Not Without Juliet (A Scottish Time Travel Romance) (Muir Witch Project #2)

by L. L. Muir

  She realized he was waiting for her to say something. What had he been talking about?

  "Right. Halloween,” she said. “So, who is he?"

  "A stubborn man, or so Martin told me." It wasn’t the casual way he’d said it, or the slightly higher pitch that gave him away, but the pause before he’d spoken.

  "You thought I wouldn't want to know he was stubborn? I doubt that. What aren't you telling me?"

  He sighed. "He was a son to The Gordon."

  She turned to look at the skeleton again. No way could she think of it as just a Halloween decoration anymore. He had been someone. This castle had been his home. And his father had let him die here, chained to the wall, in the dark.

  A shiver went up her spine. No matter how cold-hearted a murderer Gabby was, he could have never been so cruel. Or could he? Poor Nikkos. Like a son. How his heart must have broken in that millisecond between Gabby pointing the gun and firing. But how many times, while he waited to die, had this Skully’s heart broken? A bullet would have been kinder.

  “Lass.” Quinn Ross waved a hand to catch her eye.

  She turned back to him. He shook his hair out of his eyes and looked into her soul again and she couldn’t help but smile. She was like the candle, coming to life under his attention. It made her feel warm in a creepy dungeon that had no warmth. Too bad he was just a nice guy, trying to keep her calm.

  "You didn't want me to know that the man—into whose dungeon we've been tossed—is ruthless enough to leave his son in this same dungeon to rot. Is that it?"

  He smiled. His eyes crinkled and he winked at her. "Aye. That’s just it."

  That wink sent chills to all the places she’d felt warm just a second ago. Winks, she realized, were highly under-rated.

  She was afraid her knees might just give out if she didn’t look away. Unfortunately, Skully was the only thing to look at.

  "What a very, very sad Halloween decoration."

  "Aye, lass. Now, let’s not waste what time we have left to us."

  She could get used to being called lass. It beat being called Jillian any day. She took a deep breath and turned back to him, trying to think of something to say, to keep him talking.

  "Why do you say that? You always say that.”

  She gasped when she realized it was true. He’d always said that—but in the dream!

  How had her subconscious known she would end up there, having that exact conversation? How could she have dreamed about a man she’d never laid eyes on yet? She’d never even known about Jillian when the dreams had started, let alone the Castle Ross website where she’d found his picture.

  Quinn’s picture.

  Gah! He must have thought she was so stupid. He wouldn’t have any idea what she was talking about. But, holy crap! Quinn Ross—not Montgomery Ross—haunting her dreams?

  It had been a shocker, running across that picture and recognizing him when he shouldn’t have existed. She’d obsessed about him 24/7, for weeks, making herself sick until she’d turned her attention to escaping from her federal babysitters.

  But he was real. And he wasn’t Monty. And now he was going to think she was certifiable.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head, waiting for the ceiling to fall on her head.

  He laughed. Then he stopped short. Then he laughed again, and all without her looking up. He was delighted about something, and after a few seconds, she couldn’t stand it anymore and opened her eyes.

  He reached out with his free hand and took hold of her fingers, pulling her up tight against the bars, and suddenly, she felt like they were in his cell and not hers. The heat coming through the empty gaps was more than enough to make up for the cold bars pressed against her. He studied her face for a minute and didn’t seem to find anything unpleasant, even though she hadn’t seen a shower or a brush for two days and been dragged halfway across Scotland by Cheval. The last time she’d cleaned up had been at Debra’s.

  "I always say that?” he whispered. “We've only met, lass. When did I say it? And what did I say?"

  She looked down, embarrassed. He’d been laughing at her after all.

  “Speak to me, lass. I must know. Tell me the truth of it, if ye please.”

  It was charming, the way he begged.

  She took a deep breath, stalling, wanting to wait just a minute longer before saying anything that might make him want to let go of her.

  "You're going to think it's silly."

