’t like she could force him into the friggin’ ceiling. Although...
She still had the hammer in her hand. It was a little light, so she’d have to put her weight behind it. And she’d have to get him to turn around.
“Give me that, Jillian.” The guy pulled the hammer out of her hands as if she wasn’t resisting at all. Considering the look he gave her, like he wanted to tell her that little girls shouldn’t play with such things, she thought it would be no use asking him to reach into the hole to get the crowbar. Since she’d been in New York, working alongside a lot of Greek men with the same attitudes, she knew better than to beat her head against the wall trying to convince this guy she could take care of herself.
“I’m hurt, I am, that ye’d think of clouting me with it,” he said. “I’m Ewan. Do ye not remember me, lass?” His bottom lip, plump and pink, was suddenly visible in the middle of all that hair on his face.
“Oh, don’t go getting your feelings hurt. It wasn’t your head I was thinking about bashing,” she lied. “And I told you, I’m not Jillian. My name’s Jules.”
“And ye left Jillian back there?” The guy kept looking up into the dark hole above their heads.
“Back where?” she asked.
“Back in the twenty-first century.” He looked at her and frowned, like he wasn’t buying the sister act and thought she was just Jillian, messing with him. And now he was messing with her.
What the hell? Life was short and getting shorter by the second. She’d play along.
“Oh?” she said. “Have I left the twenty-first century?”
“Aye, lass. Ye have. Welcome to the Year of Our Lord, fourteen hundred and ninety-six.”
Well, if that were true, if the big Scot wasn’t out of his gourd, that would explain why the hitter hadn’t ever made it to the basement. And she wouldn’t be responsible for anybody’s death today. Not even her own. Too bad it couldn’t have been true.
Then again, she had prayed for a miracle. Did that mean she might find a nice Highland warrior for sale too?
She laughed. Too bad all she had tucked in her bra was a Visa, and there were about eleven dollars left before it was maxed.
“Fourteen ninety-six?” she asked.
“Aye, lass.”
Well, he certainly smells like a medieval Scot should. She snorted. And he’d peed on the floor without so much as blinking.
She looked at the dark outline in the dirt.
And the floor hadn’t been dirt before.
She tried to remember. Maybe it had. It’d been pretty dark.
There was a torch hanging on the wall, for hell sakes.
Since she knew nothing about torches, that meant nothing.
And there had been that foreboding...
No. The warnings in her head were due to the fact that a hitter was minutes away from taking her out.
But the flashlights had disappeared.
Trying to think in a straight line was taking the fight right out of her and she wondered how long she’d be able to stay on her feet. Gabby’s hitter would burst into the room any second, and she wouldn’t be able to defend herself. How pathetic.
As her head grew lighter and she started to collapse, she prayed the blond would keep her from landing where he’d peed.
Chapter Three
Hell hath no fury like a Gordon scorned.
When Quinn Ross exchanged places with Montgomery Ross, so the second man could live with his twenty-first century bride, in the future—without leaving a gaping hole in the past—he’d been amazed by the civilization of fifteenth century Scotland. That was, until he’d been taken prisoner by the mighty Clan Gordon. At that point, he realized that civilization related more to the people than to the modern conveniences he had so long associated with the word. Just because they didn’t have indoor plumbing didn’t mean they lived a mean life.
Except for the Gordons.
For all the clan’s grandeur in size and strength, both of land and men, they were sorely lacking in the finer things of life. A washed bit of table, for one. An absence of foul odors, for another.
Dogs lived better, cleaner lives. In fact, every time the great door opened, the beasts would make a run for the outdoors, as if they had risked their very lives to come scrounge for food beneath the long tables, and had since thought better of it.
Quinn had been placed in the corner furthest from the fire and forced to kneel upon filthy rushes. He tried not to wonder at the sharp and pointy bits that pressed into his knees. His arms remained tied behind him and mere children had been placed as his guards, each one of the four possessing a finely sharpened short-sword, the tips of which were held to his neck, his back, and both shoulders. If he flinched away from one biting blade, he’d push himself against its opposite, and it took only a few painful slices into his skin to inspire him to remain as still as possible. If he stood and tried to bully past them, he was afraid of what those blades would accomplish when only waist-high.
The children laughed and waited for him to relax his posture once more, but he wouldn’t give the little monsters the satisfaction. He marveled at the patience of ones so young. They took to their duty as if their suppers depended on it, which they may well have. When night fell and food started piling on the tables, only then were the monsters distracted from their bloody play.
The door banged open and a horde of ragged people poured through the opening. The last to enter, and casually, was a broad man with a red tinge to his gray beard that grew up the sides of his balding head. He looked immediately at the corner and locked gazes with Quinn.
Act as if you know him, Quinn reminded himself. Monty would have spoken with the man at least a dozen times, and it was still important for The Gordon to continue believing him to be Montgomery Ross.
