by L. L. Muir
There was an empty gap in their little circle, where James had stood.
“Son of a bitch.” Monty glared at the empty space.
Jillian laughed. “Well, at least your cursing is improving.”
“Jillian, dear!” came a sweet shaky voice from below. It had to be one of the old Muir sisters who’d first sent Jules into the tomb.
“I guess we’ve arrived,” she said.
It was a little shocking that she’d felt nothing at all. Inhaling in the fifteenth century, exhaling in the twenty-first.
Quinn finally let go of her wrist and tapped Percy on the shoulder.
“You can let go now, lad.”
“Jillian? Did ye find yer sister?”
“Yes, I did,” Jillian said with a smile.
“Well, then, there are a couple of surly gentlemen who suggest that she comes out with her hands where they might readily see them.”
***
Up at the manor house, Jules the Prisoner, was held in the upstairs bathroom—or rather, the upstairs loo—for two reasons. First, no one trusted her not to escape before things were settled, and secondly, Quinn refused to let anyone lay a hand on her, let alone allow two agents to hold her by the elbows. The loo, with its small transom window through which no adult human could escape, became the only option.
She didn’t know what those good old boys from New York had told them about her, but the men sent to apprehend her treated Juliet Bell like she was trouble. The fact that James hadn’t turned up with the rest of them hadn’t helped. What did they think, that she was a cop-killer. A bobby-killer?
It wasn’t funny, but you know, it kinda was.
“James would have thought it was funny,” she mumbled.
The bathroom door whipped open and Jules had to back up against the side of the toilet to allow enough room for Quinn and Monty to squeeze inside and shut the door behind them.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“I made a few calls,” Quinn said. “They are British Secret Service. One of them is James’ supervisor. He had no problem believing that James would take a leave of absence and head to Spain after making sure we were home safely. A couple blokes climbed into the tomb, but came back out again, thankfully.”
“Aye, thankfully,” said Monty. “Get on with it then,” he said to Quinn.
“Get on with what?” she asked.
Quinn’s face reddened. “Och, my uncle here doesn’t believe you mean to wed me.”
Monty snorted. “That’s a fact. I doona believe it.”
Jules didn’t know whether to be offended or not. Of course Monty didn’t know her well, but did he really believe that she’d take the money and run?
“It doesn’t matter what he believes, though, does it? It matters what you believe,” she said to Quinn. It kind of hurt that he doubted her, after all they’d been through.
“Och, now, Juliet. Of course I believe you. I just want Monty to shut his gob and stop his teasin’. If you’ll just tell him...”
“Wait.” Monty pulled out a plaid scarf he’d had dangling from his waistband. “If she’s going to make a promise, she’ll need to bind it. Hold up her hand.”
Quinn inched around to the far side of the toilet and took her hand right hand in his right hand, then lifted it up. Monty stepped forward and started wrapping their hands together. Jules was just glad the toilet lid was down.
“What in the hell are you doing?” she demanded.
“Binding yer promise,” Monty said simply, like she was stupid to have asked. “Ye canna break a promise that’s been bound, lass.”
Quinn just smiled at her and shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the world to be holding hands over a toilet asking her to promise that she would marry him.
“Of course I’m going to marry you,” she said, “but only if you don’t make a habit of doing silly shit like this.”
Quinn looked at Monty. “Yes, I pledge to marry the lovely foul-mouthed lass. Will that do?”
Monty frowned, then nodded. “I bear witness to it.”
Jules rolled her eyes.
The scarf was pulled away and Monty stuck only his head out the door.
“I think you should kiss me, lass.” Quinn leaned forward.
She shook her head. “I am not kissing you over a toilet.”
He huffed and stuck out his lovely bottom lip. She was incredibly tempted to reconsider.
Monty laughed quietly. “Stop yer moonin’ and come on. We’re not supposed to be in here. Juliet, ye’ll stay put.”
Quinn gave her a wink and then backed out of the room, grinning, pulling the door shut behind him.