  "Never." He lifted her chin with a knuckle, and then the contact was gone. She very nearly lowered her head again, just to feel that knuckle a second time. It felt wonderful, like her chin had been starved for attention.

  How pathetic.

  "Fine,” she said. “I've had this recurring dream, see. It was about you—probably because of that picture on the website. But then I got to Scotland and saw Montgomery and I thought I was lusting after Jillian’s husband. I was sick about it, actually."

  "Lusting, ye say?"

  She tried to pull away, but then she remembered how badly she wanted to not be in that cell with Skully, so she let him pull her close again, grateful that he still wanted to, considering how silly she was acting.

  "I ask, Juliet, because I've shared this dream."

  Oh, great.

  "Uh huh," she said. "Sure you have."

  No way was she going to stand there and make a fool out of her. But if she put up much of a struggle, the candle would go out and she would freak out.

  She took a careful step back, but he only pulled her tighter. The light wobbled and she froze.

  He shook his head. "You don't believe me. I understand why you wouldn’t. I do. But I’m not playing with you. Hear me out, aye? In this dream, is it always dark?"

  "Lucky guess."

  "And is there always something between us, keeping us apart?"

  She gave him one nod. No way would he guess anything else.

  "And perhaps we only have a few stolen moments together because I'm supposed to die in the morning?"

  Oh my hell! How does he know?

  "What? Wait! What?"

  He sighed. "Perhaps that wasn’t technically part of our dream then. But I always supposed what kept us apart was the impression that you were Jillian and the love of Monty's life, and not a wall of bars."

  "Wait. Just wait a minute. What about you dying in the morning? Was that a dream, or is it real?" She found her fingers digging into his skin, trying to pull him closer, but he didn't seem to mind, which was lucky, because she couldn't seem to stop. She felt so desperate, just like she always did, clinging to him like she was. It was exquisite torture, wanting to hold onto the dream, not wanting to wake up, but at the same time hoping she wasn’t dreaming at all.

  "The Gordon has decreed it,” he said casually, like, “It’s supposed to rain in the morning."

  She stared at his broad chest and the neck just above it. Hang him? How could they? Were they blind? Then she remembered Skully.

  "The Gordon is the bastard who left his son to die, right?"

  "Right you are,” Quinn said, but she had the impression, from the way he was staring at her, that he wasn’t paying a lot of attention to their conversation. His eyes kept moving around her face, like it was a puzzle he was trying to solve. If someone handed him a pen, he might draw a little path from her brows, to her ears, back to her nose, then around to her chin. Her mouth was apparently the end game.

  Please, let my mouth be the end game.

  He looked back at her eyes and smiled.

  She took a deep breath and sighed. "Then, we've just got to get you out of here."

  She knew full well she was stepping back on the delusion train, but she didn’t care. This was no time to be realistic. Wolfproof, bulletproof, and fireproof. Well, the last part she wouldn’t have to wonder about if she managed to escape with him.

  He laughed. "You have a grand plan, do ye?"

  "Aye. I do." She couldn’t help but mock his sexy Scottish brogue.

  "Co
mplicated, is it?" He tucked her hair back behind one ear. She was losing his attention again.

  "No, not really." She tried to imitate his sexy smile too, to get him to look at her lips again, but she’d done better with the accent.

  He raised one brow. No way could she copy that.

  "Truly? Then I must hear this plan."

  She grinned and wished she could wink, but she was afraid she’d look anything but sexy doing it.

  "We scream,” she said, “until they come to shut us up, then we overpower them and get away."

  He laughed. Hard. It started to sound a little hysterical.

  "Hey, don't knock it. I'll have you know every plan I've had lately has worked. For a while anyway. Obviously, this dungeon was not in my plans."

  "And just how many plans have you needed lately, sweet Juliet?"

  She was just about to correct him, to tell him that no one calls her Juliet, but she realized the chills currently shooting through her were due to the way he’d said her name—again, with that lovely brogue.

