by L. L. Muir
Quinn had been coming to the same conclusion.
Ewan laughed. “He’s been to Muirsglen before, aye?”
Monty grunted and faced forward with an unkind stare.
“I drugged him a year ago, when Jillian took Morna and Ivar into the future and left him behind. I thought he would kill himself with grievin’, wear himself out walking the path from the Great Ross Chair, to the witch’s hole and back again. More than a dozen times a day, mind. And he wouldna eat. So I drugged his drink. Had him taken to the Muirs to keep him away while I had the cellar filled in. Turned out for the best that I only filled it with barrels of whisky, because the lass came back for ‘im.”
James laughed, then laughed harder when Monty glared at him. As they rode on, the rest of Morna and Ivar’s story came out including a few details that had never been included in his script for the tourists of Castle Ross. Monty also explained how they’d gotten Isobelle out of the tomb.
A few minutes later, Monty and Ewan shared a horrified look, and Quinn knew just what they were thinking.
“Don’t worry about it,” he told them. James here will keep the secret like the rest of us. Who would believe him anyhow? When he starts telling someone that he’s spent time in the fifteenth century, they’ll stop listening.”
James frowned. “But what about Isobelle? Only a wee while ago, we were all ready to go back into the tomb and never return, and no one made mention of her. Did she die?”
Monty turned away, silent.
Quinn didn’t feel as though it was his place to speak of Isobelle.
Ewan shifted in his saddle, then finally, he spoke.
“We dinna ken where she is, James. Our man Ossian went with her, to get her safely settled. We received word from him once, that he and his travelling companion had decided to make a go of things in Spain. We sent a letter there, only to have it returned. A note had been written upon it, claiming the pair had disappeared in the night. We’ve heard nothing since.”
James shifted in his saddle. “And she wasn’t a witch, ye say?”
“Nay,” said Ewan. “Bewitching to be sure. Red hair, like yers, but nary so many curls. Turned men’s heads since the day she was born. Always causin’ trouble.”
James turned to Monty. “Allow me find her for you, Laird Ross.”
Monty wiped an arm across his face before he turned back.
“Why would you say such a thing? This is not yer time. You canna locate her on the internet. She could be anywhere in the wide world—a world that is not so small as you might think at this point in history.”
James grinned. “To tell the truth, I’m not quite ready to go back yet. If this is the only chance I have, I’d like to see more of your time. I may as well see Spain and look around for your sister while I’m at it, aye?”
Monty shook his head. His brow was a threatening thundercloud.
“It willna matter,” he said. “The tomb’s a bit touchy. Only seems to work with Jillian and now, with Juliet. A Muir creation and not to be trusted. For all we ken, we’re stuck here for the rest of our days,” he turned and looked at the Muir clansmen who were once again making use of the road. “Here, among so many Muirs. A tomb. A tunnel. Only God kens what else. We’ll none of us be safe.”
James let the subject drop.
No matter what Monty had said, Quinn had the feeling the man was just touchy about anyone getting a look at, or getting their hands on, his sister. Even if it meant he might see her again. After all, hadn’t he become immediately protective of Juliet? It seemed it was just Monty’s nature.
He hoped Jillian’s baby was a boy, or boys rather, because he pitied the lad who came to court any daughter of Montgomery Ross.
They reached the glen and headed for the side of the hill where a couple of youths might have emerged and perhaps had their presence noted.
“Keep a sharp eye. A young lass and a younger laddie,” said Monty. “I’ve no ken how old Percy was, only that he was a mite younger than our lasses.”
Quinn nodded. He was also hoping that since these Muirs seemed to read their minds, there might be some among them to lead them in the right direction.
Juliet, sweet. I’m coming.
The village spread much further than expected. From a distance, it hadn’t looked like much. As they came nearer, a small city unfolded like a wild rose in bloom. Patches of mist clung to it like morning dew in defiance of the midday sun. Would the mist ever lift completely from a place that sheltered witches?
A tall fort stood at the Eastern edge of town and Quinn wondered if perhaps it hid a good sized castle behind the wooden facade. At one point, they passed through the gates of an ancient wall that likely contained the entire settlement in decades past. Into his mind popped a fanciful image of a city wall that might hide everything and everyone within it from the eyes of their enemies standing ten feet away.
He shuddered.
Ridiculous. He needed to find a handle on his imagination.
An entire clan of witches? Nonsense.
They split up. Monty took James and followed the edge of the hillside. Quinn and Ewan dismounted and led their horses into the village, following the flow of its citizens who seemed much too busy to stop and read the minds of strangers. He was relieved to hear the rather normal hum of voices and laughter.
Eventually, they followed a curve and through a light cloud, they saw a well at the top of the street. Two dozen women stood in line awaiting a turn with the bucket. While they waited, they were all turned their attention to a young woman who stooped before a youngster while she washed his face. The lad was seated on a low stone wall beside a large white-washed cottage.
Quinn froze.
The woman wore Juliet’s leather coat over her plaid gown. The mist made the colors unclear. Her hair was not nearly so neat as Juliet’s had been, and the color was dark, but again, unclear. When she turned to the side, to take a bucket of water from another woman, she didn’t look a day less than twenty.
