by L. L. Muir
“Wait a moment,” Quinn called. “I answered your question. We had a bargain.”
“Nay, Ross,” he called, without turning back or slowing his step, “I have yet to decide whether or not I believe ye.”
Quinn was once again left in the dark.
He tried to remember the details of his cell and crawled to his right, putting as much distance between himself and the rotting corpse as possible. In truth, he was getting used to the smell unless someone stirred the air.
He rested his back again to alleviate the soreness of his stomach muscles. He was thirsty, but alive, and if all went well, his little prophecy would keep Cinead alive long enough for history to unfold as it was supposed to. And hopefully, he’d planted enough fantasy in Percy’s brain that the man would be coming back to place a request for the future—hopefully before Quinn was thin enough to slip through the bars, but too dead to do so.
He closed his eyes, content to sleep for a while.
***
Quinn hadn’t quite drifted off before the inside of his eyelids turned red, then orange. Someone was coming.
Only it wasn’t Percy. It was the violent little man, Cinead.
Shite!
Two large guards entered Quinn’s cell and took him by the arms.
“I’ve just saved your life, you know.” Quinn needed the future head of Clan Gordon to think kinder, gentler thoughts about him. The fact that the man had come so closely on the heels of his younger brother gave Quinn hope he might have overheard the end of their conversation. The rough handling by the guards took that hope away.
The small man seemed none too proud to carry his own torch and held it aloft while Quinn was brought before him.
“I’m aware of that,” he said. His voice was quite normal, though Quinn didn’t know what he’d been expecting. “Percy willna be killing me in me sleep, but that willna keep the others from killing me in the bright light o’ day, will it?”
So. The man had heard the conversation after all.
As Cinead stuffed a rag into Quinn’s mouth, he noticed swelling across the smaller man’s face. There was a good chance the curve of his nose was new.
Quinn nodded, accepting the blame for the other man’s beating. He just hoped Percy might share the prophecy with the rest of his brothers. Of course, if he hoped his brothers would become impotent in all things...
Shite!
“It’s time to meet yer maker, Laird Ross, be he god or devil.” Cinead led the way out of the dungeon, and as relieved as Quinn was to get away from the smell, he’d gladly go back and wait for Percy to come ‘round.
The little parade proceeded out of the castle proper, past the inner bailey, and into the wider outer bailey where a makeshift gallows had been erected in the moonlight. Next to the gallows, a pole rose out of a stack of wood and Quinn had seen the drawings of enough such constructions to know it was meant for the burning of a witch.
And witch burning seemed all the more barbaric when one found himself to be the witch in question. He should have kept his mouth shut. The Gordon hadn’t been impressed by his fortune telling but he’d recognized a grand opportunity to rid himself of an enemy. But why send Cinead to do the deed in the middle of the night? Or was it only that the little man wanted his own revenge and would take it out from under the old man’s nose?
Perhaps there was good reason Cinead Gordon would end up leading his clan.
The future laird looked up into his face and grinned.
“I know what ye think, Laird Ross,” he said. “But if we doona allow you to speak, you canna call the devil to your rescue, aye?” He stopped just below the noose and jumped up to swat at it, like he was proving he was tall enough to reach it.
But he wasn’t.
The noose hung perfectly still. The men holding Quinn stifled their laughter.
“Get on with it,” Cinead hissed. “Someone’s coming,”
Quinn tried to turn, to see if maybe Percy had finally decided to act, but the guards pushed him forward. One had a fist full of hair at the back of his head that kept Quinn from seeing anything but the closing proximity of his head to the noose. With his arms tied behind his back once again, there was only so much bucking he could do. His only hope was to bob and weave to keep that noose off his head. And pray for a miracle, of course.
A forceful blow stunned him for a wee second, but it was enough. The rough rope fell on his collar bone, then tightened against his neck as he plowed his body into one of the guards. Unfortunately, he picked the wrong guard. It was the second man who held the tail end of the rope, and he pulled down hard to bring Quinn to heel. The abrasive rope cut into the delicate skin below his jaw. The growth of two days’ beard did little to protect him.
“Climb up there,” The Runt demanded, pointing to a short stool.
Quinn just glared down at him, wishing with his eyes that the brothers would have beaten him to death and damn the future consequences.
“Just a moment, brother!” A woman’s voice came from behind, from the direction of the castle. “As his former fiancée, I would have words with the bastard before ye kill ‘im.”
Oh, jolly.
At least his death wouldn’t be in vain; the Gordon lass would have some closure. And while he waited for the woman to appear, he wondered what he might have requested for a last meal, had they offered him one.
A deep fried Twinkie sounded just the ticket.
CHAPTER SIX
Jules followed the blond and the torch up out of the cellars and into the light. At the top of the steps, another man turned. He looked her up and down but showed no reaction. She tried to do the same and not stare at his plaid costume.
"Daniel,” said Ewan. “This is Jules. Guard her with yer life. She’s kin."
Kin?
The statement sent a little chill through her chest, even though it was an exaggeration.
Daniel gave a quick bow. Then, while he looked past them, down the steps, he pulled a tiny pouch from around his neck, kissed it, then tucked it back into his poorly fitting shirt.
