[Highlander Time Travel 01.0 - 03.0] The Curse of Clan Ross

by L. L. Muir

Jules bit her lip. She couldn’t believe he was lying to a government agent.

  The suit raised a brow and brought his fingers together. His elbows rested on the arms of the large red leather chair.

  “Married?” he said. “We have no record of it. Let me guess. This wedding was rather recent?”

  “We’re handfasted,” Quinn replied. “You understand handfasting, Lord Dunbar?”

  This guy is a Lord? And what the hell is handfasting?

  Dunbar threw his head back and laughed. “You know that won’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.” Quinn bent down and whispered in her ear. “That business we conducted in the loo, lass, was Scottish marriage the old way. Ye’re mine now.”

  All Jules got out of it was loo and marriage. He’d married her in the bathroom? Was he effing kidding?

  There was no time to find out.

  “And I’m certain,” Quinn addressed Dunbar again, “the legality of handfasting would have to be addressed, as would any extradition of a British citizen. It would take a wee while to sort out.”

  She really didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. She wanted to go back to the states. And she needed to go now.

  “Look,” she said. “I have to get to New York, to testify. If we don’t get moving, it will be too late.” If anyone could get her there in time, it should be these guys.

  Dunbar stopped playing with his fingers and leaned forward. “I’m afraid your testimony is no longer necessary. The defendant was murdered.”

  “Defendant? You mean Gabby?” Her heart sped up. It was all she could hear.

  Gabby was dead? Her Gabby?

  “Gabby Skedros is dead?” She was finally able to ask it out loud. “Gabby Skedros? You’re sure?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Dunbar watched her closely. “He was poisoned. Of course you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? You’ve been in Scotland since you landed nearly two weeks ago?”

  He’d said it, but he didn’t believe it. His condescending tone made her nauseated. He was no different than the Feds she’d dealt with for months, trying to make her feel like a guilty prisoner, instead of the witness they were supposed to be protecting. But with Gabby dead, she wouldn’t need protecting anymore.

  “I didn’t want Gabby dead,” she said. “I wanted to look him in the eye when I testified. I wanted to tell him what a coward he was for shooting a defenseless boy. I wanted to point out that Nikkos would have hated him in those seconds before he died. I wanted to show him he would never get the chance to betray me like that because I was going to betray him. For Nikkos.”

  Quinn’s hand rested on her shoulder and she touched his fingers. She wanted to double over and puke out the hate she’d been carrying around for a man that was already dead. She didn’t need to hold onto it anymore. She could let it go. And she did. In a flood of silent tears.

  She didn’t care who saw, or what they thought. She had to let it out. She had Quinn. And she didn’t want that stored up hate anywhere near him.

  Jules thought of Percy and the fact that he would never have to taste that intense hatred of his father. And she wouldn’t either. She was done. It was over. She and Percy would move on.

  Quinn cleared his throat. “If her testimony is no longer required, why the need to restrain her?”

  Dunbar’s smile helped her get a grip. She could almost hear the rattle of his snake’s tale. “Assault of a Federal Officer is a serious charge,” he said pleasantly. “An FBI agent by the name of Dixon is demanding her head, or at the very least, her extradition.”

  Quinn laughed. “What did she do, bash him on the head?”

  Jules laughed as she wiped away her tears. How well he knew her already.

  Dunbar opened up a laptop and turned it to face her. Agent Dixon’s mug flashed up in a Skype frame.

  She stopped laughing, but didn’t lose her smile. “Hello, Dickie,” she chirped.

  The man’s face turned red. It was always red. Easiest man in the world to goad. She couldn’t believe the FBI took him on.

  “Yes, Lord Dunbar,” Dickie said. “That’s her. Be careful. She’s very dangerous. I’d suggest a full set of chains and perhaps a muzzle for transport.”

  Quinn reached over and spun the laptop away from her. “Lord Dunbar? May I have just a moment’s time to defend my wife?”