“But that can’t be!” Quinn’s voice stretched across the distance between them, daring her to turn and prove him wrong. But she didn’t turn.
The boy might have been Percy. He looked like a lad of ten wearing his father’s clothes. His sleeves hung nearly a foot past the bend of his wrist. For once, his plaid covered his knees. When the lad turned and noticed Quinn, there was no hint of recognition. His attention returned to the woman washing his face. She took a handful of his hair to hold him still while she scrubbed.
Turn. Please, turn.
And yet he dreaded her turning. What if she looked at him, as Percy had done, and she would see a stranger. If she, too, turned away from him, what then? Who might stand beside him for the rest of his life and remind him to breathe in, and then out again? Because he would need reminding.
But if he couldn’t find the strength to move his bloody feet, he would never know.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Juliet laughed at something the lad said and for Quinn it was magic enough. Just enough.
He kicked a foot forward, then the other one, as if he were kicking his way out of his own grave. His boots stomped loudly on the packed earth of the street. With no attention to spare his horse, he dropped the leads as he went, determined to face Juliet again, no matter what reaction he might see there.
“Juliet!” he cried as he strode, feeling like a man walking into a wall of spears aimed at his heart. If he stayed back, he’d be safe—he’d never know if she’d forgotten him. But what would it matter? He’d win her heart all over again, even if he had to enlist the aid of a Muir witch to slip him back into her dreams. Even if he had to bide his time while she grew a half-dozen years.
The lad pointed at him. Juliet turned, her eyes following the small filthy finger. Then she straightened and waved to Quinn, waving off that wall of spears.
She knows me!
When he heard Ewan laugh, only then did he realize his distant cousin was still at his side.
“Quin
n,” she called, and in her smile, he saw the reflection of all the relief he felt himself.
No one would need to bid him breathe again.
“Quinn! Ewan! Come and meet this young man. His name is Percy. He’s a terribly brave boy who saved me. I was lost in a cave, and he saved me.”
“Jillian Ross!” Montgomery’s bellow filled the misty air.
Quinn turned in the direction of the sound and saw Jillian running from the road to the right, toward her sister. The Mhairi and Margot appeared next. Montgomery, on horse, was headed up the street behind them. James followed.
Jillian and Juliet embraced as the older sisters slowed and stopped behind them. Quinn was a little disappointed she had yet to throw herself into his arms. He closed the distance to make it easier for her to do so, but she only winked at him and turned back to her sister.
After a flurry of conversation that was too fast for Quinn to understand, Juliet stood speechless while Jillian moved over to the little wall and bent to speak with Percy. The Muirs patted Juliet on the shoulders and laughed.
Quinn prepared to shoo them away just as soon as Juliet gave him permission to do it, but it looked as if Montgomery wanted that pleasure all to himself.
“Mhairi Muir,” he shouted as he dismounted. “Ye’re done for, do ye hear? That goes for yer sister too. But ye’ll be placed in separate dungeons. Mayhap even separate centuries.”
The very pale laird pushed the twins aside to get to his wife, then physically wrenched her attention from young Percy—he took her by the shoulders and gave the slightest shake. “Why would you risk such a thing, Jillian? Why?”
Though Quinn was thrilled to find Juliet untouched by the tunnel’s curse, he, too, was shocked by the risk Jilly had taken.
The woman smiled and patted Monty’s chest. “There was no danger, husband. Because the tunnel holds no curse for Muirs. My grandfather Wickham was a Muir if you remember. Just a drop of Muir blood is enough, so the children were never in danger either.”
Monty suddenly looked around, then sat abruptly on the short wall next to Percy. It took him a moment to catch his breath.
“Children, ye say? Ye ken it for certain?” He smiled, but he still looked a little sick. “That’s grand, aye? But Muirs?”
The last bit he whispered to Jillian but everyone in the vicinity of the well heard it and laughed.
Jillian shook her head. “Only a little bit.”
Monty moaned. Percy offered him a filthy wet cloth and the man took it and pressed it to his head.
The look Jilly then turned on Quinn made him wonder if there was more room on the wall, next to the lad.
“Quinn,” she said. “I’ve just broken the news to Juliet that our grandfather was a Muir. It’s the reason the tunnel had no effect on her. But I think she might need a little consoling too.”
Juliet stood just out of reach looking a mite green, but he couldn’t seem to cover the distance. His knees had dissolved—his legs just didn’t know it yet. Any second, he was going to be a lifeless pile of pudding in the dirt. He could only look at her, helpless.
Finally, Juliet stepped up to him and took his hand, and just in time too. At least he was still standing—that was, until James pounded him on the back.
“She might be a Muir,” he said, laughing, “but she doesna look too young to me, laddy.”
Quinn’s mind sputtered.
A Muir? He was in love with a Muir twin? And possibly a Muir witch?
His feet bid him run. His heart bid him stay. His body made the decision and leaned toward her.
No. I am but in love with a lass...
