Not Without Juliet (A Scottish Time Travel Romance) (Muir Witch Project #2) (8 page)

“I heard of it. I was not there.”

The sad note in Percy’s voice made Quinn look up.

The man was staring into the next cell. After a moment, he shook himself and turned his attention back to Quinn, who pretended not to have noticed.

“After Morna was brought back here,” he said, “ye ken what she did.”

Percy turned angry, but Quinn couldn’t guess why.

“Then the prophecy was not fulfilled after all,” the man snarled and got to his feet. “And whatever prophecy there might have been for the one who kills Cinead is worthless as well.”

Quinn shook his head calmly.

“Nay. As soon as Ivar heard the news, he came to Castle Ross and threw himself from the northeast tower. They
were
united. In death. Had the woman not come, they might have gone on, pining away for each other for the rest of their lives. The prophecy said nothing about reuniting them in
life
. Only that they would be reunited. And the rest of the prophecy states clearly that as compensation to Cinead Gordon for the loss of Morna—for he was destined to lose her, one way or another—a curse was placed on the head of the one who would spill his blood."

"Pah!” Percy paced for a moment, then settled back on his short stool. “Tell me this curse."

Biggest fear. Biggest fear. What did every man fear? What would make this man frightened enough to—

"Impotence." Quinn even managed to say it with a straight face.

"What mean you?"

"The man who kills Cinead Gordon will be impotent for the rest of his days. He will have no power. Over anything.” When it looked as though the word had little meaning to the man, he realized he must elaborate. “Neither will be able to bed a woman. Ever again.”

Percy's eyes widened and he stood and walked away. He was buying it. The only risk, which Quinn realized too late, was whether or not Percy was interested in bedding women. One never knew.

Percy paced, which stirred up the smell from the poor man in the next cell. He seemed to notice it too, for his nose curled and he stopped pacing. A moment later, he nodded, as if he’d come to some conclusion, then he walked to the torch and removed it from its ring. Instead of coming back to let Quinn out, which was too much to have hoped for anyway, he headed for the archway.

“Wait a moment,” Quinn called. “I answered your question. We had a bargain.”

“Nay, Ross,” he called, without turning back or slowing his step, “I have yet to decide whether or not I believe ye.”

Quinn was once again left in the dark.

He tried to remember the details of his cell and crawled to his right, putting as much distance between himself and the rotting corpse as possible. In truth, he was getting used to the smell unless someone stirred the air.

He rested his back again to alleviate the soreness of his stomach muscles. He was thirsty, but alive, and if all went well, his little prophecy would keep Cinead alive long enough for history to unfold as it was supposed to. And hopefully, he’d planted enough fantasy in Percy’s brain that the man would be coming back to place a request for the future—hopefully before Quinn was thin enough to slip through the bars, but too dead to do so.

He closed his eyes, content to sleep for a while.

***

Quinn hadn’t quite drifted off before the inside of his eyelids turned red, then orange. Someone was coming.

Only it wasn’t Percy. It was the violent little man, Cinead.

Shite!

Two large guards entered Quinn’s cell and took him by the arms.

“I’ve just saved your life, you know.” Quinn needed the future head of Clan Gordon to think kinder, gentler thoughts about him. The fact that the man had come so closely on the heels of his younger brother gave Quinn hope he might have overheard the end of their conversation. The rough handling by the guards took that hope away.

The small man seemed none too proud to carry his own torch and held it aloft while Quinn was brought before him.

“I’m aware of that,” he said. His voice was quite normal, though Quinn didn’t know what he’d been expecting. “Percy willna be killing me in me sleep, but that willna keep the others from killing me in the bright light o’ day, will it?”

So. The man had heard the conversation after all.

As Cinead stuffed a rag into Quinn’s mouth, he noticed swelling across the smaller man’s face. There was a good chance the curve of his nose was new.

Quinn nodded, accepting the blame for the other man’s beating. He just hoped Percy might share the prophecy with the rest of his brothers. Of course, if he hoped his brothers would become impotent in all things...