She hurried to the door and pressed her ear against the thick white paint. She thought she heard men giggling on the stairs.
Men.
She shook her head and climbed into the footed bathtub. If they were going to make her wait, she was going to sleep and it wasn’t going to be on the toilet.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The bathroom door burst open.
“She’s gone!” a man shouted.
“No, I’m not,” she hollered and sat up in the tub.
An agent jumped sideways with a gun pointed at her.
“Nevermind,” he hollered toward the door. “She’s here.”
He kept his gun trained on her while she stretched her shoulders—the tub was far too short for her to have slept comfortably.
Then she laughed as the pins and needles worked themselves out of her muscles. Out of all the things that had frightened her in the last ten days, the guy with the gun was the least frightening of all.
“He’s awake,” another man said from the hallway. “He says it wasn’t her.”
The agent sneered at her but holstered his gun. Then he went out and shut the door.
“What?” she called over the side of the tub. “No apology?”
About five minutes later, the door opened again.
The squatty one must have picked the short straw. He stood back with his feet braced apart like he thought she was going to rush him. He looked so nervous, she hoped they didn’t allow him to keep real bullets in his gun. Thankfully, he hadn’t drawn that weapon, yet.
She climbed out of the tub and stretched.
Squatty nodded the direction she was supposed to go. She wanted to yell boo! at him as she passed, but she was afraid she’d get shot for it. Some laughs just aren’t worth dying for, but she couldn’t help holding up her hands and shaking them.
“Uh, oh. Where’d my handcuffs go?”
Squatty’s eyes bulged and she thought he was going to pee himself. Then he frowned. He must have remembered she hadn’t been cuffed in the first place.
She chuckled while he nudged her down the wide hallway and into a large study. The very handsome middle-aged man in the suit sat behind the desk and smiled. He’d been the same man who’d been sitting in the great hall when they’d all been escorted out of the cellar.
She smiled back.
Behind her right foot, something snorted, and she jumped. But it wasn’t an animal—it was Quinn. He was lying on his stomach with his hands cuffed behind him. His head was up, though, and he winked.
She was thrilled to see him and worried about the handcuffs, but with as nervous as everyone seemed to be, she didn’t dare kneel next to him. Since their little conversation in the bathroom, he’d taken the time to change into jeans, but he still had on the loose yellow shirt he’d been wearing since they’d returned from Muirsglen. And he was barefoot.
Nice jeans, she thought, but she’d have to study them later.
She turned back to the suit. “What did he do?”
The man’s smile turned into a grin. She didn’t trust him worth spit.
“Assaulted one of my men,” he said.
“Allegedly,” Quinn said cheerfully.
“Well, I’m not about to disbelieve my own agent, Mr. Ross. And I doubt he bloodied his own nose.”
Quinn laughed. “Is he certa
in it was me?”
A man walked in from the hallway with a small bag of ice held to his face.
“Oh, I’m quite certain it was you,” he said, and drew back a foot, just a little, to kick Quinn, but stopped when Jules pointedly cleared her throat. He stepped away from her and moved to the window like he thought she might sully his suit. But she would have done more than that if he’d have finished that kick.
Montgomery barged in behind the injured man, ignoring the policeman hanging around his neck. Someone from the hallway hollered for a stun gun. The policeman jumped down and backed out the door.
“What the devil have ye done to me nephew?” Monty took Quinn by the shoulders and helped him to his feet. “Well?” He turned a threatening frown toward the suit.
The suit just grinned. “Just one moment, sir, while Chambers here gets a good look at you. Perhaps he’s not so certain who struck him after all.”
Chambers looked from Ross to Ross and back again.
“Shit,” he said, then stormed out.
The suit nodded to another man who stepped forward to take off Quinn’s cuffs.
Quinn smiled. “Thank you, uncle.”
“Not at all. But be quick about this, if ye can. We’re waitin’ that special supper on ye.” Monty threw Jules a wink, then left.