"Dinna be daft, Daniel,” said Ewan. “Have ye seen the Muirs anywhere about?”
“Nay, yer lairdship.”
Jules jumped when she heard footsteps behind her and turned, ready to launch herself at Gabby’s man since she had nothing she could use for a weapon—Ewan still held the hammer. She only hoped a tumble back down the steps would break the hitter’s neck and not hers.
But it wasn’t a man at all. It was a matching set of women in long dresses, dresses that looked more like medieval costumes. Like Daniel’s.
Holy shit! Was it really 1496?
Maybe the hitter really had entered the tomb the same way she had—from another century. Maybe she really wasn’t dreaming. Maybe she was going to be sick.
As the look-alikes climbed the stairs, she realized the women were much younger than the ones who had put her in the tomb. Fiftyish. Long, straight, strawberry blond hair that was turning gray in all the same places. They even held onto their skirts the same way. It was like watching a woman walk up the steps while someone held a mirror next to her.
Very freaky.
There was something unnerving about their matching smiles, though. Jules didn’t trust them for a second.
Ewan let out a deep sigh and she couldn’t tell whether he was glad to see them or really disappointed.
"Speak of the sisters and they’ll appear,” he muttered. “Ye’ll see I spoke the truth about them.”
The women in question reached the landing. One of them looked surprised to see Jules. The other one kept her eyes on Ewan and gave him a little bow.
"Laird Ross,” she said. “Ye've a busy cellar this day it seems."
Ewan shook his head slightly. "Hopefully, ye’re the last to come out of it. Won't the pair of ye sup with us this e'en?" The last sentence came out through his teeth.
The second woman gave him a sly nod. "Such a kind laird ye are, Ewan. We'd like nothing more than to sit and
have a grand chat with Jillian.
The way the woman was eyeing her, Jules knew she understood perfectly well she wasn't Jillian. Was she hoping for an introduction? Or did she expect Jules to lie about who she was? She had to admit, it was a little intriguing to know that her sister had known these people. She just wondered why Jillian had come to be there in the first place.
Jules had been about nine when she’d demanded to know why her grandmother had stolen Jillian and disappeared. They’d been searching for six years and the only explanation her parents had given was, “Ivy MacKay is mentally ill.” But at nine, Jules wasn’t buying it anymore. Finally, they’d told her what the paranoia was all about, that the old woman was certain there were people in Scotland who would try to kill Jillian, who would try to bury her alive. The crazy part was that Grandmother claimed that she’d traveled to the future and been there when those murderers were planning it.
Since Jules’ mother couldn’t believe her, the old woman had taken Jillian away, to protect her. And back in the days of no internet, it was much harder to find someone who didn’t want to be found.
Now that Jules realized she, too, had been convinced to climb into that Scottish tomb—and apparently traveled through time—she was beginning to think her grandmother wasn’t as paranoid or crazy as her parents had believed.
But even if she hadn’t been, that didn’t excuse her for the hell she’d made of their lives. No amount of money could make up for that. And half a fortune wasn’t going to excuse Jillian for not trying to come home.
No. She wasn’t Jillian. She’d never be Jillian.
Jules put her hands in the pockets of her jacket. "My name is Jules. I'm not Jillian."
"Of course ye're not Jillian." The woman winked. "How silly of me. I can see the difference now."
Jules resisted the urge to ask what the woman saw that made her so different. She never wanted to look like Jillian, of course, but she didn’t care for the feeling that she was lacking in some way. She wasn’t jealous.
Well, maybe just a little envious—it didn’t help that Jillian was married to the mouth-watering Highlander that had started to haunt her dreams for no reason whatsoever. The website for Castle Ross Tours said the man was Quinn Ross, but it must have been the name he used for tourists. Jillian’s husband was Montgomery Ross, or Monty, as Ewan called him.
In her dreams, she’d never known his name, only that they had to stay together or...something bad would happen. And she’d always been pretty sure it would be bad for them both. Pretty melodramatic for a dream with a stranger, but anyone who’d laid eyes on Montgomery Ross wouldn’t laugh. Even the shot of him on the website took her breath away and made her heart stutter—and this from a girl who never got breathy over anything but a great dessert.
Every night, when she’d fallen asleep, she’d willed herself back into that dark dream. She’d make it there, too, but only every couple of weeks when she went to bed early. Maybe their dreams only linked up when they were both asleep, and time-zone-wise, that meant earlier in New York.
Holy shit. What if the guy was really dreaming about her too? What if he might be sharing the whole emotional ride?
Jules shook her head and sighed. It wouldn’t make any difference if he was—he’d just think it was a dream about his own wife. And that thought made her instantly sad.
She dragged along next to Ewan, hoping he’d take her somewhere quiet where she could sit down and shut her eyes for a minute. What she really needed was to just confront her sister and get the hell away from her, and her husband, but the woman was even farther out of her reach than before. Over five hundred years away. And the only short cut back was through that tomb, now inconveniently guarded by Jules’ personal Angel of Death.
