by L. L. Muir
Jules shook her head.
The woman pointed at the wall behind her. Jules turned and saw a plaid pinafore hanging against the wall. Just a skirt, a square bib, and shoulder straps. It certainly looked like something the locals, in the local time zone, would wear. But before she dropped her drawers, she had to make sure the woman knew she couldn’t pay for it. This chick obviously didn’t take Visa.
She hoped the gesture of turning out one’s pockets was universal. Apparently, it was. The woman waved an impatient hand and then picked up the sweater again. It so happened the gesture for ‘trade’ was also universal.
The laundress looked pretty pleased when Jules handed over her jeans, but it creeped her out just a little when the woman peeked over the folded denim to see what Jules was wearing underneath. Her blue lace-fringed panties made the woman laugh. Hard. Jules tried not to be offended and slipped the pinafore over her t-shirt.
The woman tisked again and gave her a simple yellow blouse to wear with it, and once Jillian was completely dressed, she realized she looked just like the laundress except for an apron and the pointed tips of her cowboy boots peeking out from under the ankle length skirt.
Sore thumb, eh?
The woman pushed her back outside, then took her over to another little house that shared the same yard. A square table took up most of the space in the center of a modest kitchen. No fridge. No sink. No dishwasher. No countertops. Just a stone fireplace, pots, and the table.
Onions and turnips hung in baskets from the ceiling, along with things she couldn’t identify. And they still had a thick layer of dirt on them. Jules wondered if maybe that preserved them better, since the rest of the little room looked neat and tidy. She couldn’t imagine someone who liked things to be that clean would allow half a garden’s worth of dirt to come in with the crop.
She was pushed toward a chair, so she sat. If she was going to be used for stew meat, surely the woman would have conked her on the head before she had a chance to get dressed again.
She chuckled, but it was probably more from relief than from thinking anything was funny. Nine days. She still had nine days to stay alive and make it back to New York to testify. She’d already outrun McKiller, frightened off a wolf, slept in a tree without giving a thought to bears, and escaped McKiller again. All in less than twenty-four hours!
Now she had a disguise and was about to be fed, and both miracles due to the kindness of a 15th century stranger.
Jules re-evaluated the whole kindness part when she was served a bowl of mushy, tasteless...well, mush. She was pretty sure it would have the texture of throw up.
She couldn’t do it.
As grateful as she was, she just couldn’t sit there and pretend it was edible. Not for her anyway. Her gag reflex wasn’t something she could control. If she forced herself to swallow it, it would come right back up. But how did she explain?
The woman poured milk in two tankards and sat down opposite Jules as if she hadn’t noticed her dilemma.
“Um,” Jules said. She looked down into her bowl for courage. “Um,” she tried again.
The woman laughed. Then she laughed harder. Then, when she could speak again, she said something incoherent and laughed again.
In Gaelic, as clearly as she could, Jules said, “I’ve never been able to eat this...porridge. And believe me, I do want to eat it. I just can’t.”
The woman shook her head. “Life is hardly fair, is it?” She’d changed her dialect to match the one Jules used. “Me sisters all could eat it fine, but it took pride to get me through. God forgive me, I’m a proud woman. Try this.”
She sucked some milk into her mouth, tipped her head back and dropped a spoonful of mush into the back of her throat. She swallowed it all down without chewing. “Sticks to yer ribs half the day. Ye’ll see.”
And so went their meal. Mush washed down with a swallow of milk and a lot of giggling. Jules had needed a second mugful to get through it all. As their laughter died, the woman jumped to her feet in horror.
“Och, I’ll be boilin’ the colors clean out of their kilts. Their enemies willna recognize them.” She hurried to the door, then looked back with a smile that reminded Jules of the Muirs.
A couple hours and some pulled muscles later, the laundry was hung. Jules’ hands looked just like the hands of Debra, her mush instructor. They were red and raw and needed much more than just Corn Huskers Whatever-It-Is Lotion.
The woman might stir the clothes with large wooden paddles, but it seemed the only thing to wring the hot water from them, in those days, was a couple pairs of hands. With one of them twisting each end of a length of plaid, Deb claimed her work went much quicker that day and afterward, they sat at the edge of the stream and dangled their red arms in the cool water.
Deb said it was a rare treat, that she was able to do it at night sometimes, but when she had to choose between dangling her arms and sleep, sleep usually won.
Since the conversation had turned to Jules’ next concern, she asked—and was given—a safe place to close her eyes and a promise Debra would wake her for supper.
How simple it would be, Jules thought as she nestled down in Debra’s soft clean bed, to just stay there. Live a simple life, pretend she was a nature freak and leave civilization behind. But then she needed to pee and that put an end to that idea. It was no use, really. She was a city girl. She would always be a city girl. She just needed to get back to the city.
Returning to the bed after a trip to the necessary, she blocked out all thought of what had brought her to this place and what would take her away. Instead, she concentrated on the sound of her own breathing, on the scent of heather coming from the purple bundles hanging and drying next to the wall. She didn’t remember falling asleep.
And maybe she hadn’t.