  While she watched his lips, waiting to hear her name again, she told him how she'd gotten from point a to point b—from shaking the feds to stalking her sister with binoculars, from outrunning the Gabby’s hitman to ending up in Gordon's dungeon. It sounded more like a list of people, and an animal, whose heads she’d damaged in one manner or another. The head butt she’d given the guard at the Castle Ross’s gate made her sound downright violent, even when she called it a Glasgow Kiss.

  He looked more than a little doubtful, and she was almost relieved he didn’t think she could be so dangerous. Then she remembered the wolf's tooth and pulled it out of her sock.

  "See? Proof." When he had no comment, she got nervous and started to ramble. "You probably thought I was making it all up—"

  He dropped the candle and reached for her. His lips were on hers before the light sputtered out.

  Just like her dream. And who knew? Maybe she was dreaming again. Her eyes were shut, his lips felt the same as they always did. She reached up and held onto his hard biceps as well as she could. They were huge.

  The bars kept her from moving closer, but she raised her hands to his neck and was able to hang on better.

  He pulled back enough to break the kiss.

  "Stay with me,” he whispered.

  "You always say that."

  "I mean here. Right here. Stay with me here, until morning."

  "You usually say, until it's over."

  "I thought I'd change it up a bit. Keep you on yer toes."

  "I'm already on my toes."

  "Well, then, I've got ye where I want ye."

  And he kept her where he wanted her for a good long while. Finally, she had to ask for a time-out because the bars were bruising her face.

  “You know,” she said as they slid to the floor, still clutching each other. “If anyone studies the angle of the bruises on your face and compares them to the ones on mine, they’re going to know what we’ve been doing.”

  “Well, here’s our first test then. Looks as if someone is coming.”

  She looked over her shoulder and sure enough, the passageway was turning orange.

  “Get ye back, lass. Cling to the far corner. If they believe we care for one another, they’ll use it against us. Quick now!”

  She crawled away like she was told, staying as far away from the Halloween decoration as possible.

  “Juliet,” Quinn whispered.

  “What?”

  “Your cellmate stinks to Heaven.”

  She smothered a giggle, then smothered another when she thought about how silly it was to be giggling in such a place, especially if she considered what might happen in the morning. But for the moment, the man from her dreams was smiling at her, knowing full well she was not Jillian.

  Their visitors, when they stopped at her cell door, were not smiling.

  CHAPTER NINTEEN

  "Ye've been summoned by Himself, madam. Best get on yer feet," said the man with the torch. Two burley dudes who could have bounced for Gabby any day, stood to either side of the door while Martin fiddled with the keys. She wondered if he was fumbling on purpose.

  She looked over at Quinn. He was leaning casually against the far bars, but his eyes didn't miss a thing—not a thing about her, anyway. With more than just a candle's worth of light, it was hard for her to take her eyes off him too, until he gave a slight shake of his head, then looked at the visitors.

  "The mighty Gordon has taken to harassing women now?” He smirked. “I canna wait to see what the neighbors think."

  The guard closest to him kicked at his bars. "Quiet Ross. You willna be about long enough to discover what the neighbors think of anything."

  Quinn just grinned. "No, I won't be around, but you will. I hope they are kind to you men when the castle is overrun."

  "Don't mind him. Watch her," said the other. "Her husband says she's a slippery one."

  Jules looked at Quinn and shook her head. Then she looked back at the goons.

  "Husband?” she said. “I have no husband."

  They laughed at her while they watched Martin fumbling with the keys. One reached out, like he was going to take the ring away from the blind man, but Martin slapped it away. The guard narrowed his eyes, then waved a hand in front of Martin’s face, only to be slapped again.

  “Ye think I canna smell yer oxter each time ye lift that arm? Now back away. Ye’ve made me lose my count. I must start from the beginning all over again.”

  Her stomach was tied in knots but she didn’t dare look at Quinn for comfort. She was absolutely petrified of who might be coming to claim her as a wife. Maybe someone along the road, maybe one of Cheval’s friends, had taken a fancy to her and meant to cart her off to who-knows-where. If they did, who was going to help Quinn get away? And if Quinn didn’t get away, there wouldn’t be anyone coming to her rescue either.