Someone in the hallway shouted, “Halt!”
Another shouted, “Tase ‘im!”
“Shite!” shouted a masculine, but high voice.
There was a loud thud, then a knocking.
After a second or two of silence, they heard Monty’s laughter moving away.
The Suit rolled his eyes and mumbled something about hoping someone got it in the ass.
“Please, Ms. Bell, take a seat,” he said. “Let’s get on with it so I can save the remainder of my men from well-meaning Highlanders.”
Jules plopped into one of the two chairs facing the desk. She thought Quinn would take the other one, but he came to stand behind her instead. She was surprised how glad she was to feel him so near. Then it hit her—she wasn’t alone. And if she played her cards right, if she tried to be as nice to these Scots as they were to her, she might not ever be alone again.
“It’s not Bell. It’s Ross,” Quinn said. “Juliet Ross. My wife.”
Jules bit her lip. She couldn’t believe he was lying to a government agent.
The suit raised a brow and brought his fingers together. His elbows rested on the arms of the large red leather chair.
“Married?” he said. “We have no record of it. Let me guess. This wedding was rather recent?”
“We’re handfasted,” Quinn replied. “You understand handfasting, Lord Dunbar?”
This guy is a Lord? And what the hell is handfasting?
Dunbar threw his head back and laughed. “You know that won’t matter.”
“It matters to me.” Quinn bent down and whispered in her ear. “That business we conducted in the loo, lass, was Scottish marriage the old way. Yer mine now.”
All Jules got out of it was loo and marriage. He’d married her in the bathroom? Was he effing kidding?
There was no time to find out.
“And I’m certain,” Quinn addressed Dunbar again, “the legality of handfasting would have to be addressed, as would any extradition of a British citizen, would take a wee while to sort out.”
She really didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. She wanted to go back to the states. And she needed to go now.
“Look,” she said. “I have to get to New York, to testify. If we don’t get moving, it will be too late.”
If anyone could get her there in time, it should be these guys.
Dunbar stopped playing with his fingers and leaned forward. “I’m afraid your testimony is no longer necessary. The defendant was murdered.”
“Defendant? You mean Gabby?” Her heart sped up. It was all she could hear.
Gabby was dead? Her Gabby?
“Gabby Skedros is dead?” She was finally able to ask it out loud. “You’re sure?”
“I’m afraid so.” Dunbar watched her closely. “He was poisoned. Of course you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? You’ve been in Scotland since you landed nearly two weeks ago?”
He’d said it, but he didn’t believe it. His condescending tone made her nauseous. He was no different than the Feds she’d dealt with for months, trying to make her feel like a guilty prisoner, instead of the witness they were supposed to be protecting. But with Gabby dead, she wouldn’t need protecting anymore.
“I didn’t want Gabby dead,” she said. “I wanted to look him in the eye when I testified. I wanted to tell him what a coward he was for shooting a defenseless boy. I wanted to assure him that Nikkos would have hated him in those seconds before he died. I wanted to show him he would never get the chance to betray me like that. I was going to betray him. For Nikkos.”
Quinn’s hand rested on her shoulder and she reached up and touched his fingers. She wanted to double over and puke out the hate she’d been carrying around for a man that was already dead. She didn’t need to hold onto it anymore. She could let it go. And she did. In a flood of silent tears.
She didn’t care who saw, or what they thought. She had to let it out.
She had Quinn. And she didn’t want that stored up hate anywhere near him.
Jules thought of Percy and the fact that he would never have to taste that intense hatred of his father. And she wouldn’t either. She was done. It was over. She and Percy would move on.
Quinn cleared his throat. “If her testimony is no longer required, why the need to restrain her?”
Dunbar’s smile helped her get a grip. She could almost hear the rattle of his snake’s tale.
“Assault of a Federal Officer is a serious charge,” he said pleasantly. “An FBI agent by the name of Dixon is demanding her head, or at the very least, her extradition.”