  Dunbar smiled and nodded. “You may have five minutes. Then we’ll take her and go in spite of your handfasting. If you want to spend that five minutes defending her, be my guest, but—”

  Quinn was already gone. They heard him running down the hall and then...nothing.

  Well, at least he was hurrying. Maybe he’d even get back in time for a kiss or two before they hauled her out. And she needed to remind him that he would be in charge of taking care of Percy while she was gone. She just hoped she wasn’t going away for a very long time.

  She refused to panic. She’d gone from witness to defendant so fast her head spun. They had to have to give her some time before they could expect her to take them seriously.

  But if she really was going to face charges, it would be Dickie’s word against hers. She’d only been defending herself from the slime ball. Surely the ass had treated other witnesses like he’d treated her. She just had to insist the FBI look into that. But it might take some time. She just hoped Quinn’s and Percy’s lives wouldn’t move on before she could make it back.

  Of course, she’d have plenty of money for the ticket, but that hardly raised her heart rate anymore. Money was everything ten days ago. Now there were so many more things in line ahead of it.

  Well, not things—people.

  Quinn came back in the room breathing hard. He gave her a wink, but didn’t come to her for some quality goodbyes. He walked around the desk and shared a very private whisper with Lord Dunbar.

  Lord Dunbar cleared his throat, like he was trying to cover up the fact that he’d almost laughed. Then he nodded and turned forward. “Proceed, Mr. Ross,” he said.

  Quinn spun the laptop to face her again, then stood beside her.

  “Agent Dixon, are ye there?” he asked, even though the man’s face filled the screen.

  “Yes, I’m here,” he said, like he was doing everyone a favor by squeezing this conference call into his schedule.

  “Is this the woman who assaulted ye, sir?” He took Juliet’s head and moved it until it was up close to the monitor.

  “Yes. That’s her.”

  “Ye’re certain?” Quinn’s hands wouldn’t let her sit back in her chair and she was dying to ask him what he was doing. Dunbar had one hand over his mouth and he was turning as red as Dickie.

  Suddenly, Quinn let go of her head. “Just one more moment, if ye please, Agent Dixon.” He spun the laptop away again, then went to the doorway and pulled Jillian into the room. He gestured for Jules to hurry and get her ass out of the chair, then sat Jillian in her spot. He wiped the smile off his face and spun the laptop back.

  “Hello, Dickie,” Jillian said.

  The agent’s face darkened again. “What is this?”

  “Just tell us what ye see, Agent Dixon,” Quinn said.

  Jules backed up against a bookcase to make sure she wasn’t part of the picture. She’d needed something to lean on anyway.

  “I see the face of my assailant. How many times do I have to say it?”

  Quinn butted in front of Jillian and grinned into Dickie’s face. “That should do it, I think.” He spun the laptop back to face Lord Dunbar. “My lord?”

  Dunbar cleared his throat and sat forward in his crisp expensive suit to address the screen. “Agent Dixon. You have just positively identified two different females, and I refuse to extradite a handful of British citizens so you can take your pick. I strongly suggest you drop the charges against Juliet Bell—that is, Juliet Bell Ross—and if you feel we have erred, please invite your American superiors to contact me personally. I, for one, am certain they will find today’s events to be quite amusing.”
>
  Lord Dunbar snapped the laptop shut and gave Jules a wink. Then he turned to Quinn.

  “You might have made an entertaining barrister, Mr. Ross.”

  “Once upon a time, my lord, I was.”

  Dunbar laughed. “With a wife like yours, that experience should come in handy.”

  Quinn gave a little bow.

  “And Mr. Ross?” Dunbar got up from the desk and gestured for his men to leave the room ahead of him. “I’d make it legal before Dickie there comes to call.”

  Quinn tilted his head back and gave Jules a look through narrowed eyes. “Oh, I intend to, my lord. I intend to.” He reached out a hand and drew her away from the bookshelf and over to the window. Jillian joined them and together they watched eight cars fill with suits and policemen before moving down the drive toward the remnants of Castle Ross.

  “They’ve prepared a little wedding supper for us, Mrs. Ross,” he murmured as he nuzzled her behind the ear.

