by L. L. Muir
Holy shit. It was Quinn they had planned to burn as a witch? Hang him? Burn him? He had to get out of there!
Jules ran forward. She had to do something, to say something that would make them listen to her. “Bond! I’ll do whatever you ask! I’ll go along quietly, I swear. Just don’t hurt him!”
“Come,” Percy barked behind her and grabbed her arm.
With one hand on her elbow, he bent her arm up behind her and steered her in a circle, then back the way she’d come. She had no choice. She’d never taken a self-defense class that might help her get out of the hold he had on her. She tried to move faster, to gain a little slack, but he stayed right on her.
“Why can’t I stay and watch?” She whined as loud as she dared. There was no way Gordon missed it, but he ignored her and hollered to someone to bring him a drink. If she provoked him, she might just end up chained next to his son. Then she wondered if it was that threat that kept the rest of his clan in line.
Once they were in the side passage, Percy took her wrist and released the painful hold on her arm. Only when the pain subsided did she realize how much it had hurt.
“Come,” said Percy again, almost gently.
Had he already forgiven her? Was he regretting his outburst?
“Please,” she said softly. “Don’t let them kill him.”
Percy didn’t even blink.
She went along willingly, then, instead of trying to make a break for it. That had been the goal, after all, to return to the dungeons to be with Quinn. But they wouldn’t be together for long. As much as she didn’t want to be left down there in the dark, however, she held on to a little morsel of hope that Quinn might beat McKiller. He might be able to get away, or something.
Something. Please, God, anything.
She could worry about herself later. After all, in a place where so little was expected of a woman, she could surely catch someone off guard and get away. But would it be in time to do any good? And would she and Quinn ever have the chance to finish that dream the way she wanted it finished?
Chapter Twenty
At the first landing, Percy handed her off to a guard, then followed them down the steps. Jules felt the others hesitate just a fraction of a second, just as she had, when the smell of a rotting body hit them. Continuing on, everyone walked a little slower, in no rush to be immersed completely in that invisible cloud.
Had Skully been the only one to die there? Probably not. And his bones looked far too bare for him to have died recently.
She shook her head to keep from imagining what other atrocities the laird of Clan Gordon might be capable of. That head shaking put her off-balance, however, and she tripped. Percy, strangely enough, helped steady her.
The big guard returned her rather roughly to her cell. She felt rather than saw Quinn stiffen in the shadows. She took his lead and didn’t rush to the bars like she wanted to. They were back together, but it would be short-lived. And she didn’t want Percy to imagine more than he already had.
Or had he imagined anything at all? Maybe he’d been there, in the shadows around the doorway, listening to their conversations. Maybe he’d known about the kiss. Maybe, when he’d offered up Quinn as a punishment for her cruel mention of his brother, he’d known precisely how much it might hurt her in the end.
And if that was so, ignoring Quinn now would be wasting her last chance to speak with him, because she knew, in the pit of her stomach, that no matter how this all ended, she’d never be granted that dream again. This was it. All those practice runs were over.
This time, she had to say goodbye.
She pushed her tears back. There would be plenty of time to cry later, once she was alone. She turned to face Quinn. His worry was plain, though he tried to mask it. Her insides began to melt and those tears threatened to defy her. It had been so very long since anyone had worried about her. If she let herself cry, though, he’d only worry more, and he was going to need his head in the game. Especially if he’d gone soft, as Gordon said he had.
“I have good news and bad news,” she said cheerfully, ignoring the finalistic clang of her prison door. “Good news is I’m back.”
Quinn glanced at Percy, then shrugged his shoulders and leaned against the far bars, folding his arms, like he was bored.
She sighed. “By the way, I’m pretty sure Percy speaks English.”
Percy didn’t flinch as he took the keys from Martin in exchange for the torch. Then he moved the old man’s arm to show him where the light must be held.
Still watching Percy, she said, “Notice how he wasn’t even curious when his name was mentioned?”
“Is that the bad news?” Quinn had sounded casual, but his fingers were digging into his own arms.
Percy began trying the keys in the door of Quinn’s cell.
“Not all of it,” she said. “The other bad news is the guy who claims to be my husband is Gabby’s hitman. When I insisted I didn’t know him, he started ranting about needing satisfaction from whoever had been turning my head.”
She knew she was wasting time, but how did she tell him he might be about to die.
“And then?”
Quinn was no longer leaning. With his hands on his hips, he looked right at her. He still stood on the far side of his cell, though. She got the impression he’d already guessed what came next.
“Percy told him it was you. You were right. He knows that I care about you and he used it against me. I don’t think he planned to, but he was angry because I mentioned...Skully.”
Quinn nodded slightly, but didn’t move any closer.
Jules couldn’t take it anymore and grabbed the bars that separated them. They were out of time.
“He already knows, Quinn. He already knows.”
A heartbeat later he was pressed against the bars, pulling her tight. She was so relieved she could have laughed. Percy and Martin disappeared in the background. It was only them. Together again. He kissed her face wherever he could reach it, missing her mouth in spite of her trying to help him find it.
