by L. L. Muir
The meat was greasy. The trencher of bread looked as if a few meals had been served from it before, but Quinn couldn’t be picky. His hands were cut loose and he ate whatever looked edible and even a few things that didn’t, but he managed to keep it all down. The Gordon was famous for his dungeons and if the man wanted to give him a grand tour for a week or two before he died of hunger and thirst, Quinn would be wishing he could have this disgusting meal back again.
I should just stand and fight. Die with my boots on. Wasn’t that the whole reason for trading Monty places? To put an end to my own suffering?
He’d expected to die from grief, after losing his wife, Libby. If he died now, he’d be with her all the sooner. Why drag it out? He’d been trying to picture her in his mind all evening, anticipating their ethereal reunion, but her image was never clear. Even remembering her photos wasn’t working.
It had to be the stress. If he could relax, he’d remember every detail.
“I’ll show ye the dungeon when ye’re finished, Ross. Ye’ll be impressed, ye will.”
This was it. The chance to stand and die. He might be able to wrench a nice sharp blade from the boy in front of him, slit the throat of The Gordon, then be quickly skewered by his numerous full grown sons glaring at him from the other side of the table. And it would all be over.
Why did he hesitate?
Did he truly want to live? After years of mourning, was he ready to live again? How cruel was Fate if that were true, taking away his life just as he’d decided to embrace it?
His tense muscles relaxed with one deep, accepting breath. He would go where he was bid and no doubt use every last moment mourning the years he’d wasted. When he met her in Heaven, he was sure Libby would have a few choice words for him as well.
The thought of his wife brought to mind the wife Montgomery Ross would have had a year ago if his wedding hadn’t been interrupted by a charming lass from Quinn’s own century.
“How fares yer daughter, Gordon? Any chance—”
“Silence! Ye’ll nay lay eyes upon the lass, let alone anything else.” Gordon glanced at Quinn’s crotch. “Ye had yer chance.”
The laird ate faster then, more anxious to show off his dungeons, no doubt.
“I can honestly say, Laird, that I’m not the man you knew a year ago. I’m a kinder man. A forgiving man, even.”
“Aye. ‘Tis best ye left yer clan into Ewan Ross’ hands, then. A laird canna lead with kindness and live long.” Gordon eyed his sons, as if he expected one of them to attack him before the enemy at his side might do so. Six men, including Long Legs, glared back as they chewed, as if they were considering doing just that as soon as the food was gone.
Someone was missing.
“Hey, now,” Quinn said. “Where’s my brother of the law, then? Where’s Cinead?”
The laird choked, then took a long pull of wine from his tankard. When he set the drink aside, Quinn realized the man was furious, but trying to control himself. Oh, he was going to end up in the dungeons all right. But at least there wouldn’t be small boys cutting his flesh to ribbons there. Or so he hoped.
Finally, the other man spoke.
“Ye’ve no brother of the law here, Ross. When yer sister chose Neptune’s arms over Cinead’s, the marriage was nulled.” The Gordon took a deep breath and the redness that had been climbing up his neck receded. “The man is above stairs, with his bride.”
“Ah yes, I remember now.” Quinn couldn’t contain his excitement as histories began to bubble up in his mind.
Gordon frowned and leaned forward. “Ye remember what?”
“Morna’s husband, Cinead, took a second wife and had nearly a dozen children, one of whom ruled the Gordon Clan after...you...died.”
Oops.
Judging from the fury on the faces of Cinead’s brothers, Quinn had hit a sore spot. But their anger wasn’t directed at him, but at their father, as if they’d just had some suspicion verified. The fact that Quinn had been telling fortunes hadn’t seemed to impress them at all.
The older man growled at the pack of wolves rising to their feet and Quinn realized the rocks in the man’s voice was likely due to a lifetime of making that same noise.