Quinn laughed. “What did she do, bash him on the head?”
Jules laughed as she wiped away her tears. How well he knew her already.
Dunbar opened up a laptop and turned it to face her. Agent Dixon’s mug flashed up in a Skype frame.
She stopped laughing, but didn’t lose her smile.
“Hello, Dickie,” she chirped.
The man’s face turned red. It was always red. Easiest man in the world to goad. She couldn’t believe the FBI took him on.
“Yes, Lord Dunbar,” Dickie said. “That’s her. Be careful. She’s very dangerous. I’d suggest a full set of chains and perhaps a muzzle for transport.”
Quinn reached over and spun the laptop away from her. “Lord Dunbar? May I have just a moment’s time to defend my wife?”
Dunbar smiled and nodded. “You may have five minutes. Then we’ll take her and go in spite of your handfasting. If you want to spend that five minutes defending her, be my guest, but—”
Quinn was already gone.
She could hear him running down the hall and then...nothing.
Well, at least he was hurrying. Maybe he’d even get back in time for some macking before they hauled her out. And she needed to remind him that he would be in charge of taking care of Percy while she was gone. She just hoped she wasn’t going away for a very long time.
She refused to panic. She’d gone from witness to defendant so fast her head was spinning. They were going to have to give her some time before they could expect her to take them seriously.
But if she really was going to face charges, it would be Dickie’s word against hers. She’d only been defending herself from the slime ball. Surely the ass had treated other witnesses like he’d treated her. She just had to insist the FBI look into that. But it might take some time. She just hoped Quinn’s and Percy’s lives wouldn’t move on before she could make it back.
Of course, she’d have plenty of money for the ticket, but that hardly raised her heart rate anymore. Money was everything ten days ago. Now there were so many more things in line ahead of it.
Well
, not things—people.
Quinn came back in the room breathing hard. He gave her a wink, but didn’t come to her for some quality goodbyes. He walked around the desk and shared a very private whisper with Lord Dunbar.
Lord Dunbar cleared his throat, like he was trying to cover up the fact that he’d almost laughed. Then he nodded and turned forward.
“Proceed, Mr. Ross,” he said.
Quinn spun the laptop to face her again, then stood beside her.
“Agent Dixon, are you there?” he asked, even though the man’s face was filling the screen.
“Yes, I’m here,” he said, like he was doing everyone a favor by squeezing this conference call into his schedule.
“Is this the woman who assaulted you, sir?”
He took Juliet’s head and moved it until it was up close to the monitor.
“Yes. That’s her.”
“You’re certain?” Quinn’s hands wouldn’t let her sit back in her chair and she was dying to ask him what he was doing. Dunbar had one hand over his mouth and he was turning as red as Dickie.
Suddenly, Quinn let go of her head.
“Just one more moment, if you please, Agent Dixon.” He spun the laptop away again, then went to the doorway and pulled Jillian into the room. He gestured for Jules to get her ass out of the chair, then sat Jillian in her spot. He wiped the smile off his face and spun the laptop back.
“Hello, Dickie,” Jillian said.
The agent’s face darkened again. “What is this?”
“Just tell us what you see, Agent Dixon,” Quinn said.
Jules backed up against a bookcase to make sure she wasn’t part of the picture. She’d needed something to lean on anyway.
“I see the face of my assailant. How many times do I have to say it?”
Quinn butted in front of Jillian and grinned into Dickie’s face. “That should do it, I think.” He spun the laptop back to face Lord Dunbar. “My lord?”
Dunbar cleared his throat and sat forward in his crisp expensive suit to address the screen.
“Agent Dixon. You have just positively identified two different females, and I refuse to extradite a handful of British citizens just so you can take your pick. I strongly suggest you drop the charges against Juliet Bell—that is, Juliet Bell Ross—and if you feel we have erred, please invite your American superiors to contact me personally. I, for one, am certain they will find today’s events to be quite amusing.”