“Your chances of escaping are much better above ground, right?” she whispered, since her mouth was currently not in use. “I still think my stand-by plan is better than nothing—bash him on the head and fight your way out. The man’s nose might be broken, so I’d try to hit him there first.”
Quinn kissed both her eyes, then pulled back a little. By the look on his face, he wasn’t any more impressed with her plan than the first time she’d shared it. Then dread struck her in the chest like a boxing glove.
“You do know how to fight, don’t you?”
He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Of course I ken how to fight. Am I not a Scot? We’re taught in Primary School. Now, go back to the part of yer tale where ye were lusting after the man in yer dreams, aye?”
A key clicked in the lock and they froze. Percy rattled it, but it did not turn. He tried the next key. For a dungeon with only two cells, there were a helluva lot of keys on that ring. But one of them was going to fit.
Their hearts pounded like running horses. She could hear her pulse in her ear where his hand covered it. She could feel his heart beating in his neck.
It was time. This was it. That last chance for a kiss. And if he kissed her like a damned butterfly, she was going to rip the bars apart and make him do it better.
“Kiss me, damn it,” she whispered.
He smiled at her and winked, his eyes sparkling in the light from the torch that Martin silently held.
Obviously, Percy was too impatient to wait for a blind man to find the right key, but even Martin didn’t take so long to unlock the doors.
She popped up on her toes and stretched her neck at the same time Quinn’s mouth came down firmly on hers. He seemed to understand that she wasn’t looking for butterflies. And except for bumping into the bars a few times, they managed to make more than their jailers disappear. His short whiskers were a soft brush against her chin. His hand moved across her cheek and into her hair, like
he needed to know the texture of it as badly as she’d needed to know the feel of his lips. When she finally had to stop to catch her breath and give her toes a break, she didn’t back away, but leaned her forehead against his chest, and for the first time since she’d landed in Scotland, she didn’t envy her sister.
Well, much anyway. At least Jillian would still have her Highlander tomorrow. Jules didn’t know what she’d have beyond this memory.
Quinn smelled good for having been in a dungeon for days. And his shirt was a little too tight, like it wasn’t meant for him, but it was clean. She reached through the bars and ran her hands up his arms.
“Please tell me you can protect yourself.”
“I can protect myself,” he murmured.
“Really? Because Bond James Bond is in pretty good shape. He’s probably planning to open up a can of karate on your cute arse, you know?”
“Cute arse?” He let go of her and turned, so they could both get a better view.
Him trying to get a good look at his own ass would be a mental snapshot she would never forget.
“Very nice,” she said. “Now please don’t let him damage it.”
He grabbed the bars again, just a few inches above her own hands and she realized what he was trying to do. Letting go of each other would have been painful and he’d ripped that bandage off before she had a chance to think about it.
“No worries,” he said.
The haze from their kiss was fading, but the compulsion to renew it was as strong as ever. All she wanted was to kiss him again, but there was so much to say.
“If you can get away, go,” she said. “Promise me you’ll go. I won’t be far behind. I have that plan, you see.”
“Aye, a fine plan,” he said. She noticed he promised her nothing. She wasn’t going to waste precious time arguing.
Metal clicked against metal. It felt like someone had locked her heart. The gate swung open, and though Quinn’s hands were still on the bars, she didn’t dare touch him again. She put on a smile and let her hands drop to her sides.
“Forget about me,” she said. “Just concentrate on winning the fight. Don’t let him hit you in the head.” A hand landed on his shoulder and he took a step back.
“Did Gordon say what I get if I win?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Me, I guess.”
“Well, then. I cannot lose.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The guard held Quinn’s arm while Percy tied his hands together behind his back.
“What’s the harm in leaving her a bit of light, Percy?” Quinn asked.
The thin man said nothing, then left him to the guard and preceded them up the steps, carrying the torch. Their steps echoed in the stone stairwell.
“So,” Quinn said. “I see ye’ve made yer decision then. Ye don’t believe me.”
Percy glanced over his shoulder. “Not just yet. We’ll see how yer luck holds out with her husband.” Then he snorted. “Ye manage to keep from dying by his hand or hanging on the morrow, and then I’ll believe ye can change the future. For I’m certain the only thing yer future holds is a bit of dirt—or ash, o’course.”
They entered the hall to a mixture of applause and whistles. A wet bit of something struck Quinn on the neck as he was led forward to face The Gordon. He smelled apple, and though the one that hit him was probably rotten, he was grateful to have something pleasant to breathe for a change. He was also pleased to note the laird’s throne was not nearly as grand as the Great Ross Chair created by Monty’s grandfather.
Percy made a slight bow to his father and moved away. The guard remained at Quinn’s back. An impressively tall man with an equally impressive mane of red hair stood to the old man’s left. He glared at Quinn, sized him up, then gave him a wink.
The Gordon’s spawn laughed. They were queued up along the wall to his left as if they were waiting in line to kick him as soon as he was down. So brave.
No wonder The Runt will be able to take the reins here once the father is gone.
He tried to be as hopeful and fearless as Juliet. She seemed to see no complication so great that it couldn’t be faced, bashed, then run from.