“The man’s no witch, ye dolts. He’s tryin’ to stir ye up so he can get away in the confusion.” The Gordon turned a wild eye on Quinn. “Ye’ve not The Sight, Montgomery Ross. Otherwise ye would have known what yer sister Morna would do, and ye would have stopped her!”
Quinn snorted. “I knew enough of what would happen here that I gave Ewan the Clan, did I not?”
The Gordon snorted and banged his tankard for a refill.
What else? What else could he remember to make them think twice about keeping him prisoner? There had to be something. Something that happened near the year 1496!
“The grandson of the current King James will be handed the crown of England.” They needn’t know it would be given by an English woman.
“What do we care of English politics a hundred years from now?” Gordon snorted again. His sons’ hackles were back down and they were now laughing at their father’s comment like he was the king and they were pretending to kiss his arse.
“One day a man will walk on the moon,” Quinn offered, sure that would give them pause.
Gordon’s nose curled to one side. “I care more who walks onto Gordon lands, and today, someone did.”
Another sore subject then.
“What would you like to ken of the future, Laird Gordon? I will trade any information for my freedom. I’m more surprised than anyone to find that I’d prefer to live.”
“Ach, now. Bad timing that,” said a strange voice very near his ear. He turned to see a small man, who had to be Cinead Gordon, forcefully lowering a club to his head.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Jillian. I beg ye to cease yer teasin’.”
Jules was still sitting against the wall where the big man must have propped her up after she’d passed out, clearly due to a lack of food. She should have shoved a chocolate bar in her mouth before running down the side of the mountain. With no calories to burn, her body must have burned some brain cells instead, because nothing made sense. The hitter still hadn’t found the room, hadn’t shown up at the door, and hadn’t shot his way into the tomb. He sure as hell wouldn’t have given up.
Unless too many people had suddenly showed up for an evening tour...
Maybe he’d retreated and planned to come search for her later. If so, she wasn’t going to wait around for him. But she couldn’t seem to rouse herself. Maybe that chocolate would help. Better late than never.
She pulled a bar from her pocket and ate it quickly.
Mm. Better.
“Jillian,” the big man said again.
Jules pointed to herself. “Jules. Okay? Jules. You call me Jillian again, and I’m going to have to hurt you.”
“Bah!” He turned away, then turned back. “If ye be Jillian’s sister, why did the lass never mention ye, let alone a sister who looks just like her?"
"I don't know if she knows about me, actually. I mean, it would be an obvious excuse for her to use, but it's not like she wouldn't remember me, right? I mean, I remember her just fine. And if we're identical, her memory should be just as good as mine."
"She may not ken? Surely, when she saw yer face she realized—”
"She hasn't seen me yet." Jules held up a hand in the universal request of help me up.
It took him a second to take the hint, but then he pulled her to her feet.
"Hasna seen ye? And how did ye come to be in the witch's hole then? I was of a mind Jillian and Monty would be guarding it a bit close, aye?"
It was a little embarrassing to admit to breaking and entering, but she’d had good reason.
"Two old women showed me how to get up inside, to hide. You know, from the guy who’s going to be coming through that door any second now?" She moved over to the wall behind the door and tried to flatten herself against it.
&
nbsp; He just stood there in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips like he still didn’t believe there was any danger. But he looked none too pleased.
"Old women?” he asked. “Twins?"
Oops. They’d probably saved her life, or at least postponed her murder, and she’d ratted them out.
"Yes, twins. Like eighty or ninety years old, going on a hundred? They said they had another place they could hide, but the hole was my only option. You obviously know them, so that shoots your little fifteenth century story to hell."
He was nodding his head, but not like he was agreeing with her.
"Muirs, and no mistake. Far too many twins among them. Every century has them, it seems."
“Every century. Right,” she said and rolled her eyes.
He looked at her sideways. “If I didna ken that Jillian was both a MacKay and a Ross, I’d have worried that the pair of ye might be Muir witches as well, aye?” Then he just waited, like he was expecting a confession.