He was there again—the big Highlander, the spirit that had finally tipped the scales and made her do anything necessary to come to Scotland. She’d used the excuse of finally confronting her sister and getting her hands on her share of their grandmother’s fortune, but it was him she’d come to find.
How sad, really, that he’d turned out to be her sister’s husband. Jules had stayed in the hills above their home for days after that little shocker. But now she realized it wasn’t because she was afraid to face her sister, but afraid to face reality. As long as she didn’t verify who he was, she could still fantasize about him, without being a sicko, right?
Now he was back. Even without seeing his face clearly, she knew, in her heart, this was definitely her sister’s husband, not some distant relative that looked like him.
And if this was truly a dream, she didn’t want to wake up.
It was dark. It was always dark. The air around them seemed thick with more than just her anticipation. They were already standing close—toes to toes—and yet, she couldn’t get close enough. His head fell forward, his hair made it difficult to see his face. But 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. His voice was edged with worry, ragged. Didn’t he know she’d stay?
In some dreams, he’d say it simply, like an invitation to lunch. This time it was different. He was feeling as desperate as she was.
“I will. I’ll stay,” she whispered. “I promise.”
How could she comfort him? It was driving her crazy.
“My own lass. Stay with me, just until the end,” he said, then whispered, “then ye may go.” He’d said it so softly she wondered if he hadn’t meant for her to hear, didn’t want her to worry.
“I’m not going anywhere. And I won’t let go. I swear.” She was almost too afraid to ask, but she did. “‘Til the end of what?”
His hands gave a little squeeze. It was so real, she was sure she felt it, that he was really there with her, and she refused to open her eyes, to prove he wasn’t.
“Just ‘till the end, lass. Ye’ll know when it’s over.”
Sometimes the dr
eam ended there, but she wouldn’t let it. This time, it was important that she figure it out. And she needed to hurry.
“I’m not who you think I am,” he said, when she was the one who should be saying those words.
“Neither am I,” she confessed, half hoping he hadn’t heard her. Of course he thought she was Jillian. If he knew she was only Jules, he wouldn’t be holding her like this, wouldn’t be cherishing her like this. It was going to kill her to tell him she’d been Jules all along, through all the months they’d been meeting like this, in her dreams.
He pulled her nearer and bent his head to kiss her. She could feel his hair brush her cheeks, felt his lips press ever so slightly against hers. She willed him to kiss her harder, give her a solid memory to hold onto in the light of day, but there was something between them, always between them. It was so frustrating. She wanted to get closer, to feel his hard chest against her cheek, to know, just for a minute, that she was safe. To pretend she was loved.
Whatever it was separating them was cold. Ice cold. Like bars. Like...a knife.
“Wake, lassie.” A man’s voice. “Ye be dreamin’. Wake before ye slit yer own throat with yer thrashing about.”
“Wake, my lady!” The desperation in Debra’s voice brought Jules fully alert.
A man stood over her holding a long dagger against her neck. She looked up his arm and into his face. She was going to remember that face because she was going to make him pay for interrupting her dream, from taking her away from her Highlander when she’d just promised not to leave him.
She was way too disoriented to see it any other way.
“Get up nice and slow-like, else Debra be punished on yer behalf. Ye understand me well enough, aye? Yer the lass that big ruddy bastard was hunting last eve. How did ye slip away from him? Mm?”
“Izatt,” Debra snarled, “you harm her or me and you’ll be boiled along with your kilt next time.” She elbowed a second man who held her. When he let go, she didn’t try to run. “Get up, lassie,” she said. “These two are harmless, and no mistake. But ye must do as they bid. She’ll need her boots and her mantle, lads.”
Jules didn’t know what Debra was talking about, but she was grateful to be given a chance to get her boots back on. To her, boots might mean the difference between escape and not. They also waited for her to put on her jacket.
Once she was on her feet, the taller one pointed to the door with that same dagger. “After ye, milady.”
Debra winked at her as she walked past, then slid behind her and blocked the doorway. “Run, lassie!”
Jules didn’t dare turn around to make sure the washerwoman was going to be okay. She hadn’t seemed particularly afraid of the men, so maybe she knew best. It killed her to leave her new friend in danger, but she didn’t want Debra’s sacrifice to go to waste, either.
She picked up her skirts and hit her stride as she went into a curve in the road, then ran face first into the neck of a horse.
“Mon Dieu!” a man shouted.
Jules landed on her butt and raised her arm in case the animal felt the need to defend itself. The poor thing might have been even more surprised than she was. But the rider was able to calm it. The screaming had stopped.
The swearing was only getting started.
Chapter Fourteen
Quinn was having that dream again, so he knew he was still alive. But the dream was so frustrating he simultaneously wished he would stop having it and wished it would never end. He’d been haunted by it for months upon months, but it was his own fault.
Ewan had ordered Mhairi and Margot to stay away from the witch’s hole, so when Quinn had caught the Muirs wandering up out of the cellar again he thought they should be punished. As usual, they’d had a better idea. They thought they should pay for their misdeeds in another way. For instance, how would he like a bit of potion to help him dream of his true love?
