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

by L. L. Muir

  One look at the men lining the room and Jules realized this would be like a practice run for the trial in seven days—the trial she hoped was still scheduled because she still intended to be there to testify. It had taken her three days to get into this mess. Even if it took her as long to get out, she’d still have time to make a flight to New York.

  Yeah, it was like a practice run, but instead of just one cold-blooded murderer at the front of the room, there were two. The Dungeon Master and McKiller.

  As the big redhead turned, she braced herself for the sneer she expected on his face. But she was wrong. He was frowning.

  Still mad, huh?

  He stood off to the left of a rough-looking throne in which sat a large balding man. The straggly strands of hair growing out the sides of that one’s head were orange on the end. Once upon a time, he probably had hair just like his visitor.

  McKiller stepped forward. "Are ye harmed, Juliet?"

  He was an incredible actor. For a second, she could almost believe he was worried. But why should he care how she'd been treated? As long as he was able to take her back to Gabby, a bruise here and there didn't matter.

  He held out his arms and briefly narrowed his eyes, like a warning to play along.

  She shook her head. "Sorry. I don't know you, pal. Nice try though."

  She turned around to go back to the dungeon, but Moe and Curly blocked her path. Finally, when her dirtiest look didn’t affect them, she turned back to McKiller.

  The redhead took a step toward her, but the one on the throne, presumably Laird Gordon, held out an arm, as if his reach were so vast he could hold the man back while sitting six feet away. He was draped in furs in spite of the summer weather. She wondered if they were the symbol of his power, somehow.

  "Nay, Bond,” Gordon said. “As ye so kindly pointed out, me hostage's wellbeing is me duty to protect. I canna have the likes of ye stomp into me hall and claim any woman ye like."

  McKiller looked the laird over like he was trying to decide the least messy way to take him out, or the best angle from which he might break the old man’s neck. His would-be victim gave him a look that screamed, “Go ahead, idiot. Make my day.”

  Finally, McKiller looked back at Jules.

  "My men saw her taken by Cheval,” he said. “Cheval agreed, with a bit of persuasion, to tell us where he'd left her. How else would I have known where to find my wife?"

  He shifted his weight, to take another step, but thought better of it. He finally settled for glaring at Gordon. No one in the room seemed worried enough to defend the older man if the younger one attacked. Maybe they didn’t care.

  "How indeed?” said Gordon. “But can you explain why the lass would deny yer claim, then? She looks of sound mind to me."

  Juliet smiled at the awful man and tried to forget, for the moment, that he'd let his own son rot in the basement.

  She gave a little curtsy. "Thank you, sir. My mind is just fine."

  Gordon lost his smile when she spoke. She guessed her accent sucked.

  "Juliet, darlin'," said McKiller, smirking. "Didn't I say you'd stick out like a sore thumb?"

  She lifted her chin. "I really don't know what you’re talking about.” She was feeling very Scarlet O’Hara at the moment. Maybe all women felt that way when men were fighting over them, but since it was yet another experience that was new to her, she could only guess.

  McKiller’s face turned a shade of red that clashed with his hair, and he lowered his head like a bull getting ready to charge. She couldn’t fight her instincts on this one and took a step back.

  "Laird Gordon,” the man’s voice boomed through the room that was slowly filling with an audience. “Clearly, someone among you has seduced my woman away from me. Who is it? Who of yer clan has shared private speech with my wife? I demand satisfaction."

  As it happened, McKiller towered head and shoulders over just about everyone in the castle. Quinn Ross was the only man she’d seen in the last two days who might come close. That big mane of red hair made him look like the king of the lions demanding his dinner, and she’d be damned if every Gordon clansmen didn't take a half-step back too. Their laird called a man to him who leaned close to have a private conversation, clearly not interested in whether the lion got fed or not.

  But what was McKiller trying to do? Get someone to fight him? No one knew her there. And no one in their right mind would want to fight the guy for her. Was he hoping Laird Gordon would give her over because no one had the guts to oppose him?

