by L. L. Muir
“But I see a need for haste, here,” Monty reasoned.
Jillian narrowed her eyes. “Agreed.”
Monty took a deep breath and looked into her eyes. “If I asked you kindly to stay and look after our child—a daughter even—would you—”
“Sure. You go. I’ll stay.” She shrugged.
He frowned. “Truly?” He looked a little too pleased. She couldn’t wait to let him down.
“Only, be sure to get out of the tomb fast,” she said.
“Fast? You mean quickly? Why?”
She crooked a finger so he’d lean close. Then she whispered in his ear. “Because Junior and I will be right behind you.”
He straightened quickly. “Son of a—”
“Don’t you dare.”
Chapter Nine
The pain is worse because I want to live.
The thought was already forming in his head before Quinn woke on the hard dirt ground. Again.
There was not so much as a moment’s confusion about where he was this time. His mind was alert—brought to attention by a hard, mean headache. That ache made it immediately clear that he yet lived. Either that, or hell was going to be a bit more hellish than he’d imagined.
He groaned if only to prove his ears worked. When he then heard the shuffling of feet. He supposed it was his blind babysitter going to alert the media that he was awake and ready for the next Gordon sibling to come have a go at him. Why not?
“Has no one ballocks enough to kill me thoroughly this time?” he complained, for even though he’d decided he wanted to live, the pain in his head was convincing him otherwise. What he wouldn’t give for some good old headache tablets and a bag of ice.
Someone shuffled in his direction and the darkness was pushed back by the orange glow of a single weak torch.
“Why nay, Laird Ross,” said a woman. “I haven’t ballocks at all. But I do mean to see ye dead. Unless...”
Quinn thought it only right that he sit up, though slowly, and show a bit of respect for anyone offering him but a dram of hope. He’d need something more promising to get him on his feet, however.
Etha Gordon stepped forward. A large manservant stood beside her holding the light. The last face he’d seen, before losing consciousness at the gallows, had belonged to this lovely red-haired lass. Unfortunately, the backhand that had sent his abused head back into the darkness had also belonged to her. Either her brothers had taught her a thing or two about defending herself, or he was a soft, delicate man to have been laid low by such a soft, delicate lass. One more blow to the brain would be his last, no doubt. He was in no better shape than a prize fighter who’d lost one too many prizes. And he’d best start protecting himself or he didn’t deserve to survive.
Quinn knew two things: The Gordon had but one daughter, and Montgomery Ross had been about to marry the woman when his current wife, Jillian, materialized in the tomb and made such ghostly noises that everyone fled Castle Ross. All believed she’d been the ghost of Montgomery’s sister, Isobelle, come to protest the wedding. Obviously, Etha was not the forgive and forget type.
“Etha? Is that ye?”
She signaled her torchbearer to move back. “My name is Betha, ye bastard. Ye were about to speak vows with me and ye failed to learn my name?” Her voice got louder as she went on—a sweet voice that turned a bit ugly at the end.
From what Quinn had heard, she was a quiet, biddable lass. Or perhaps she had been, once. It was possible she’d been affected by Isobelle’s ghost arriving in time to ruin her wedding. The only thing Montgomery had done wrong was not to have learned her name. Quinn was certain both Monty and Ewan had told him it was Etha.
“Forgive me if I heard amiss, but did ye say ye’d see me dead unless? Unless what, Lady Betha?”
She stared at him for a moment, as if weighing the worth of his apology. She gave a nod, as if her mind was made up, then she offered a smile that made him shiver. He didn’t care much for the look in her pale eyes.
“Ye will lie with me, Montgomery Ross. I would have yer child, at least, bastard or no.”
He was not about to explain that one night together had little chance of producing a child. Besides, holding his tongue might get him untied, conscious, and on the other side of those bars. The combination meant freedom.
“As ye wish, my lady. Will ye then see me free?”
“If ye please me, Ross. But only if ye please me.”