Of course, when he’d fallen for their little trick, he’d been hoping to revive his dreams of Libby, to remind himself how she’d looked, how she’d sounded. The memories had been fading since he’d left the modern world, and he felt as though he was being punished for fooling with the natural order of things.
Once, he’d convinced himself that his memories were fading because they weren’t memories any longer; it was the fifteenth century, so Libby had yet to be born. But that knowledge didn’t take the soreness from his heart, and he’d been desperate for a clear memory of her face.
And he’d played right into the Muir’s conniving, clever hands.
That night, he’d taken their potion, not knowing if he’d wake in the morning, not caring if he didn’t. And he’d dreamt, as they’d promised he would. Only it hadn’t been Libby in the dream, but Jillian, Monty’s wife! And oh, how he’d loved her in his dreams. His heart had wept at the sight of her, as if it had been Jillian who had died years before, only to return to him again in his hour of need. For in his dream, he’d been sick with desperation. Something was about to go horribly wrong. They wouldn’t have much time together.
Knowing this, they’d knelt on the floor, in the darkness, holding tight to each other, measuring the moments. But something was between them. He’d supposed it was the thought of betraying Monty, for the thought of doing so—if only in his dream—made him sick. Sick while he was dreaming and after he’d awakened too.
This time, the dream was no different from that night he’d taken the potion, except for the fact he was finally able to kiss her! Always he fought the urge to betray his great uncle, but the urge to press his lips to hers had been too powerful. Nothing else mattered. When they were alone together, in his dream, this woman mended together the pieces of his soul, a soul that had been ripped and tattered by loss and loneliness.
Naturally, he had to kiss her, possess her, make certain she knew she possessed him in turn.
If they could only move a little closer...
“Wake, Montgomery,” a woman whispered.
“Jillian?” he mumured.
“Who is Jillian?”
Quinn hid his anguish at being jarred from his dream and rolled onto his side.
Betha stood before his cell door with her man, Boyd, by her side. The man smirked. Betha, even from his sideways view, looked furious.
“I dinna ken,” he lied.
Betha considered for a moment, then nodded to Boyd. The man dropped his smile and moved to unlock the cell door.
“Hold!” The Runt himself moved out of the shadows and Quinn was relieved.
After his dream, as disturbing as it was, he was loath to pretend affection for another woman. Of course he would show no affection for Jillian either—even if she weren’t more than five hundred years away.
Quinn rose from his fresh pallet. Thus far, he’d been allowed to bathe and eat a decent meal, but all within his cell. He supposed the pallet was merely to keep him clean until Betha was ready for him, for the lass couldn’t mean to lie with him on a dungeon floor. He’d also risen to his feet to keep his fragile skull from the easy reach of the violent little man.
“What do ye here, sister?” Cinead jeered. He knew full well what was afoot.
The Runt was not alone. Another shadow, much larger, separated itself from the wall and joined them. Either it was The Gordon or else the man had a son that looked just like him.
“Father!” Betha sounded genuinely horrified, but Quinn had to give her credit for not cowering.
“Answer the question, daughter.” The man’s growl sent shivers up Quinn’s spine. It was the first time he’d seen the chieftain truly angry. How did Montgomery manage to survive so many years as this man’s enemy?
Quinn took a smooth and slow step backward. It was one of those primal instincts to avoid the attention of an angry animal. Despite being struck on the head and escorted to the gallows, he’d never felt closer to death than he did at that moment.
Other Gordon siblings, carrying torches, slithered through the entrance and fanned out. The place was lit up like a
party—a lynching party, most likely.
“I only came for my due, father.” Betha squared her shoulders. She was either very brave, or very stupid. Perhaps, she was just very Gordon, for she looked very much like her father as the pair faced off with their hands on their hips.
“Yer due? Ye think ye’re due a romp in this man’s bed? Ye think ye have some right to his seed? Nay daughter. Ye’ve the right to a cell there next to him if ye’re as addlepated as to believe that.”
She glanced at the first cell, at the remains hanging against the wall, and she swallowed, but she didn’t back down. Once again, she faced the old man and raised her chin. “Ye promised, Father.”
The runt frowned, but quickly smoothed his features. Quinn could understand why no one would wish to reveal their thoughts among such an emotional bunch. The rest of the brothers leaned forward, listening closely.
The Gordon’s nostrils flared. “I promised noth—”
“Ye did! Ye promised me that if I bore ye a grandson,” Betha pointed at Quinn. “A fine grandson that resembled him, that it would be my child to rule once ye’re gone.”
Her father barked with laughter. The sons didn’t seem to find humor in their sister’s words. Perhaps it had sounded like something their father would promise.
Finally, the old man stopped laughing when he noticed his sons’ faces.
“Ye daft wench,” the man spit. “Ye thought I’d place a bastard in my stead when I have sae many sons?” His voice boomed louder with each word. Betha finally took a step back, shaking her head, edging away from the bars as if she now believed she might end up on the other side of them. Then she stopped and lifted that chin again.
Was she crazy?
“He wouldn’t be a bastard...if I marry him.” Betha lifted a shrewd eyebrow, but her father never noticed, busy as he was, glaring at Quinn.
