Not Without Juliet (A Scottish Time Travel Romance) (Muir Witch Project #2) (6 page)

"I don't know if she knows about me, actually. I mean, it would be an obvious excuse for her to use, but it's not like she wouldn't remember me, right? I mean, I remember her just fine. And if we're identical, her memory should be just as good as mine."

"She may not ken? Surely, when she saw yer face she realized—”

"She hasn't seen me yet." Jules held up a hand in the universal request of
help me up
.

It took him a second to take the hint, but then he pulled her to her feet.

"Hasna seen ye? And how did ye come to be in the witch's hole then? I was of a mind Jillian and Monty would be guarding it a bit close, aye?"

It was a little embarrassing to admit to breaking and entering, but she’d had good reason.

"Two old women showed me how to get up inside, to hide. You know, from the guy who’s going to be coming through that door any second now?" She moved over to the wall behind the door and tried to flatten herself against it.

He just stood there in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips like he still didn’t believe there was any danger. But he looked none too pleased.

"Old women?” he asked. “Twins?"

Oops. They’d probably saved her life, or at least postponed her murder, and she’d ratted them out.

"Yes, twins. Like eighty or ninety years old, going on a hundred? They said they had another place they could hide, but the hole was my only option. You obviously know them, so that shoots your little fifteenth century story to hell."

He was nodding his head, but not like he was agreeing with her.

"Muirs, and no mistake. Far too many twins among them. Every century has them, it seems."

“Every century. Right,” she said and rolled her eyes.

He looked at her sideways. “If I didna ken that Jillian was both a MacKay and a Ross, I’d have worried that the pair of ye might be Muir witches as well, aye?” Then he just waited, like he was expecting a confession.

“Witches? Now I know you’re messing with me.”

“Messing? I doona understand.”

“Oh, give it up, would you?” She almost wished the hitter would come and get it over with. She was tired of arguing with Bushy-head.

He tossed his hands in the air. “Ye’ll see, soon enough I reckon. Whenever the hole’s been opened, the Muirs ken it. Somehow.” He shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. "Too bad yer set of Muirs didna think to trick Monty back into the hole. I could use his aid. I'm right desperate for it."

"And Monty is Montgomery?"

Ewan frowned as if by not knowing Monty she’d spouted some sort of blasphemy. "Jillian's husband. The former laird of Clan Ross and my cousin. I'd be ever so happy to see his gob, but e'en more so, now that I've..." He grimaced, reached for the torch, then turned to the door.

"You've what?"

He sighed and raised the light higher. His shadow swung around on the wall behind him as he turned back to her.

"I've lost his great nephew."

Jules shook her head. "I don't understand. His
great
nephew? How could you have lost someone that can't possibly have been born?"

"Jules, is it?  I told you plain. ‘Tis the year fourteen hundred and ninety-seven, and so it is. Monty is from this century. The nephew is from yours."

The wall wasn’t much to hold onto, so she leaned sideways onto a stack of smaller barrels. She started shaking her head but then couldn’t seem to stop. If she hadn’t eaten the chocolate, she probably would have been passing out again.

"So I've somehow gone through
time
? This tomb is like some kind of
tardis
?” She’d watched only a couple of episodes of
Dr. Who
, but apparently it was a couple too many. She wouldn’t have even known the word
tardis
if the bookkeeper at the restaurant and one of the waiters hadn’t been big
Dr. Who
geeks.

"I dinna ken the word
tardis
, lass. But they go inside, they doona come out. 'Tis all I’ve seen. I'll not try it myself, mind ye."

"You’re Montgomery’s cousin? He’s from...here? No wonder." Then she realized what this Ewan had been trying to tell her. “And a little boy is missing?”

"The lad's name is Quinn. But he’s no wee laddie.”

She was so relieved. The thought of a little kid—from the twenty-first century—getting lost out there in Medieval times, was just too sickening to think about. If, of course, she believed that Medieval Scotland was truly out there.

“Quinn’s a man grown. Looks to be Monty's own spit, he does. So when Monty needed to go to your time, to be with Jillian, Quinn came back here, to take Monty's place. And now, The Gordon has ‘im."

No friggin’ way! There was another Highlander, just like Jillian’s husband
. Just
like him.

Maybe, just maybe, I should say my prayers more often.

Above their heads, there was movement. Not from the great hall, but from the tomb.

"Where the devil are ye?" a man muttered.

The hitter!

How the hell had he gotten inside the tomb without going through the bottom, like she had? No way could he have broken through the wall, or she’d have heard it!

Her missing boot fell through the hole and landed on unholy wet ground.

Holy shit!

Jules snatched the boot up and put a finger over her lips, then motioned for Ewan to hurry out of the room with her. Thankfully, he followed without argument, bringing the torch with him. The door opened outward and Jules shut it behind her, then leaned against it.

"Can we block this door?" she whispered. "That's the man who’s after me. He's got a gun. I'm sure he'll kill anyone who gets in his way."

The Scot nodded, handed her the torch, then rolled yet another barrel out of the dark and in front of the door.

"This should hold him for a mite,” he said. “But your only way back home is through that tomb, lass. If ye and Jillian are to meet, ye must face this man first, and no mistake. Sooner or later."

"Later sounds good to me."

The hitter beat on the door, having found his way out of the tomb with little light to help him.

"Juliet Bell! When I get my hands on ye... Listen, lass. If ye let me out now, it will go much smoother for ye. Ye have my word. No harm will come to ye."

She could hear him breathing against the door. He was probably listening to her breathe too. After a few seconds, he went back to beating on the door.

"He'll just blow the hinges off,” she warned the Scot.