  Damn it! She was not going to leave with him!

  She put her hands on her hips. “You want someone to fight for me, is that it, Bond?”

  He and the old man both looked at her like she was no more than a fly buzzing around their heads. The latter went back to his conversation. McKiller went back to puffing out his chest and glaring at anyone who didn’t look away fast enough.

  She decided she needed to make herself look a little more significant, so she marched over to a young kid and pushed him off his stool, then she climbed up on it.

  “Can you hear me better now?” she hollered.

  McKiller rolled his eyes. Laird Gordon looked at her like she’d sprouted an extra nose and he couldn’t see it as clearly as he’d like. When the guy Gordon had been conversing with finally turned to look at her, he gasped. Gordon shoved him away with disgust.

  “If anybody’s going to fight for me,” she paused for dramatic effect. “It’s going to be me!”

  Some laughed along with McKiller. Most sighed and turned away from her like they were disappointed she hadn’t done or said something more exciting. Gordon turned slightly to say something to her so-called husband, but she had the feeling his was the only attention she had.

  Well, if they wanted excitement, they were going to get it.

  She hopped off the stool and grabbed a tankard out of a man’s hand. Then she spun around and lent a little momentum to the most important pitch of her life. She had hoped to catch McKiller off guard, but he deflected the heavy cup. When it flew to the right and dinged Laird Gordon on the head, she suspected he’d done it on purpose.

  Fifty people gasped before the tankard stopped spinning on the floor.

  She tried bravado first.

  “Softball pitcher. High school.”

  Bond just grinned.

  She tried defense.

  “I told you I was going to fight for myself.”

  Laird Gordon stood up. His head was so red she was worried it would explode and McKiller would grab her and flee in the confusion.

  She tried distraction. She was good at distraction.

  “Come on, Bond. Let’s see what you’ve got. Let’s say if I can knock you to the ground, just once, you have to go away and leave me alone.”

  The big man turned to the laird. “You see? She clearly protects someone. I demand to ken the man’s name.”

  Well, something worked; Gordon sat back down.

  "Who is it, woman?” the old man asked. “One of me sons?" His eyes sparkled. He had sons that he hadn’t killed yet? And so many he could afford to lose one in a fight with McKiller?

  Jules shook her head in disgust. “No. The only one of your sons that I’ve spent any time with...is the one in your dungeon.”

  Someone roared, but it wasn’t Laird Gordon. It was someone standing behind her. She ducked sideways, expecting to be attacked. But it was Percy, the one with long legs and a short kilt. He stood with his hands fisted and his face as red as his father’s.

  McKiller. He might be able to get away, or something. “How dare you,” he hissed at her. Then he gave her a look that turned her blood cold—a look that said she’d pay. She’d been in plenty of danger in the last three days, but this time she didn’t have shock to numb her. This time, she believed she was screwed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. Of course she’d been insensitive to the father. She hadn’t meant to hurt the son.

  “Father,” he called out. “S
he is protecting your prisoner, Laird Ross. They’ve had hours of...private speech...since she arrived. She’s spoken to none else.”

  No! Quinn was in no shape to fight anyone. He’d told her he was already suffering from a serious concussion!

  Low murmurs filled the hall. Laird Gordon laughed at his tall visitor. McKiller glared at her, but she could tell by the lifted corner of his mouth he was pretty pleased with himself; the glare was just part of his act.

  Laird Gordon gestured wide with one arm. "Oh, by all means, Mister Bond. Have yer revenge. Here, in the hall for all to enjoy. Be warned, he used to be a grand fighter. But of late, he's gone soft in the mind and likely the middle." He looked over her shoulder. "Percy! Return the hellcat to the dungeon. Bring up the old Ross laird. Perhaps we can dispense with the hanging and go straight to the burnin’."

  Holy shit. It was Quinn they had planned to burn as a witch? Hang him? Burn him? Beat him to death? He had to get out of there!