“The Mighty Ross no longer resembles his statue, aye?” Laird Gordon, the Cock o’ the North, swaggered over for a closer look. He sounded as if he had rocks in his throat. “Are ye ailin’ mon? Is that why ye gave up yer clan to that cousin o’ yers?” He bent low, looking into Quinn’s eyes, then looked down at his neck and dabbed a dirty finger on the blood he’d found there. “Have our bairns been playing roughly with ye, Laird Ross?”
The Gordon had spoken carefully, as if to a child, or an elder that might no longer be right in the head. Is that what they all thought? That he’d lost his senses a year ago, when the switch had taken place? That could prove useful. In the old days, people with mental illness were given a wide berth.
“Laird Gordon, is it?” He blinked a few times. “I know you, don’t I?” He would probably die anyway. What harm could it do to mess with the man’s head?
“You used to know me, Ross.” Still, The Gordon used a kind tone.
“Yes. Before Isobelle’s spirit came. You don’t suppose she followed me here, do you?”
The hall fell silent. A moment passed before The Gordon threw his head back and laughed. “Ye’re a sly one, Montgomery Ross. That ye are. Ye’ve made a fine foe for many the long day. Ye’d have made a fine son-of-the-law if your sisters wouldna ruint it.” And with that, the man turned and made his way to the high table. “Come. Enjoy yer last meal if ye can, with me bairns watchin’ o’er ye.”
The blades were drawn back, but the little monsters followed his every move as he straightened, stretched his legs, then tested their ability to walk a straight line to the
laird’s table.
Once he was seated, the devil’s wee army set up camp around his feet, aiming their blades in four directions as before. It was the North blade that worried him the most. The Gordon had known his business when he’d said, “Enjoy your meal if you can.”
The meat was greasy. The trencher of bread looked as if a few meals had been served from it before, but Quinn couldn’t be picky. His hands were cut loose and he ate whatever looked edible and even a few things that didn’t, but he managed to keep it all down. The Gordon was famous for his dungeons and if the man wanted to give him a grand tour for a week or two before he died of hunger and thirst, Quinn would be wishing he could have this disgusting meal back again.
I should just stand and fight. Die with my boots on. Wasn’t that the whole reason for trading Monty places? To put an end to my own suffering?
He’d expected to die from grief, after losing his wife, Libby. If he died now, he’d be with her all the sooner. Why drag it out? He’d been trying to picture her in his mind all evening, anticipating their ethereal reunion, but her image was never clear. Even remembering her photos wasn’t working.
It had to be the stress. If he could relax, he’d remember every detail.
“I’ll show ye the dungeon when ye’re finished, Ross. Ye’ll be impressed, ye will.”
This was it. The chance to stand and die. He might be able to wrench a nice sharp blade from the boy in front of him, slit the throat of The Gordon, then be quickly skewered by his numerous full-grown sons glaring at him from the other side of the table. And it would all be over.
Why did he hesitate?
Did he truly want to live? After years of mourning, was he ready to live again? How cruel was Fate if that were true, taking away his life just as he’d decided to embrace it?
His tense muscles relaxed with one deep, accepting breath. He would go where he was bid and no doubt use every last moment mourning the years he’d wasted. When he met her in Heaven, he was sure Libby would have a few choice words for him as well.
The thought of his wife brought to mind the wife Montgomery Ross would have had a year ago if his wedding hadn’t been interrupted by a charming lass from Quinn’s own century.
“How fares yer daughter, Gordon? Any chance—”
“Silence! Ye’ll nay lay eyes upon the lass, let alone anything else.” Gordon glanced at Quinn’s crotch. “Ye had yer chance.”
The laird ate faster then, more anxious to show off his dungeons, no doubt.
“I can honestly say, Laird, that I’m not the man ye kenned a year ago. I’m a kinder man. A forgiving man, even.”
“Aye. ‘Tis best ye left yer clan into Ewan Ross’ hands, then. A laird canna lead with kindness and live long.” Gordon eyed his sons, as if he expected one of them to attack him before the enemy at his side might do so. Six men, including Long Legs, glared back as they chewed, as if they were considering doing just that, as soon as the food was gone.
Someone was missing.
“Hey, now,” Quinn said. “Where’s my brother of the law, then? Where’s Cinead?”
The laird choked, then took a long pull of wine from his tankard. When he set the drink aside, Quinn realized the man was furious, but trying to control himself. Oh, he was going to end up in the dungeons all right. But at least there wouldn’t be small boys cutting his flesh to ribbons there. Or so he hoped.
Finally, the other man spoke.
“Ye’ve no brother of the law here, Ross. When yer sister chose Neptune’s arms over Cinead’s, the marriage was nulled.” The Gordon took a deep breath and the redness that had been climbing up his neck receded. “The man is above stairs, with his bride.”
“Ah yes, I remember now.” Quinn couldn’t contain his excitement as histories began to bubble up in his mind.
Gordon frowned and leaned forward. “Ye remember what?”
“Morna’s husband, Cinead, took a second wife and had nearly a dozen children, one of whom ruled the Gordon Clan after...you...died.”
Oops.
Judging from the fury on the faces of Cinead’s brothers, Quinn had hit a sore spot. Their anger wasn’t directed at him, but at their father, as if they’d just had some suspicion verified. The fact that Quinn just foretold the future hadn’t seemed to impress them at all.