"Truly?" The big man rolled his eyes in the torchlight. "Perhaps you underestimate the quality of a Scotsman's carpentry, or the strength of a full barrel of whisky. He'll not get out so easily. Now come up into the light. Let me get a good look at you, and I'll decide the message I wish you to give to Monty, once ye've got the courage to go back, of course. But tell me, why does yer pursuer call ye Juliet
Bell
?”

“Bell is a long story. And I don’t let anyone call me Juliet.”

The door seemed to be holding up well to the pounding, so they moved away. Ewan took back his torch and led her along the dirt-floored hallways. She was so turned around, she had no choice but to trust him.

Dirt floors. God, help me. I’ve lost my mind.

“But mayhap you could find your courage sooner, rather than later,” Ewan said. “As Quinn may not live long enough for Monty to be of any help. I would send others to bring his wandering hide back to Ross lands, but none else kens who the lad truly is. I fear a close look by our own lads might give the game away. We've been careful to keep the clan from getting too close. I imagine word of an imposter would be the type of tale to pass through the generations, aye? And Jillian was ever one to go on and on about the dangers of changing history."

Jules snorted. “Yeah, I’ll bet she was.”

Ewan stopped and looked at her. “What do ye mean, lass?”

“She’s got the world at her feet. Why would she wish anything different? She’s probably thrilled with the way things have turned out. Changing the past would screw up her little fairy tale, right?”

And just like that, Jules was glad she’d gone back in time. Maybe there was a reason she was there. Maybe she could fix all kinds of things. Screw Jillian’s rules about changing history.

“Lass,” said Ewan. “Jillian has a kind and gentle soul. If she believes that changing history will ruin lives, I have no doubt it is not her life for which she fears. She loves Monty, and yet she was willing to give him up so that Morna and Ivar could be together. You’ll find no selfishness in Jillian’s heart.”

“I hope so,” she said. It was the nicest thing she could think of to say since Ewan was clearly on Team Jillian.

Finally, he stopped yakking and started moving again.

But inside, there was a giant scrapbook of pain, and it had Jillian’s name written on the front in big jagged letters.

CHAPTER FIVE

Quinn woke to a painful throb at the back of his head. He was lying on a cold dirt floor, in the dark.

For a moment, he thought he was still stuck in his dream and waited for the softness of his mattress to register, but it didn't. Then, as he had hundreds of times in the last year, he remembered which century he was in. But this was the first time he'd awakened on the ground.

And it was still night?

His last memory was of going stir crazy inside the castle, of sneaking away without his young escort... And then he remembered the heather. He could still feel the scratches on his arms from gathering the branches. Then he remembered the scratches from sharp little knives.

"Shite."

He rolled to his side to take the pressure off the back of his broken skull, and every muscle in his body complained. At first, he wondered if they'd beaten him, after he'd lost consciousness, but then he remembered all those hours of kneeling at attention to keep those blades from breaking his skin. The pain from a beating wouldn't have gone quite so deep.

A smell wafted around him when he moved—the smell of a tomb where a body would have rotted away for years. The smell of stale urine was a pleasant relief—he only hoped the urine wasn't his.

No. His kilt was dry. Thank goodness the ground below him was dry as well. The blade was gone from his boot.

So, this was the famous Gordon dungeons. They were so close to the sea, he expected it to be damper—not that he was complaining. But if he was going to die here, he could wish for harsher conditions that might speed along his demise.

And even as the thought presented itself, his stomach tightened.

He remembered now. That moment at Gordon's table, when he realized he wanted to live. Lord help him, when had that happened?

Quinn sat up and searched the darkness, straining to capture even the smallest hint of a reflection. He needed to know what surrounded him, but he would not go feeling about. He could only wait for someone to come with a light. Of course, he might be able to persuade them to come sooner...

"Gordon! Gordon! You can either grant me some light or I shall have the devil call up a fire, here, beneath your home. Which do you prefer?"

There was movement, but he had no idea how far away it had been. Were there other's sharing his dark hotel?

"Who's there?" he said.

When there was no answer, he tried again in Scots. Still no answer.

The pain in his head bid him lie down again, and he did so, but gently. As he was just about to drift off to sleep, the room grew lighter. Someone must have heard him after all.

He suppressed a groan as he pushed against the floor and forced himself up to sit. There was nothing in his ten-by-ten cell to sit upon, so he stayed put. A young lad with bulging eyes carried a torch to light the way for a tall, thin man. At the entrance to the dungeon, about thirty feet off to the left, an old man took a seat. Considering the bandages across his eyes, Quinn guessed he was blind—a natural babysitter for a prisoner kept in the dark. He must have been the one to carry his message to The Gordon.

Quinn was also pleased when he recognized his visitor, Long Legs.

"Why Long Legs! What a pleasant surprise ye make."

The thin man laughed." Ah, but ye were not so pleased at our first meeting, were ye, Laird Ross?"

"Mmm. No. I can't say as I was,” he admitted, wishing now he had taken his stand back in the heather and perhaps gotten away before Orie could have come along.

"You were bellerin' for something?" Long Legs raised a patient brow and folded his arms.

"Yes,” Quinn said cheerfully. “The Gordon promised me a tour of his dungeons and I had no light by which to see it.”

"Well, then, look yer fill. I suggest you be quick about it.” Long Legs turned to go.

Desperate for a few more minutes of light, Quinn looked about him, searching for some topic of conversation. His eyes caught the white reflection of bare bone in the next cell.

“Perhaps ye could pass on a request to The Gordon,” he said.

It worked. The man came back, and his light-bearer with him.

“Aye, sure. What would ye like, yer lairdship? New straw fer yer mattress no doubt? A better wine with yer supper?”