  Jules ran forward. She had to do something, to say something that would make them listen to her.

  “Bond! I’ll do whatever you ask! I’ll go along quietly, I swear. Just don’t hurt him!”

  “Come,” Percy barked behind her and grabbed her arm.

  With one hand on her elbow, he bent her arm up behind her and steered her in a circle, then headed her back the way she’d come. She had no choice. She’d never taken a self-defense class that might help her get out of the hold he had on her. She tried to move faster, to gain a little slack, but he stayed right on her.

  "Why can't I stay and watch?" Jillian whined as loud as she dared. There was no way Gordon missed it, but he ignored her and hollered to someone to bring him a drink. If she provoked him, she might just end up chained next to his son. Then she wondered if it was that threat that kept the rest of his clan in line.

  Once they were in the side passage, Percy took her wrist and released the painful hold on her arm. Only when the pain subsided did she realize how much it had hurt.

  “Come,” said Percy again, almost gently.

  Had he already forgiven her? Was he regretting his outburst?

  “Please,” she said softly. “Don’t let them kill him.”

  Percy didn’t even blink.

  She let him lead her to the stairs instead of trying to make a break for it. That had been the goal, after all, to return to the dungeons to be with Quinn. But they wouldn’t be together for long. As much as she didn’t want to be left down there in the dark, however, she held on to a little morsel of hope that Quinn might beat

  Something. Please, God, anything.

  She could worry about herself later. After all, in a place where so little was expected of a woman, she could surely catch someone off guard and get away. But would it be in time to do any good? And would she and Quinn ever have the chance to finish that dream the way she wanted it finished?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  At the first landing, Percy handed her off to the tall guard, then followed them down the steps. Jules felt the others hesitate just a fraction of a second, just as she had, when the smell of a rotting body hit them. Continuing on, everyone walked a little slower, in no rush to be immersed completely in that invisible cloud.

  Had Skully been the only one to die there? Probably not. And his bones looked far too bare for him to have died recently.

  She shook her head to keep from imagining of what other atrocities the laird of Clan Gordon might be capable of. That head shaking put her off-balance, however, and she tripped. Percy, strangely enough, helped steady her.

  The big guard returned her rather roughly to her cell. She felt rather than saw Quinn stiffen in the shadows. She took his lead and didn’t rush to the bars like she wanted to. They were back together, but it would be short-lived. And she didn’t want Percy to imagine more than he already had.

  Or had he imagined anything at all? Maybe he’d been there, in the shadows around the arch, listening to their conversations. Maybe he’d known about the kiss. Maybe when he’d offered up Quinn as a punishment for her cruel mention of his brother, he’d known precisely how much it might hurt her in the end.

  And if that was so, ignoring Quinn now would be wasting her last chance to speak with him, because she knew, in the pit of her stomach, that no matter how this all ended, she’d never be granted that dream again. This was it. All those practice runs were over.

  This time, she was going to have to say goodbye.

  She pushed her tears back. There would be plenty of time to cry later, once she was alone.

  She turned to face the cell door and stole a look at Quinn. His worry was plain, though he tried to mask it. Her insides begin to melt and those tears threatened to defy her. It had been so very long since anyone had worried about her. If she let herself cry, though, he'd only worry more, and he was going to need his head in the game. Especially if he'd gone soft, as Gordon said he had. Quinn was the one they should be worrying about.

  "I have good news and bad news," she said cheerfully, ignoring the finalistic clang of her prison door. "Good news is I'm back."

  Quinn glanced at Percy, then shrugged his shoulders and leaned against the far bars. He folded his arms, like he was bored.

  She sighed. “By the way, I’m pretty sure Percy speaks English.”

  Percy didn’t flinch as he took the keys from Martin in exchange for the torch. Then he moved the old man’s arm to show him where the light must be held.

  Still watching Percy, she said, “Notice how he wasn’t even curious when his name was mentioned?”

