by L. L. Muir
Dreaming again...
It was dark, just like always.
His head fell forward, his black hair made it hard to see his face. When he moved, she would see just a little curve of his cheek, a reflection of light from his eyes. She wanted to reach out and push that hair behind his ears, but she didn’t. Why didn’t she?
At least 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.
"I will. I promise."
"Stay with me, just until the end. Then you may go."
"'Til the end of what?"
"'Til the end, lass. You'll know when it's over."
Frantic desperation hung in the air all around them.
"I'm not who you think I am," he said.
That was what she was supposed to say.
"Neither am I,” she confessed.
He pulled her closer, but there was something between them, again. She needed to get closer, to feel his hard chest against her cheek, to know, just for a minute, that she was safe.
But something was stopping her.
Not Without Juliet
By L. L. Muir
AMAZON KINDLE EDITION
PUBLISHED BY
Lesli Muir Lytle
www.llmuir.weebly.com
NOT WITHOUT JULIET © 2013 Lesli Muir Lytle
All rights reserved
Amazon Kindle Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold as a used file. Purchase and download is a one-time final use of this ebook. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. The ebook contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art © 2013 Kelli Ann Morgan
www.inspirecreativeservices.com
Formatting by
Bob Houston eBook Formatting
Dedication
To a real life Romeo & Juliet—
Dan McMillan
and
Leanne (Annie) Moreland McMillan—
a couple whose time together was cut tragically short
and who deserve to be together forever...
if only in a book.
PROLOGUE
Gordon Land, Scotland, 1496
They rose from the heather like dead men rising to complain of their bumpy purple graves, and Quinn knew by the sneers on their faces, he was the dead one.
“Greetin’s, Laird Ross.” A long-legged man sporting an ill-fitting Gordon plaid offered a mocking bow, not bothering to knock the dirt from his body. “Ye be a long drink from home this day, but we heard ye’re no longer sensible of boundaries, since summer last.”
Quinn wished he could have called the survey folk to come spray-paint the bloody borders of Ross land, but he couldn’t have afforded the extra charges to bring them all the way back to the fifteenth century. And oh, how he hated being babysat by young boys who knew from birth where Ross land ended and Gordon land began.
“I beg pardon, sir.” Quinn nodded. “I trusted my horse to keep me on home ground. I’ll be sure to punish him accordingly.”
He laid the reins against the scapegoat’s neck to turn back South, but when more Gordons blocked his way, he turned again to Long Legs and awaited the filthy man’s pleasure. If they killed him, at least he wouldn’t be around to watch Ewan’s eyes roll back in his head when he learned of yet another of Quinn’s foolish mistakes. All that rolling surely gave the new laird migraines.
“I be ridin’ the horse, yer lairdship. And you be walking.”
“I’ve no doubt you ken I’m no longer laird of the Rosses,” Quinn said clearly so they all would hear and maybe reconsider harassing him.
“We do,” said Long Legs. “But once a laird, always a laird. Ye were a shrewd mon to give yer clan over to Ewan Ross though.” He pulled Quinn from the saddle, not caring whether or not he landed on his feet. “If ye hadn’t, they’d be leaderless this night, I reckon.”
Long Legs shoved, but Quinn stood his ground easily enough. The man snorted at him and mounted. He motioned another Gordon forward who tied Quinn’s hands before him, then handed up the slack. Quinn felt the comforting weight of the knife in his boot and decided to bide his time. No sense taking on the lot of them at once when it might not be necessary.
The sound of approaching hooves turned all attention to the meager road. A horse was coming fast, seemingly riderless but for the two wee legs flapping at its sides.
Dear Lord! It was Orie, the smithy’s son.
Quinn turned to Long Legs.
“Hold your men. You will not harm this child.” He spoke quickly while he held the man’s gaze. “Do what you will to me, but if this boy is not allowed to return home without so much as a scratch, I will call upon the devil himself to see you and your posterity swept from the face of the earth.” He glanced over his shoulder. Orie was closing. “You remember my sister, Isobelle, was a witch. Do you doubt I can do it?” Quinn stepped close so no others could hear him. “Satan himself came with Isobelle in summer last, to dance with her upon her own tomb. Did no one tell you?”
Long Legs’ eyes were wide as he raised a hand, freezing his men where they stood. Orie and his horse kept coming, and he’d soon see the ties around Quinn’s wrists! It would be too late!
“Is that what drove ye mad, Laird Ross?” The man swallowed. “Did the devil take yer wits? They say—”
“Laird Ross, sir!” Orie waved one hand and slowed his horse. “You forgot your sword, sir. And you forgot me.” The boy looked around at the Gordons spread about the field of heather.