“Witches? Now I know you’re messing with me.”
“Messing? I doona understand.”
“Oh, give it up, would you?” She almost wished the hitter would come and get it over with. She was tired of arguing with Bushy-head.
He tossed his hands in the air. “Ye’ll see, soon enough I reckon. Whenever the hole’s been opened, the Muirs ken it. Somehow.” He shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. "Too bad yer set of Muirs didna think to trick Monty back into the hole. I could use his aid. I'm right desperate for it."
"And Monty is Montgomery?"
Ewan frowned as if by not knowing Monty she’d spouted some sort of blasphemy. "Jillian's husband. The former laird of Clan Ross and my cousin. I'd be ever so happy to see his gob, but e'en more so, now that I've..." He grimaced, reached for the torch, then turned to the door.
"You've what?"
He sighed and raised the light higher. His shadow swung around on the wall behind him as he turned back to her.
"I've lost his great nephew."
Jules shook her head. "I don't understand. His great nephew? How could you have lost someone that can't possibly have been born?"
"Jules, is it? I told you plain. ‘Tis the year fourteen hundred and ninety-seven, and so it is. Monty is from this century. The nephew is from yours."
The wall wasn’t much to hold onto, so she leaned sideways onto a stack of smaller barrels. She started shaking her head but then couldn’t seem to stop. If she hadn’t eaten the chocolate, she probably would have been passing out again.
"So I've somehow gone through time? This tomb is like some kind of tardis?” She’d watched only a couple of episodes of Dr. Who, but apparently it was a couple too many. She wouldn’t have even known the word tardis if the bookkeeper at the restaurant and one of the waiters hadn’t been big Dr. Who geeks.
"I dinna ken the word tardis, lass. But they go inside, they doona come out. 'Tis all I’ve seen. I'll not try it myself, mind ye."
"You’re Montgomery’s cousin? He’s from...here? No wonder." Then she realized what this Ewan had been trying to tell her. “And a little boy is missing?”
"The lad's name is Quinn. But he’s no wee laddie.”
She was so relieved. The thought of a little kid—from the twenty-first century—getting lost out there in Medieval times, was just too sickening to think about. If, of course, she believed that Medieval Scotland was truly out there.
“Quinn’s a man grown. Looks to be Monty's own spit, he does. So when Monty needed to go to your time, to be with Jillian, Quinn came back here, to take Monty's place. And now, The Gordon has ‘im."
No friggin’ way! There was another Highlander, just like Jillian’s husband. Just like him.
Maybe, just maybe, I should say my prayers more often.
Above their heads, there was movement. Not from the great hall, but from the tomb.
"Where the devil are ye?" a man muttered.
The hitter!
How the hell had he gotten inside the tomb without going through the bottom, like she had? No way could he have broken through the wall, or she’d have heard it!
Her missing boot fell through the hole and landed on unholy wet ground.
Holy shit!
Jules snatched the boot up and put a finger over her lips, then motioned for Ewan to hurry out of the room with her. Thankfully, he followed without argument, bringing the torch with him. The door opened outward and Jules shut it behind her, then leaned against it.
"Can we block this door?" she whispered. "That's the man who’s after me. He's got a gun. I'm sure he'll kill anyone who gets in his way."
The Scot nodded, handed her the torch, then rolled yet another barrel out of the dark and in front of the door.
"This should hold him for a mite,” he said. “But your only way back home is through that tomb, lass. If ye and Jillian are to meet, ye must face this man first, and no mistake. Sooner or later."
"Later sounds good to me."
The hitter beat on the door, having found his way out of the tomb with little light to help him.
"Juliet Bell! When I get my hands on ye... Listen, lass. If ye let me out now, it will go much smoother for ye. Ye have my word. No harm will come to ye."
She could hear him breathing against the door. He was probably listening to her breathe too. After a few seconds, he went back to beating on the door.
"He'll just blow the hinges off,” she warned the Scot.