  Chills flooded her body, but it wasn’t quite enough to make her forget.

  “Mrs. Ross? You must be talking to Jillian because I sure as hell didn’t just get married in a bathroom.”

  Quinn cleared his throat. Then cleared it again.

  “Don’t worry, sister,” said Jillian. “We’ll make sure he gets it right.” She walked to the door, then paused. “Don’t take too long with your apology, Quinn. Supper’s still waiting. And my sons and I are starved.” She patted her stomach. “Tomorrow, we can run to the city and get that package from Grandmother’s lawyer.”

  Jules nodded, but food and a mysterious package weren’t enough to get her attention when she was about to be left alone with her very own Highlander, and there were no bars or benches between them.

  The door snapped shut, but Quinn took two long strides and opened it again.

  “Pity, Jillian!” His voice boomed in the hallway. He sounded way too much like Montgomery for comfort. “Have pity! Eat without us!” Then he stepped back and slammed the door.

  Jules laughed. “You watch. Monty will be up here before I can forgive you enough to kiss you.”

  Quinn walked back to her slowly, freezing her with a look that made running away impossible...and unthinkable. She also found it hard to breathe. “Don’t believe it,” he said. “That man was a witness to our ceremony. He gave ye to me. I’ve already explained, ye’re mine now.”

  He gathered her into his arms and her hands found their way around his neck. His thick black hair caressed the backs of her fingers, inviting them to play. His face turned deadly serious as he lowered his forehead to hers.

  “Pity, Juliet. Have pity.” He smiled then. “My uncle will be busy fighting Jillian for a small share of supper. Have ye ever seen yer sister eat?”

  They laughed and sighed, then they got down to apologizing and forgiving. The apologizing was quick and sincere. The forgiving took a very, very long time.

  THE END

  You can find all of L.L. Muir’s works listed on her Amazon Author Page here, including the other books in The Curse of Clan Ross Series, and her Ghosts of Culloden Moor Series.

  Sign up for her mailing list at llmuir.weebly.com.

  And thank you for playing!

  Prologue

  Scotland, Castle Ross’s dungeon, 1496

  Four people stood inside an out-of-place workroom that was hidden among the twisting and turning caverns below Castle Ross. James Ferguson—until recently, an MI6 agent—stood between two Muir witches and stared at Laird Ewan Ross across the top of a large barrel. The shaggy-maned leader of fifteenth century Clan Ross stood perfectly still with a torch raised in one hand, his head cocked to one side.

  “Do ye suppose they’re gone?” James finally asked when he’d heard nary a whisper for some time.

  “Aye,” said the witch to his left. “They are far from here, though they’ve been gone only a moment.”

  James eyed the hole in the ceiling that led to the inside of the tomb of yet another witch, Isobelle, a tomb that had become a portal in time. It was true, he’d come through that very tomb from the twenty-first century and into the fifteenth, but it now seemed as if the future was but a dream.

  He tried not to dwell on the fact that, only moments before, he’d had a chance to join the others as they tried to travel through time in the opposite direction. But he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that his place was still here, in the past. There was so much to see of history as it was being made. How could he give up the chance to witness a bit of it? Even if it meant he might never return to the amenities of the future. After all, there was no one special waiting for him, wondering where he’d disappeared to, other than a few fellow agents at MI6.

  While standing inside that tomb a few moments ago, contemplating the lures of both the future and the past, James had known in his bones he should stay. But he’d needed a more tangible reason to bow out, and a search for Montgomery Ross’s sister was the best excuse he could pull from the air on short notice. Finding this Isobelle would remain his first priority, of course, but there was no hurry. She was in another country, for one thing, so he couldn’t very well walk up to her, toss a bag over her head, and carry her back to Castle Ross.

  When he did find her, as he’d vowed to do, he’d need to convince her he was no madman. She’d been buried alive at one point and he was going to suggest she not only return to Scotland where she would be in danger, but that she climb back into her tomb. What reasonable woman would believe his assurance that this tomb would spirit her away to a strange land where her brother and sister awaited, along with their new spouses, for their family circle to be complete?