He laughed just thinking about the stories she’d told. If only half of them were true, he might have a sporting chance against the red beast if he but used her daft excuse for a plan. The only thing she hadn’t considered was that he could never flee and leave her behind. Or perhaps she had considered it just before she asked for that promise—a promise he could not make.
Better get on, then. If he could best the tall man, he would at least have one more night in the dark with Juliet. Perhaps, once his date with the hangman was over, she’d be able to cajole her way out of the Gordon keep since she’d no longer be burdened with saving his hide.
He faced The Gordon. “I’ve been told I’ll be fighting this day,” he said.
The man leaned to one side of his large chair and grinned. “Aye, ye will.”
Quinn tried to think of something that might douse the old man’s mood. “Are ye certain?” he asked. “What if I refuse to play?”
It worked. The Cock o’ the North sat forward and frowned. “Then the woman below will be sent home with her husband.” He pointed to the tall one. “And ye will meet yer maker on the morn, as I’ve said. I suspected ye’d rather leave this world fightin’, but if ye’d rather leave it like a woman, then so be it.”
The redhead met his gaze, but he couldn’t guess what the man was thinking. It was a fact, the man was trying to say something with his brows, but only the devil could know.
Quinn turned back to his host. “And if I beat this man?”
The Gordon grinned. “‘Tis...unlikely.”
The hall erupted in laughter.
“‘Tis possible,” Quinn shouted to be heard.
The laird lifted a hand and the hall went silent.
“I’m ever a man of me word, Montgomery Ross. I promised ye a hanging in the mornin’, and if yer still alive when the sun shows itself, I’ll not fail ye. If he kills ye, then ye’ll be spared the hangin’ is all. Ye should ken that, having The Sight as ye claim to have. We’ll still burn ye; we’ll do it proper or not at all.”
Quinn grinned. “I prefer not at all, of course.”
“Noted.” The Gordon sat back and relaxed.
Quinn couldn’t leave it at that. “But surely I’ll deserve a proper reward?”
Gordon frowned, then smiled knowingly. “Ye want the lass in yer cell for yer final night, is that it?”
The redhead’s mouth dropped open. He looked fairly irritated at the turn of the conversation. Either he didn’t care to hear that he might not win the battle—which meant he thought quite highly of himself—or he didn’t care for the idea of Quinn having the lass alone in the dark. And that didn’t make sense unless the bastard had similar intentions for Juliet.
Something was amiss with this one. Perhaps his journey through the tomb had left his brains a bit foosty.
Quinn shook his head and answered Gordon. “Not at all. I want her released. I want her returned to Castle Ross and protected from him.” He pointed at the hitman.
“Well, if he’s dead, then she’ll have no need to fear him, aye?” Everyone within earshot seemed to appreciate Gordon’s joke.
“I won’t kill him,” Quinn said. “I’ll fight him. I might even beat him. But I’ll not kill him. And I’ll have yer word the woman will be returned to Castle Ross, unharmed.”
Gordon waived an impatient hand. “Fair enough. Ye have me word. But I’ll wager Bond James, here, will be taking his wife home this night.”
And so the betting began.
Quinn stripped off his constricting shirt and heard a gasp to his left. Betha was suddenly pushed behind one of her brothers. He got only a brief glimpse of her wide, appreciative gaze before her eyes disappeared behind the shoulders of two Gordons.
Too little, too late, he thought. She should have helped him escape, but no matter. He was destine
d to be in the Gordon’s dungeon when Juliet was brought in. He understood that now. Fate had been planning their encounter for a good while. He only hoped Fate had something in mind for him and the lass that involved a long future together.
That was worth fighting for.
Quinn took the excess plaid from his ancient kilt and twisted it, then wrapped it about his waist and tucked in the end. A length of cloth over his shoulder would just prove a convenient hand hold for his enemy, or so Ewan had taught him. The more Quinn had trained in the plaid, the more he understood why old soldiers preferred to fight without any clothing at all. Of course, if he attempted to fight in the Gordon’s hall, in his altogether, he might find himself missing a vital part or two, all thanks to the armed audience in Gordon colors.
The big man noted how he’d wrapped his plaid and followed suit. Then he made a spectacle of giving up all his hidden weapons.
Quinn met the man’s gaze and lifted a brow. There was still a gun hidden in there somewhere, but did he dare mention it? What the Gordons would think of the gun, he could not say. But if he didn’t disarm the stranger, the man couldn’t use that gun on Juliet, whether to harm her or compel her to leave with him.
The man cocked his head and waited. Quinn made his hand into a pretend gun—a sign that would mean nothing to the onlookers. The redhead frowned briefly, then gave his head a shake.
He didn’t have it? Or he wouldn’t produce it?
“Battle!” cried Laird Gordon, and suddenly any further discussion was ended.
The big man ran at him, threw his long arms around him and clamped his fingers together behind Quinn’s neck. Then he pressed his forehead to Quinn’s own.
“Quinn Ross,” he whispered. “Ye haven’t got any more sense than Juliet. Did the name James Bond tell ye 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.