"Truly?" The big man rolled his eyes in the torchlight. "Perhaps you underestimate the quality of a Scotsman's carpentry, or the strength of a full barrel of whisky. He'll not get out so easily. Now come up into the light. Let me get a good look at you, and I'll decide the message I wish you to give to Monty, once ye've got the courage to go back, of course. But tell me, why does yer pursuer call ye Juliet Bell?”
“Bell is a long story. And I don’t let anyone call me Juliet.”
The door seemed to be holding up well to the pounding, so they moved away. Ewan took back his torch and led her along the dirt-floored hallways. She was so turned around, she had no choice but to trust him.
Dirt floors. God, help me. I’ve lost my mind.
“But mayhap you could find your courage sooner, rather than later,” Ewan said. “As Quinn may not live long enough for Monty to be of any help. I would send others to bring his wandering hide back to Ross lands, but none else kens who the lad truly is. I fear a close look by our own lads might give the game away. We've been careful to keep the clan from getting too close. I imagine word of an imposter would be the type of tale to pass through the generations, aye? And Jillian was ever one to go on and on about the dangers of changing history."
Jules snorted. “Yeah, I’ll bet she was.”
Ewan stopped and looked at her. “What do ye mean, lass?”
“She’s got the world at her feet. Why would she wish anything different? She’s probably thrilled with the way things have turned out. Changing the past would screw up her little fairy tale, right?”
And just like that, Jules was glad she’d gone back in time. Maybe there was a reason she was there. Maybe she could fix all kinds of things. Screw Jillian’s rules about changing history.
“Lass,” said Ewan. “Jillian has a kind and gentle soul. If she believes that changing history will ruin lives, I have no doubt it is not her life for which she fears. She loves Monty, and yet she was willing to give him up so that Morna and Ivar could be together. You’ll find no selfishness in Jillian’s heart.”
“I hope so,” she said. It was the nicest thing she could think of to say since Ewan was clearly on Team Jillian.
Finally, he stopped yakking and started moving again.
But inside, there was a giant scrapbook of pain, and it had Jillian’s name written on the front in big jagged letters.
CHAPTER FIVE
Quinn woke to a painful throb at the back of his head. He was lying on a cold dirt floor, in the dark.
For a moment, he thought he was still
stuck in his dream and waited for the softness of his mattress to register, but it didn't. Then, as he had hundreds of times in the last year, he remembered which century he was in. But this was the first time he'd awakened on the ground.
And it was still night?
His last memory was of going stir crazy inside the castle, of sneaking away without his young escort... And then he remembered the heather. He could still feel the scratches on his arms from gathering the branches. Then he remembered the scratches from sharp little knives.
"Shite."
He rolled to his side to take the pressure off the back of his broken skull, and every muscle in his body complained. At first, he wondered if they'd beaten him, after he'd lost consciousness, but then he remembered all those hours of kneeling at attention to keep those blades from breaking his skin. The pain from a beating wouldn't have gone quite so deep.
A smell wafted around him when he moved—the smell of a tomb where a body would have rotted away for years. The smell of stale urine was a pleasant relief—he only hoped the urine wasn't his.
No. His kilt was dry. Thank goodness the ground below him was dry as well. The blade was gone from his boot.
So, this was the famous Gordon dungeons. They were so close to the sea, he expected it to be damper—not that he was complaining. But if he was going to die here, he could wish for harsher conditions that might speed along his demise.
And even as the thought presented itself, his stomach tightened.
He remembered now. That moment at Gordon's table, when he realized he wanted to live. Lord help him, when had that happened?
Quinn sat up and searched the darkness, straining to capture even the smallest hint of a reflection. He needed to know what surrounded him, but he would not go feeling about. He could only wait for someone to come with a light. Of course, he might be able to persuade them to come sooner...
"Gordon! Gordon! You can either grant me some light or I shall have the devil call up a fire, here, beneath your home. Which do you prefer?"