Was that her game? Was she only looking for a bit of pleasure, perhaps a taste of what she’d forfeited when she’d run from Castle Ross and a perfectly sound bridegroom? What might be wrong with the woman, other than her family’s manners, that kept her from finding another husband in the past year?
Suddenly he was much more hopeful that Percy would come through for him. Pleasing Lady Betha sounded like a task he might not be man enough to accomplish. She was pretty enough. Beneath all her velvet and furs, she seemed a bit too thin, but in truth, she was probably an average size for the century.
Lying with the daughter of the man who was supposedly his greatest enemy, however, just didn’t seem like a wise move to make. If they were caught, he’d die on the spot, he was sure, and the idea of dying with a bare arse would make his martyrdom anything but noble.
He hoped his wife Libby was otherwise occupied in Heaven at the moment, and not looking down on his sorry state.
Since Percy showed no signs of coming to a quick decision, he felt it wise to try and buy the man some thinking time. But in order to do so, he would need food. His stomach had long since ceased to growl, turned outside-in as it was. He needed food, and water.
“Aye, my lady. I’d be happy to oblige ye,” he said in his most seductive voice. She stepped closer, to be able to hear him. She lifted a pale hand to her face and he was certain she’d gotten a whiff of Skully, as he’d begun to think of the skeleton next door. “But I need my strength to do so, as ye might imagine. But mayhap a bit of sleep is all I need.”
“Boyd!” At her call, the large servant moved forward and the shadows receded. “See to it this man has food—good food—then a bath. Tell no one. If my brothers ask what you are about, tell them to see me.”
“Aye, milady.” Boyd bowed with a carefully blank face before leading the woman away.
A moment later, Quinn was alone again, basking in the cheer of real hope—for food and a bath, at least. Hope for survival was close, but he didn’t dare reach for it. It might just disappear. And if he really thought he might live, he’d have to start thinking about what he was going to do with that life.
What in the world could he do? How could he tell Ewan that he’d had a change of heart and wanted to go home, to live the life he was meant to live instead of hiding in the past and mourning his wife in peace?
The image of the witch’s hole popped into his head. Of course he couldn’t go back. He had a role to play. A promise to keep. And if he went back, he’d be facing Jillian and her husband. He’d then have to deal with his heart wrenching dreams of her.
That cursed dream! It made him want to live, then made the living unbearable.
May God help me.
Chapter Ten
Chocolate did not make a good weapon when dealing with a hungry animal. When dealing with a hungry child, yes. Wolf, not so much.
Jules wasn’t a mace-and-pepper-spray kind of girl. She found that a few wisely chosen insults can hurt a thug’s feelings enough to make one back away when necessary. And in extreme cases, dropping Gabby’s name had been the only weapon she’d needed to carry on the streets of New York. She knew he was considered a tough guy. But reputation and actions were two different things. Or so she’d thought. Turned out he was just as ruthless as people thought he was.
“I don’t suppose you’ll leave me alone,” she said to the very real wolf, “just because I’m like a daughter to Gabby Skedros?”
The animal showed its teeth and snarled conversationally.
“I didn’t think so.”
&nbs
p; Why in the world couldn’t she have been a pepper-spray kind of girl? But no. She’d been a physics major, waiting tables at Gabby’s restaurant, Papa’s, to pay her way through school. And physics wasn’t a great weapon either.
Or was it?
The wolf was stalling. It was containing her. Was it waiting for the rest of its pack to arrive? She’d be ripped to pieces if that happened. Her best chance was against one wolf. And if Gabby’s man happened to find her now, even with his gun, chances were he’d let the wolves have her and save the bullet. Besides, he’d already told her she would regret locking him in that dark cellar.
So. One wolf. In no hurry to attack her. So she’d attack him. She could do it—she was so bat-shit scared there might be enough adrenaline shooting through her veins she could jump ten feet in the air and land in a tree before the wolf thought to stop her. Of course she wasn’t willing to test it.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a long stick. It had little bark left, so it almost glowed in the darkness, like a weapon sent from Zeus. And she wasn’t about to second guess Zeus.
