Not Without Juliet (A Scottish Time Travel Romance) (Muir Witch Project #2) (30 page)

“What is it?” she hollered. “What’s the promise?”

“The tunnel. You must all promise that no one will ken of it.”

“An easy promise to keep,” said Quinn.

“But ye must all vow, and Ewan as well, that the tunnel will never be destroyed.”

Monty was already shaking his head.

Jillian bent and looked through the hole. “Why, ladies? Why can’t we destroy it? What if our children wander inside?”

“They would need to be shown the way. If ye keep the first promise, ye’ll have naught to fear.”

“Why?” Jules had the feeling they weren’t telling them everything. “Why can’t we get rid of it?”

There was a long pause. No one moved. No one let go of her.

“Someone else moves within the tunnel. Cursed. And yet there is hope, as long as the tunnel remains.”

There hadn’t been anyone inside the tunnel but Percy and her. Or had there? They’d been watching their feet the entire way.

A shiver rose through her and she looked at Jillian. Her sister felt it too. The tunnel shouldn’t be destroyed.

“We promise,” they said in unison, then laughed. No one else in their little circle seemed to think it was funny. Under the circumstances, Jules resisted the urge to call out, “Jinx!”

“We need to go now, ladies,” Quinn called out. “What is it we’ve forgotten?”

“Wrought with love and sacrifice, Quinn Ross. Love. And sacrifice.”

One of the sisters laughed.
“And shame upon ye, fer thinkin’ we’re a blood-thirsty bunch. The lad would never have been harmed—but what better way to make ye determined to take him along than to forbid ye?”

Quinn stiffened at her side.

Jules gave him a little squeeze. When he met her gaze, she gave him a wink.

“Enough love in here to choke a horse, I’d say.” She turned back to her sister. “What about the sacrifice?”

The seconds ticked away. No one spoke, though it was clear by their frowns they were all thinking. Then suddenly, James laughed.

“Sorry, Monty, lad. I ken ye dinna trust me near Isobelle for some reason, but it seems there’s no other choice.” James looked Jules in the eye. “Give ‘em hell, Juliet Bell.”

One hand loosened its grip on her arm, then disappeared, and with it, the light from below. She was standing in the darkness with the echo of James’ laughter fading from memory. Monty and Jillian released her. Quinn and Percy still held tight. A second later, a flashlight came on. Monty held it in one hand, his other was locked around Jillian’s forearm in a deathgrip.

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 certain 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.”