“’Tis all right, Orie.” Quinn looked to Long Legs, who nodded and discreetly cut the ropes from his hands.
“If ye touch yer sword, the ladboy dies no matter,” the man whispered.
Quinn nodded and turned to the boy, who looked him over, his small brow furrowed. A patch of dirt-colored hair poked up from the back of the lad’s head and a well-defined line ran all the way around his small face showing he’d at least tried to wash up. Grime stayed to one side of the line, pink skin to the other, like he was peering out through the only clean spot of a filthy window. The next chance Quinn got, if he got one, he’d toss the boy into some good clean water.
“No worries. We are but cutting flowers.” He gestured to the Gordons who then looked for a nod from Long Legs before bending and using their bare blades to chop at the blossom-covered branches. Tiny purple balls began flying. “We’re taking them to Morna’s grave. I will have no use for my heavy blade this day. The Gordon lads will see to my safety, will you not?” He turned to Long Legs.
“Aye. We will, that.” The Gordon man grinned.
“Laird, why does he sit yer
horse?” Orie pointed, as if Quinn hadn’t noticed. All the Gordons stopped cutting flowers and waited. Quinn could feel them all itching to get their hands on the child.
“Twisted his foot is all.” He waved away Orie’s concern. “I’m sorry I did not wait for you, but I couldn’t take such an important lad all the way to the Gordon Keep. Go home now. Have the stable master take my sword to my chambers, and I’ll see you when I return.” He dared not step closer to the boy and the sword, but bent instead to gather the heather another man had cut, holding his breath and praying for obedience.
Thankfully, the boy was quick to follow orders, and Quinn continued his acting until the sound of Orie’s retreat faded to nothing.
Long Legs’ sudden burst of laughter sent a chill up his spine.
“A grand idea, that. Ye’ll be carrying the flowers, but they’ll be for yer own grave, not yer sister’s.”
Quinn was content with the irony that Morna was neither dead, nor his sister, but was living happily ever after in the twenty-first century. A year before, Morna had faked her death and then been taken into the future, along with the real Montgomery Ross. Quinn had volunteered to switch places with him, due to the plain fact Montgomery had the love of a fine woman to live for, and Quinn had naught.
And if Isobelle, Morna’s sister, danced, it wasn’t with the devil as she, too, was alive and well, though it was uncertain where she hid. It was a fine trick the Rosses had played on their neighbors, and all for the health and happiness of their women.
Ultimately, if Quinn was about to die, history would play out as it should, and no one would know the Gordons would be killing the wrong man.
CHAPTER ONE
Something dripped on Juliet’s head.
“I swear, if it rains on me one more friggin’ time...” She looked up and watched a squirrel disappear against the trunk of a pine tree. The small branch he’d run across still bounced, flinging little drops of moisture from its needles. “Damned rodent.”
She was sure he’d done it on purpose, but she wasn’t going anywhere. He’d just have to deal with having his forest invaded for a while longer.
She stood among the trees on a hillside that ran along the west and north sides of Castle Ross, close enough to keep an eye on the place while she worked up her courage. She’d been working it up for two days, arguing with the same stupid squirrel. At least, she thought it was the same one.
Using her voice had felt good. She couldn’t remember the last person she’d had an actual conversation with that wasn’t a waitress or something. But that was about to change. As soon as the gray Hummer returned to the castle grounds, she was going to suck it up, march down there, and say what she’d come to say. It wasn’t her fault that woman was always taking off with her husband every time Jules was ready to confront her. Even getting up early that morning hadn’t helped, either. The Hummer was already gone.
What were they doing? Shopping their brains out? Trying to spend all the money?
The thought of all that money disappearing made her nauseous.
No way, she told herself. No way could they spend even half of it in the year since that woman had inherited it, even if they bought a real life Scottish castle—which she knew they hadn’t—it belonged to the husband’s family. And a whole fleet of Hummers wouldn’t make a dent.
“It’s okay,” she told the squirrel. “Half is all I want.” She looked back at the castle. “And I’m not leaving here without it.”
She rolled her shoulders and worked out the kinks from sleeping, folded up, in the front seat of a car for two miserable nights in a row. She’d have stretched out a little in the back seat, but if someone caught up with her, she needed to be behind the wheel.
Sticking earbuds in her ears was a luxury she couldn’t risk, no matter how frightening it was to sleep alone in the woods at night. And thanks to her wild imagination, she’d imagined all kinds of animals breathing on the car windows every time she closed her eyes.
The only thing she should really worry about was the FBI catching up with her or one of Gabby Skedros’ men. But even that concern was second on her list. Her biggest fear was what kept her on that hillside—the probability that that woman and her big Highlander would decide that they weren’t going to give her what was hers.