It was just so surreal. What had it been, an hour since she’d started running down that hill? She couldn’t have made it into another time zone, and yet she’d traveled centuries? What a crock. Maybe, after she’d rested a bit, she could figure out another explanation. And it was a great plan...
...until they rounded a corner.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Since she’d come through the back entrance to the castle, Jules had never seen the great hall except in a photo gallery on the internet. But this was no polished museum. It was a madhouse. Tables filled every corner except for the raised dais where three large items were the only decoration. The tomb—the one she had to have been inside. A giant carved throne which looked a little too imposing to sit in. And a massive statue of Jillian’s husband, in his kilt. It looked so much like him—or at least what he looked like through binoculars—that she expected him to walk right off the stage.
But the most shocking part, and the thing making her nauseous again, was the crowd.
They were all dressed in medieval garb. Every last one of them. Women, children—even the dogs looked a little barbaric.
She turned back to Ewan and took a good look at his clothes. His kilt was nothing like any kilt she’d ever seen in real life. In the movies, yes. But modern day Scotsmen did not dress this way, not even for their Highland Games and Scottish Festivals. She knew. Her parents had taken her to them every year. They’d always been searching the crowds for some reason. When she was big enough, she realized they were searching for Jillian.
Always Jillian. Their lives had centered on finding Jillian. If her parents hadn’t been driving across that long stretch of Wyoming highway, hunting down one more lead, they would have still been alive. But they’d been sure they were going to find her that time, just like every other time, and Jules had refused to go along. She found a friend whose parents would let her sleep over for a few days. She hadn’t even told them goodbye.
Of course, if she’d have gone along, she’d be dead too. No one could have survived, even with seat belts. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about that. But she’d been pretty damn sure how she felt about Jillian.
Out of habit, and a sort of homage to her parents, she’d kept going to the festivals. She’d even looked for Jillian, but her reasons were different. She wanted her sister to know she was responsible for their deaths, responsible for how they’d wasted the short lives they’d had—looking for a girl who never looked back.
Watching the Scots gathering around for their evening meal, all the anger came flooding back, swirling in her nearly empty stomach like the ghost of a rotten meal—anger so sharp it brought tears to her eyes. She nearly turned around and headed back to the cellar, ready to confront her sister, mad enough to rip off the hitter’s head and spit down the hole. But she’d never get past him. Not without a gun. And she wasn’t sure these people even knew what a gun was.
She let out a harsh breath. It was no use fighting it. She really was Dr. Who, and there was a monster inhabiting her tardis. She had to figure out a way to capture that monster so the friggin’ episode could end—so she could turn off the nightmare.
Or maybe the Monster would go back the way he’d come, see Jillian, and kill her instead, mistaking her for Jules.
One of the Muir sisters gasped, as if she’d read her thoughts. Then she frowned at Jules and shook her head. What was with her?
“Mind your own business, Witchy Poo,” she snarled.
I didn’t say I wanted it to happen, she thought, and she thought it hard, just in case someone was listening in. And she’d be damned if the woman didn’t nod.
Holy shit. I’m not in Kansas anymore.
She and the sisters were led toward the dais. She couldn’t tell which disturbed the people more, the Muirs or the fact Jules wasn’t wearing a dress like all the other women. Ewan gestured for them to sit at his round table, just in front of the dais where the giant chair, the tomb, and the statue stood like three pink elephants in the room that everyone pretended not to notice. The crowd quieted when Ewan took his seat. But they weren’t looking his way anymore. They were looking back at the doorway, the one that led to the kitchens—and the cellar—where a very angry, though slightly confused hitman stood
with his forearms braced against the walls to either side of him. In one hand, he held a shiny black gun. His black leather coat and blue jeans stood out as badly as her own. It took three seconds for him to locate her.
Ewan reached out and squeezed her hand. Under his breath he said, “Stay calm, Jules. We’ll catch him and cage him. Just ye stay calm.”
Calm? He didn’t know what he was talking about.
A baby cried off to her right. She noticed a toddler on his father’s knee. From behind layers of her mother’s skirts, peeked a little girl. Jules couldn’t let these people get hurt because of her. But if she surrendered, she was dead.
Ewan stood and Daniel fell in step beside him as they ambled toward the red-headed stranger. The man laughed as he tucked his gun behind him, then rubbed his hands together and egged them on. The fact that he hadn’t shot them was a damned good sign.
She’d have only a minute or two, so she’d just have to move fast. And going back to the cellar, back into the tomb, was not an option at the moment. Her only chance to get him away from these people was to run.
She was a great runner. She’d dragged the FBI babysitters around by the nose, insisting they let her run or she wouldn’t testify. It was the best way to pretend she was free of them. Eventually, they realized she was dead-set on testifying no matter what they did, so they’d stopped dancing to her tune. They’d made her settle for a treadmill. Still, over the months, she’d become quite the long distance runner. All she needed was a little head start.
Ewan growled and attacked. Men jumped up all around her, suddenly ready to fight. The crowd blended quickly and in a matter of seconds, all those men were standing in the center of the room with the women and children to their backs and their enemy before them. The women were shuffling along the wall and taking the children with them, out a half-hidden doorway near the statue of Montgomery. It was like a dance they’d danced before, or a fire drill.