  Of course there was also the hope that Ewan had come looking for her. She’d just have to make sure they took Quinn with them. But the thing she was most afraid of was that the precious dream was over, that she’d never see Quinn again.

  Was that what the dream had been—a warning to make the most of their few moments together?

  Jules shook her head. That couldn’t be it. It couldn’t be all they would have. She wouldn’t allow it. That dream was going to end the way she wanted it to end, and heaven help whoever got in her way!

  Martin sighed and slipped a key in the lock. Her time was up. Quinn had dropped the casual pose and was gripping his own cell door, growling in frustration. She was glad she wasn’t the only one.

  But she couldn’t give up hope. Maybe he’d find a way to escape after all. Maybe he could somehow help her. But just in case someone was there to haul her away, Quinn would need some clue as to where she’d been taken. If it was Ewan, then Quinn would know the Calvary was near.

  "What's this husband’s name?" she demanded as they dragged her from her cell. They had to pry her fingers off the swinging bars, but she didn't make it easy. "Just tell me his name and I'll go quietly."

  "She will not. 'Tis a trick,” said one.

  "No! I promise! Just tell me, right now, who it is who thinks I'm his wife." They had to say the name while Quinn could hear it. She was terrified she’d just disappear, never to be heard from again. Medieval times. Scotland. She had no idea what the rules were, but she suspected that men could just claim a woman and haul her away. Probably not by the hair, though. Hopefully they’d progressed a bit beyond cavemen.

  "Bond, something,” said one man.

  Bond? That wasn't even a Scottish name, was it?

  She held her ground and rolled her eyes. "You don't remember his name?"

  "Here, I do,” said the other. “His name was silly. Said it was Bond James Bond he did. Now you promised to come peaceful-like." The bigger of the two men stepped back and waited for her to comply.

  But how could she comply?

  Bond, James Bond? It had to be G
abby's man. It had to! And if he was allowed to take her away, she couldn’t help Quinn! She’d be dragged back to the twenty-first century and handed over to Gabby. Then they’d both be dead.

  A little image surfaced in her mind of Quinn and her reuniting in the clouds.

  No way! No effing way! She’d finally gotten her hands on him. It was like God had granted her exactly what she’d asked for, and now He was taking it back.

  What had she promised? To give up her revenge on Jillian if she could just have a Highlander of her own. Well, she was going to make sure God stuck to his bargain. She just didn’t know how she was going to do it.

  She spun around and looked at Quinn, but he seemed as alarmed as she was. Of course, he was from the future and would recognize the name of Bond, James Bond. The taunt was clear. McKiller had tracked her down, gotten the ear of Laird Gordon, and they'd made a deal.

  Maybe she wasn’t bulletproof after all.

  A guard tugged on her arm. "Come now, lass. There are witnesses and ye gave us yer word."

  "All right. Just let me say goodbye to—” Wait! She was supposed to act like she didn’t know him, or at least she was supposed to act like she didn’t care. “I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?"

  "Ross. Mister Ross. At your service, milady." He gave her a little bow, but his eyes never left her face.

  "Oh, here now, Laird Ross,” said the bigger guard. “Don't go about propositionin’ a marrit woman. There now. Hold fast to her arms, just in case she bolts. With such a big bounder for a husband, it's understandable her being a mite skittish."

  The guards laughed at her all the way up the steps and into a huge common room. All the while, Jules was aching to return to the dungeon. It was ridiculous, but she felt like every step she took was a betrayal of Quinn, that she shouldn’t ever leave his side. She’d promised. She was supposed to stay until the end.

  She had to go back. No matter what she was offered, she’d have to make sure they took her back to the dungeon.

  ***

  The guards deposited Jules in the middle of the hall and let go. Their arms were poised to grab her again if need be. She rolled her eyes and ignored them.