  "Is that the bad news?" Quinn had sounded casual, but his fingers were digging into his own arms.

  Percy began trying the keys in the door of Quinn’s cell.

  "Not all of it,” she said. “The other bad news is the guy who claims to be my husband is Gabby's hitman. When I insisted I didn’t know him, he started ranting about needing satisfaction from whoever had been turning my head.”

  She knew she was wasting time, but how did she tell him he might be about to die.

  "And then?"

  Quinn was no longer leaning. His hands were on his hips and he was looking right at her. He still stood on the far side of his cell, though. She got the impression he’d already guessed what came next.

  "Percy told him it was you. You were right. He knows that I care about you and he used it against me. I don’t think he planned to, but he was angry because I mentioned...Skully.”

  Quinn nodded slightly, but didn’t move any closer.

  Jules couldn’t take it anymore and grabbed the bars that separated them. They were out of time.

  “He already knows, Quinn. He already knows.”

  A heartbeat later he was pressed against the bars, pulling her tight. She was so relieved she could have laughed. Percy and Martin disappeared in the background. It was only them. Together again. He was kissing her all over her face, missing her mouth in spite of her trying to help him find it.

  “Your chances of escaping are much better above ground, right?” she whispered, since her mouth was currently not in use. “I still think my stand-by plan is better than nothing—bash him on the head and fight your way out. His nose might be broken, so I’d try to hit him there first."

  Quinn kissed both eyes, then pulled back a little. By the look on his face, he wasn’t any more impressed with her plan that he was the first time she’d shared it. Then dread struck her in the chest like a boxing glove.

  “You do know how to fight, don’t you?”

  He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Of course I ken how to fight. Am I not a Scot? We’re taught in Primary School. Now, go back to the part where you were lusting after the man in yer dreams, aye?"

  A key clicked in the lock and they froze. Percy rattled it, but it did not turn. He tried the next key. For a dungeon with only two cells, there were a helluva lot of keys on that ring. But one of them was going to fit.

  Their hearts were pounding like horses’ hooves. She could hear her pulse in h
er ear where his hand covered it. She could feel his heart beating in his neck.

  It was time. This was it. That last chance for a kiss. And if he kissed her like a damned butterfly, she was going to rip the bars apart and make him do it better.

  “Kiss me, damn it,” she whispered.

  He smiled at her and winked, his eyes sparkling in the light from the torch that Martin silently held.

  Obviously, Percy was too impatient to wait for a blind man to find the right key, but even Martin didn’t take so long to unlock the doors.

  She popped up on her toes and stretched her neck at the same time Quinn’s mouth came down firmly on hers. He seemed to understand that she wasn’t looking for butterflies. And except for bumping into the bars a few times, they managed to make more than their jailers disappear. His short whiskers were a soft brushed against her chin. His hand moved across her cheek and into her hair, like he needed to know the texture of it as badly as she’d needed to know the feel of his lips. When she finally had to stop to catch her breath and give her toes a break, she didn’t back away, but leaned her forehead against his chest, and for the first time since she’d landed in Scotland, she didn’t envy her sister.

  Well, much anyway. At least Jillian would still have her Highlander tomorrow. Jules didn’t know what she’d have beyond this memory.

  He smelled good for having been in a dungeon for days. And his shirt was a little too tight, like it wasn’t meant for him, but it was clean. She reached through the bars and ran her hands up his arms.

  "Please tell me you can protect yourself."

  "I can protect myself,” he murmured.

  "Really? Because Bond James Bond is in pretty good shape. He's probably planning to open up a can of karate on your cute arse, you know?"

  "Cute arse?" He let go of her and turned, so they could both get a better view.

  Him trying to get a good look at his own ass was going to be mental snapshot she would never forget.

  “Very nice,” she said. “Now please don’t let him damage it.”

  He grabbed the bars again, just a few inches above her own hands and she realized what he was trying to do. Letting go of each other would have been painful and he’d ripped that bandage off before she had a chance to think about it.