She’d dreamt of him again last night. Exactly the same dream she’d been having for the last six months. Only this time she knew who he was...
It was dark, just like always.
His head fell forward, his black hair made it hard to see his face. When he moved, she would see just a little curve of his cheek, a little reflection of light from his eyes. She wanted to reach out and push that hair behind his ears, but she didn’t. Why didn’t she?
At least 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.
"I will. I promise."
"Stay with me, just until the end. Then you may go."
"'Til the end of what?"
"'Til the end, lass. You'll know when it's over."
Frantic desperation hung in the air all around them.
"I'm not who you think I am," he said.
That was what she was supposed to say.
"Neither am I,” she confessed.
He pulled her closer, but there was something between them, again. She needed to get closer, to feel his hard chest against her cheek, to know, just for a minute, that she was safe.
But something was stopping her.
Finally knowing he was a living breathing man, and not some guy her subconscious had conjured up?
Good news.
Realizing he was married, and to whom he was married?
Bad news. Bad, bad news.
Wondering how the hell her mind knew about a man across the ocean, six months before she’d ever seen him?
Freaking insane.
Water dripped on her head again. At least she hoped it was water. She didn’t look up because she really didn’t want to know. If the little thing had peed on her, she had no place to wash her hair anyway. Not until she got her money.
She wished she had her gun...if only to kill her a friggin’ squirrel.
“I hear you taste like chicken,” she said, still not looking up.
It was time to resume the position.
She felt the ground. Thankfully, it was no more damp than before. Not much of the last little rainstorm had made it through the thick branches. She was on a little plateau, so she stretched out on her belly, propped her elbows up, and looked through the old field glasses she’d bought in a second-hand store, in a little town just outside Glasgow. She wasn’t about to go shopping in East Burnshire, the village down the road. Running into that woman in a public place was not the plan. And if the FBI figured out where she was headed, they’d be watching East Burnshire for any sign of one Juliet Bell.
She’d tried not to get her hopes up about the Rosses helping her, considering what she planned to say to the new lady of the manor. The big Scot seemed so...courteous...from afar, she tried to keep worst case scenarios out of her head. She only wished she could say the same about her fantasies. The guy was just too gorgeous.
Just one more reason to dislike his wife.
Below her, Castle Ross protruded out of an ancient hill, a massive wreck resisting its lush green grave. The main body of the castle was about three stories tall. The towers, on the corners, looked more like arms reaching for the sky. Just a few fingers left on each hand.
As she studied the place for the thousandth time, a stone tumbled away from the west wall that was painted liberally with the orange light of the setting sun. She raised her field glasses to see what might have shaken loose a building block placed hundreds of years ago.
A couple of blue-grey figures stood on the battlements. Of course she didn’t believe in ghosts, but there was something about Scotland that made you believe you weren’t in the real world anyway.
She rolled t
he focus.
Two old ladies—identical in every way—were fighting over a pair of binoculars. Jules would lay odds on the one on the right since the strap was around her neck. Every time the one on the left pulled at the prize, her twin was pulled forward.
Jules couldn’t help laughing.
Nothing to worry about. Even if they’d been a couple of ghosts, they couldn’t scare her off. The only thing capable of raising her heart rate now was a sexy Highlander or someone with the power to stop her—like the people she’d just escaped. The FBI was staffed by a bunch of mean sons-o-bitches who didn’t take too kindly to sole eye-witnesses squirming out from under their thumb. And if she could get away from them, a couple of Scottish ghosts shouldn’t even raise her heart rate.
She moved back into a thick cluster of pines, hoping against hope that the fighting sisters had poor eyesight too. She steadied the boughs bouncing around her and hoped her black leather jacket and new dye job would blend into the shadows. Then she looked through the binoculars again.
The old women weren’t fighting anymore, and the one on the left was gesturing over her shoulder with her thumb, toward the North. Jules was just relieved the old girl wasn’t pointing her way. The other one took the strap from around her neck and handed over the binoculars, then she looked over her sister’s shoulder while that one turned and aimed the lenses up at the road running along the ridge behind Castle Ross.
Whatever it was, the sisters found it fascinating. But when the sisters suddenly ducked down behind the wall, Jules swung her own binoculars to the North to see what had scared her would-be ghosts.
The trees were in the way. She had to inch out a bit, but kept well below the boughs that would give away her progress. A prickly branch reached out and snagged her coat, as if it would hold her back. She unhooked a sticky pinecone from her precious coat, rubbed her thumb over the scratch it had made in the smooth leather, then crawled forward, grateful for the lengthening and deepening of the evening shadows around her.