She circled slowly. The wolf mirrored her steps. Another wolf howled—not so far away this time. The first wolf stepped closer.
“Aw, now, don’t jump the gun,” she cooed as she bent down for the weapon.
It was far too light. Not enough strength to it. Her mind raced, searching for formulas, guessing at torque. If she could get the wolf to bite down hard on the side of the stick, she could turn it quickly, maybe twist its neck. Scare the hell out of it, at least.
Maybe. But it was a much more feasible plan than jumping up into a tree.
She refused to consider how surreal this moment was, that she was here, in these woods she’d loitered in for days without worrying about anything bigger than a squirrel. In the future, these woods had been closer to society. But here, there was no society. The land was still wild.
This isn’t real, she thought, as she swung the stick like a baseball bat, wishing it was a crowbar. The wolf dodged away, then came back mad. Its growl could probably be heard a mile away, and it promised that his friends were a lot more dangerous than hers.
She didn’t have a plan B, so she swung at it again. This time, the jaws clamped down on it in triumph. She tugged at it to make sure the wolf knew she would swing again if he let go—so it would hold tight. And it did. There was no give at all. Its fangs were sharp enough to sink into the wood like it was more like flesh than bone.
Like they wanted to sink into her!
Twisting her arms as she went, she lunged forward, grabbing both ends of the stick in spite of the short end being so close to its mouth. Then she spun it, using her own body as leverage, putting all her strength into untwisting her arms.
Something snapped. She both heard it and felt it. The wolf jumped back, yipping. While it ran away, it glanced back at her, like it worried she might come after it.
She looked down at her wimpy weapon. There, imbedded in the wood, was the wolf’s fang, broken below the gum line. Red blood smeared across white wood.
She’d done it!
Before she had a chance to think better of it, she raised the staff over her head and whooped. “That’s right,” she taunted in the direction the enemy had run. “Go tell your friends, baby. Don’t mess with a Physicist!”
And what if Gabby’s man might have heard her? She had no choice but to change direction again, just in case. She had a weapon now. Well, kind of. No chance she could get the hitter to sink his teeth into it, but it would give her a little false courage to get her out of the forest and to a road.
Surely, there would be a road. If not, she would climb a tree in the morning and get her bearings. If he’d gotten away from Ewan and the Rosses, Gabby’s man was in these woods too. If she gave up looking for a road and circled back, could she get to the tomb first?
If she did make it back, she would linger long enough to meet her sister, give her an earful, and get the woman to hand over her share of the inheritance. Then she’d tell the husband that his look-alike was missing and Ewan needed his help.
If she was lucky, Gabby’s man would be stuck here. He’d use up his bullets, in the darkness, on an angry wolf with only three fangs. Then, for the rest of his life, he’d have to pick fights the old-fashioned way.
When the adrenaline wore off, Jules felt like she’d been hit by a truck. And she kept forgetting what she’d decided to do. Was she hoping to find a road? Was she hoping Castle Ross would be over the next hill? Although her legs moved just fine, she was having a hard time balancing the rest of her body on top of them, so she searched for a climbable tree. She’d never heard of a wolf climbing a tree and avoiding wolves was the only priority she could manage to hang on to.
Finally, in spite of the darkness, she found a good one. A tall thick pine tree with plenty of lifeless branches at the bottom of the trunk, then healthy ones about ten feet up that were dense with pine needles—a little camouflage to hide her. All she had to do was twist and squeeze her way up through the natural ladder. Every time she figured she’d gone high enough, she pushed herself up a little higher. The only things that could get to her then were squirrels and birds.
And hopefully, they were all asleep.
She picked a sturdy spot and sat down facing the trunk. She hoped the tilt of the branch would keep her from falling backward, but just in case, she wrapped her knee over one branch and tucked the toe of her boot under the next. If she started to slip in her sleep, her leg should catch. The pain would wake her up and she’d be able to save herself. But sleep would come. She was lucky she hadn’t collapsed already.