He gathered her into his arms and the world around them quieted. Her leather sleeves were cool against his neck as she wrapped her fingers in his hair and pulled him close. When their lips were separated by only a breath, she spoke.
“Are you sure you want to kiss a Muir?”
He pulled back an inch and gave her a frown.
-old skull. E“Do you suppose we could discuss your lineage another time?”
She shook her head. “No, actually. I’m not going to fall in love with a guy who thinks I’m some kind of jinx.”
Her fingers started slipping away, so he grabbed her around the waist and lifted her, to encourage her to hold on a bit tighter.
She squeaked.
His heart tripped but his legs held up fine.
“First of all,” he said, “it’s far too late for that. You’re already in love with me.”
“Oh?” She raised a brow, but her eyes were still locked on his lips. A good sign, that.
He ignored her interruption and went on.
“Secondly, how can I curse your Muir blood when it brought you to me? And now that same blood has seen you safely through the accursed tunnel? Fine blood indeed.”
Juliet studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay. You can kiss me then.”
He reluctantly lowered her to her feet and bent to kiss her, but pulled back and searched her face.
“No arguments?” he asked.
“No arguments.”
She gave a little grunt of frustration as she was poised on her toes for that kiss.
“Swear it.”
She frowned and lowered back onto her heels, suspicious.
“Just what am I swearing to?”
Ewan poked his nose between them. They both recoiled a bit from the man’s beard.
“He wants yer vow, lass,” he said. “That ye love ‘im. Ye made no argument when he claimed that ye’ve fallen in love with ‘im, aye?”
Quinn glared at Ewan until the man backed away with his hands raised. Then he turned to Juliet, lifted her hand, and gave the back of it a long gentle kiss. He stared into her eyes and willed her to know that he’d prefer to be kissing her lips.
“No arguments?” he murmured.
She shook her head and bit her lip. “You won’t want me.”
“Too late for that as well, Juliet.”
“But what if I already had a child?” she asked. “Would that make a difference?”
His brows rose. There was no stopping them.
“I’m surprised to hear it,” he admitted. “But only because you’ve never mentioned a child before now. But no, it would make no difference.”
He dropped down on one knee, never more sure that he should do so. Ewan snorted off to his right. Quinn would have taken a moment to gather his courage, but he needed none. It was the simplest thing he’d done since he’d agreed to change places with Monty a year ago.
“Marry me, Juliet.”
She sucked in a breath and held it for a moment. Her consent was already written on her face, dancing in her eyes. But then she sobered enough to give him pause.
“But how would you feel,” she paused, “about raising a boy that wasn’t your own?”
Quinn grinned. That was her only worry?
“He’s mine already. Now take pity, so we can get around to that kiss.”
She looked to the ground and bit her bottom lip again.
So, there is more?
“And what if he were a Gordon?” she said. “Could you find it in your heart to love a Gordon?”
She’d whispered the last, as if fearful someone might hear her words and be offended by them. Then he understood.
He leaned to the left and peered around her hip at the childlike version of Percy Gordon. He looked quite the orphan in his ill-fitting garments. The problem was, the child was no orphan, and even if he’d forgotten the past ten years of his life, he would still remember who he was and the fact that his father was laird of the mighty Gordon clan.
Quinn pushed up off his knee and pulled Juliet aside so none could hear their conversation but the odd Muir witch or two that might be eavesdropping on his thoughts.
One of the sisters, likely Margot, laughed loudly and led her sister over to the well.
Quinn tasted metal, but it no longer frightened him, knowing the cause. He only wished it would go away before Juliet tasted
it from his own lips. First, he had to explain why she couldn’t simply claim Percy Gordon as her own.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it.
“I’m not sending him back to that bastard,” she said. “And I’m not going to tell him that his beloved William wasted away in that dungeon. If he goes back, he’ll have to suffer that loss all over again. And they’re not going to believe who he is—they’ll probably burn him as a witch like they were going to do to you!”
“Juliet. Sweet. We’re going to have to send him back through the tunnel. When he gets to the other side, we’ll explain to him what’s happened, help him all we can before we’re on our way.”
She stepped back from him then, horrified. Slowly, her head began to shake.
“No,” she said. “He’s a child. You send him back through that tunnel, and he’ll be a child in a man’s body. And he’ll have to learn it all again, including what his father did to William. I won’t let you do it.”
He thought it best to hold his tongue for a bit. The village square was no place to discuss such things, even though anyone with the Muir name likely knew about the tunnel and its workings.
He turned to James.
“Would you mind rounding up the horses?”
James grinned and headed down the street.
“Quinn Ross!”
The gathering crowd parted and an ancient man made his way forward with an equally ancient walking stick that must have weighed thirty pounds. Patches of white hair covered less than half of the hundred-year ach time the stick lifted seemed a miracle. Each step he took seemed a victory over death itself.
“Quinn Ross,” he said again, with the strong voice of a much younger man. “This lad’s fate is out of yer hands and now into mine.”
Juliet was suddenly at Quinn’s side again, clutching his arm like he was her personal walking stick—or the stick she planned to use to beat back an old man if he was foolish enough to get in her way.