  He would simply hold out hope that Isobelle Ross was not overly reasonable.

  James sighed and turned to Ewan. “Montgomery said ye’ve received a letter from Ossian, that he and Isobelle had been staying in Spain. Do ye ken the city? Spain’s hardly a wee place, aye?”

  Ewan’s hoary brows rose toward the thin, long hair on the top of his head. He opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted.

  “They are no longer in Spain.” A bony hand wrapped itself around James’ arm. The frail sister-witch frowned up at him. “East,” she said.

  “Yes, East,” said the other. “An island. Perhaps an island city.”

  “Venice?” James glanced at the sisters, then at Ewan. The big man’s eyes were wide as saucers as he, too, looked from one sister to the other. He then met James’ gaze, shook his head, and shrugged.

  A great help he was.

  “Venice,” the sisters said in unison.

  James peered closely at the one holding his arm. Her confidence shined back at him in the reflection of the torchlight. Not a wrinkle wavered.

  “Fine, then. Venice.”

  Chapter One

  Porto di Lido, Venice 1496

  Ossian Ross stood near the bow of the Spanish carrack and growled.

  Where the bloody hell is she?

  He would fear for Isobelle’s safety if it weren’t for the fact that every man on the ship, including the rowers, believed she was his wife—a Highlander’s wife—and believed they would die if they so much as stared overlong in her direction. In spite of the fear Ossian engendered with his braw form and his tendency to carry a blade in his hand at all times, however, there was always a chance a weak man might succumb to temptation. But then, Ossian would have heard screamin’. Not Isobelle’s screamin’, of course, but that of any man who dared lay a hand upon her.

  His bonny cousin was nearly as dangerous as himself—he’d seen to that—and Isobelle had a temper to match her impressive red mane. By instinct alone, men aboard the carrack had backed away from the pair of them since they’d first boarded the ship. It was a pity the Spaniards and Moors of Segorbe had not shared that instinct, or he and Izzy might have found peace on the Spanish coast.

  Ossian stared at the young Italian lass, Sophia, standing on the quarter deck wearing Isobelle’s best dress, a dress for which he’d paid far too much for it to b
e handed off to a spoilt child. The green velvet puddled at the lassie’s feet, and she repeatedly pushed the over-large sleeves off her hands so she might better hold onto Trucchio, the young man beside her. Anyone with eyes could see the dress belonged to someone else. Everyone who’d traveled with them knew who that someone was.

  Isobelle.

  But if the lass wore Isobelle’s finest, the very dress his cousin planned to wear as she greeted her new city, what was Isobelle wearing?

  The ship had arrived a day ahead of schedule, so they’d been ordered to stand at anchor just inside the Port of Lido until a dock was free. If they hurried, he and Isobelle could find room in one of the small lancha boats and not be forced to wait.

  Ossian turned away from the young lovers and went in search of a mass of red hair, since he had no ken how his Scottish cousin would be dressed. Young Sophia was headed for the Franciscan abbey, so it was understandable she’d want to look pretty for Trucchio while they spent their last few hours together. But Isobelle was mistaken if she expected Ossian to stand about waiting patiently for the lass to finish with the dress.

  Izzy was not on deck, damn her.

  Yet another lancha was lowered away from the ship and his patience fled.

  What the devil was she about?

  He stomped the entire distance to the ladder, then lowered himself into the cargo hold where he and his bonny cousin had separated themselves from as many of the passengers and crew as possible. Isobelle’s hair never failed to cause problems; she refused to cut it, and the hair itself refused to be controlled beneath caps of any kind, so it was best Isobelle’s entire person was kept from sight as much as possible.

  None of their meager belongings remained, nor the hammocks they’d slept in.

  Ossian started stringing together some choice words for the moment he found her. But by the time he finished scouring every corner below decks, they were all but forgotten. A tiny seed of worry began to sprout in his belly, but he ignored it and planned to drown it as soon as they found a public house.