Her hair was the most convenient cushion to protect her cheek from the bark. She then hugged the trunk and laced her fingers. Her coat protected her skin. Once she was reasonably comfortable, she tried to imagine her worries, one by one, falling to the ground like so many brown and crunchy pine needles. It was the last thing she remembered.
When she woke, Jules hadn’t moved a muscle. The sky had a strange blue glow, and mist swarmed like a shallow river against the forest floor. She could almost taste the pine sap in the moist air. She didn’t think it had rained. Surely, she wouldn’t have slept through that.
A bird flapped its wings above her head, then settled again. Dawn wasn’t far away, and she was afraid Gabby’s man wasn’t either. If she was lucky, he had stopped to sleep too, and if she moved quickly, she could put more distance between them. She would head east for a while, then turn south toward Castle Ross.
She made her way back to the ground feeling pretty refreshed considering she’d maybe only slept an hour or two. After walking about a mile, she found a small track that could be called a road. The feeling of safety, of humanity, increased with each step on the rutted dirt. Someone had been there. Someone would be there again. Someone with two legs and no fangs.
“Woohoo,” she said, but only in her smallest voice, just in case. A moment later, she came around a bend and found herself in the dooryard of a little cottage. It looked almost lived in. Her first instinct was to move away, quietly, before she woke someone. She really didn’t need any help, after all. She was starving, but she didn’t need anything quite so much as she needed to get back into that tomb.
On second thought…
If someone inside knew a good wolf-less road that would lead her straight back to Castle Ross, she’d be a fool not to ask. When the sun came over the trees, she’d know which way was east. The problem was, she wasn’t quite so sure how long she’d actually gone north. She’d checked the North Star a couple of times, when she’d been able to see through the branches, but there was a chance she’d gone in circles. What if Castle Ross wasn’t due south?
Damnit.
All that wondering drained away her confidence and suddenly, she didn’t dare take another step without guidance. Maybe no one lived in the little cottage, but she wasn’t going to wait until the sun came up to find out.
She walked to the door and knocked. “Hello?�
� She knocked again. “Anybody home?” Then she realized she needed to speak Gaelic and repeated herself.
The door creaked wide, but it was too dark to see who opened it. She stepped back so she wouldn’t seem too threatening.
“Oh, we’re home, lassie,” the man said as he stepped out into the yard. “It just doesna happen to be our home.”
The laughter of more men—many more men—came from inside, and Jules stepped back. The first man hurried around behind her.
Hadn’t she just gone through the same thing with the wolves? Easier to escape one than the whole pack?
She had just decided to turn and rush the guy, maybe knee him where it counts, when another man emerged and her chance was gone. This one was a lot taller and had to bend over to get through the opening. When he stood, long curly hair fell around his shoulders and in spite of the blue cast of the sky, she recognized his face. Laughing hazel eyes. Slashing brows.
Gabby’s man. Only this time, he wore a kilt and looked a little too at home in the fifteenth century.
“Juliet Bell.” He tossed his head, to swing his wild mane out of his smug face. “Ye should have let me out.”
Chapter Eleven
Ewan fidgeted in the great Ross Chair. He’d a bad feeling and it wasn’t due wholly to the fact that he didn’t belong in the chair, but that was part of it. Montgomery had obtained the clan’s blessing to put the Rosses into Ewan’s care over a year ago, but it didna make the chair or the mantle of leadership any the more comfortable.
None had known Monty was leaving and not coming back. And they still didn’t know, thanks to the fact that Quinn Ross had taken upon himself the role of former laird. If they’d not looked so similar, the switch would have never worked. And many a time, Ewan had wished Monty’s great nephew had never thought to make his sacrifice, for keeping the man home and hale was taking up far too much of Ewan’s time when he had a clan to care for.
