Not Without Juliet (A Scottish Time Travel Romance) (Muir Witch Project #2) (19 page)

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 Gabby'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.

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. “She 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.