The older man growled at the pack of wolves rising to their feet, and Quinn realized the rocks in the man’s voice was likely due to a lifetime of making that same noise.
“The man’s no witch, ye dolts. He’s tryin’ to stir ye up so he can get away in the confusion.” The Gordon turned a wild eye on Quinn. “Ye’ve not The Sight, Montgomery Ross. Otherwise ye would have known what yer sister Morna would do, and ye would have stopped her!”
Quinn snorted. “I knew enough of what would happen here that I gave Ewan the Clan, did I not?”
The Gordon snorted and banged his tankard for a refill.
What else? What else could he remember to make them think twice about keeping him prisoner? There had to be something. Something that happened near the year 1496!
“The grandson of the current King James will be handed the crown of England.” They needn’t know it would be given by an English queen.
“What do we care of English politics a hundred years from now?” Gordon snorted again. His sons’ hackles lowered and they laughed at their father’s comment like he was the king and they were happy to kiss his arse.
“One day a man will walk on the moon,” Quinn offered, sure that would give them pause.
Gordon’s nose curled to one side. “I care more who walks onto Gordon lands, and today, someone did.”
Another sore subject then.
“What would you like to ken of the future, Laird Gordon? I will trade any information for my freedom. I’m more surprised than anyone to find that I’d prefer to live.”
“Ach, now. Bad timing that,” said a strange voice very near his ear. He turned to see a small man, who had to be Cinead Gordon, forcefully lowering a club to his head.
Chapter Four
“Jillian. I beg ye to cease yer teasin’.”
Jules sat against the wall where the big man must have propped her up after she’d passed out, clearly due to a lack of food. She should have shoved a chocolate bar in her mouth before running down the side of the mountain. With no calories to burn, her body must have burned some brain cells instead, because nothing made sense. The hitter still hadn’t found the room, hadn’t shown up at the door, and hadn’t shot his way into the tomb. He sure as hell wouldn’t have given up.
Unless too many people had suddenly showed up for an evening tour...
Maybe he’d retreated and planned to come for her later. If so, she wasn’t going to wait around for him. But she couldn’t find the energy to stand.
Maybe that chocolate would help. Better late than never.
She pulled a bar from her pocket and ate it quickly.
Mm. Better.
“Jillian,” the big man said again.
Jules pointed to herself. “Jules. Okay? Jules. You call me Jillian again, and I’m going to have to hurt you.”
“Bah!” He turned away, then turned back. “If ye be Jillian’s sister, why did the lass never mention ye, let alone a sister who looks precisely like her?”
“I don’t know if she knows about me, actually. I mean, it would be an obvious excuse for her to use, but it’s not like she wouldn’t remember me, right? I mean, I remember her just fine. And if we’re identical, her memory should be just as good as mine.”
“She may not ken? Surely, when she saw yer face she realized—”
“She hasn’t seen me yet.” Jules held up a hand in the universal request of help me up.
It took him a second to take the hint, then he pulled her to her feet. “Hasna seen ye? And how did ye come to be in the witch’s hole then? I was of a mind Jillian and Monty would be guarding it a bit close, aye?”
It was a little embarrassing to admit to breaking and entering, but sh
e’d had good reason.
“Two old women showed me how to get up inside, to hide. You know, from the guy who’s going to be coming through that door any second now?” She moved over to the wall beside the door and flattened herself against it.
Ewan just stood there in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips like he still didn’t believe there was any danger. But he looked none too pleased.
“Old women?” he asked. “Twins?”
Oops. They’d probably saved her life, or at least postponed her murder, and she’d ratted them out.
“Yes, twins. Like eighty or ninety years old, going on a hundred? They said they had another place they could hide, but the hole was my only option. You obviously know them, so that shoots your little fifteenth century story to hell.”
He nodded his head, but not like he was agreeing with her. “Muirs, and no mistake. Far too many twins among them. Every century has them, it seems.”
“Every century. Right,” she said, and rolled her eyes.
He looked at her sideways. “If I didna ken that Jillian was both a MacKay and a Ross, I’d have worried that the pair of ye might be Muir witches as well, aye?” Then he just waited, like he was expecting a confession.
“Witches? Now I know you’re messing with me.”
“Messing? I doona understand.”
“Oh, give it up, would you?” She almost wished the hitter would come and get it over with. She was tired of arguing with Bushy-head.
He tossed his hands in the air. “Ye’ll see, soon enough I reckon. Whenever the hole’s been opened, the Muirs ken it. Somehow.” He shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “Too bad yer set of Muirs didna think to trick Monty back into the hole. I could use his aid. I’m right desperate for it.”
“And Monty is Montgomery?”
Ewan frowned as if by not knowing Monty, she’d spouted some sort of blasphemy. “Jillian’s husband. The former laird of Clan Ross and my cousin. I’d be ever so happy to see his gob, but e’en more so, now that I’ve...” He grimaced, reached for the torch, then turned to the door.