Shite!

“It’s time to meet yer maker, Laird Ross, be he god or devil.” Cinead led the way out of the dungeon, and as relieved as Quinn was to get away from the smell, he’d gladly go back and wait for Percy to come ‘round.

The little parade proceeded out of the castle proper, past the inner bailey, and into the wider outer bailey where a makeshift gallows had been erected in the moonlight. Next to the gallows, a pole rose out of a stack of wood and Quinn had seen the drawings of enough such constructions to know it was meant for the burning of a witch.

And witch burning seemed all the more barbaric when one found himself to be the witch in question. He should have kept his mouth shut. The Gordon hadn’t been impressed by his fortune telling but he’d recognized a grand opportunity to rid himself of an enemy. But why send Cinead to do the deed in the middle of the night? Or was it only that the little man wanted his own revenge and would take it out from under the old man’s nose?

Perhaps there was good reason Cinead Gordon would end up leading his clan.

The future laird looked up into his face and grinned.

“I know what ye think, Laird Ross,” he said. “But if we doona allow you to speak, you canna call the devil to your rescue, aye?” He stopped just below the noose and jumped up to swat at it, like he was proving he was tall enough to reach it.

But he wasn’t.

The noose hung perfectly still. The men holding Quinn stifled their laughter.

“Get on with it,” Cinead hissed. “Someone’s coming,”  

Quinn tried to turn, to see if maybe Percy had finally decided to act, but the guards pushed him forward. One had a fist full of hair at the back of his head that kept Quinn from seeing anything but the closing proximity of his head to the noose. With his arms tied behind his back once again, there was only so much bucking he could do. His only hope was to bob and weave to keep that noose off his head. And pray for a miracle, of course.

A forceful blow stunned him for a wee second, but it was enough. The rough rope fell on his collar bone, then tightened against his neck as he plowed his body into one of the guards. Unfortunately, he picked the wrong guard. It was the second man who held the tail end of the rope, and he pulled down hard to bring Quinn to heel. The abrasive rope cut into the delicate skin below his jaw. The growth of two days’ beard did little to protect him.

“Climb up there,” The Runt demanded, pointing to a short stool.

Quinn just glared down at him, wishing with his eyes that the brothers would have beaten him to death and damn the future consequences.

“Just a moment, brother!” A woman’s voice came from behind, from the direction of the castle. “As his former fiancée, I would have words with the bastard before ye kill ‘im.”

Oh, jolly.

At least his death wouldn’t be in vain; the Gordon lass would have some closure. And while he waited for the woman to appear, he wondered what he might have requested for a last meal, had they offered him one.

A deep fried Twinkie sounded just the ticket.

CHAPTER SIX

Jules followed the blond and the torch up out of the cellars and into the light. At the top of the steps, another man turned. He looked her up and down but showed no reaction. She tried to do the same and not stare at his plaid costume.

"Daniel,” said Ewan. “This is Jules. Guard her with yer life. She’s kin."

Kin?

The statement sent a little chill through her chest, even though it was an exaggeration.

Daniel gave a quick bow. Then, while he looked past them, down the steps, he pulled a tiny pouch from around his neck, kissed it, then tucked it back into his poorly fitting shirt.

"Dinna be daft, Daniel,” said Ewan. “Have ye seen the Muirs anywhere about?”

“Nay, yer lairdship.”

Jules jumped when she heard footsteps behind her and turned, ready to launch herself at Gabby’s man since she had nothing she could use for a weapon—Ewan still held the hammer. She only hoped a tumble back down the steps would break the hitter’s neck and not hers.

But it wasn’t a man at all. It was a matching set of women in long dresses, dresses that looked more like medieval costumes. Like Daniel’s.

Holy shit!
Was it really 1496?

Maybe the hitter really had entered the tomb the same way she had—from another century. Maybe she really wasn’t dreaming. Maybe she was going to be sick.

As the look-alikes climbed the stairs, she realized the women were much younger than the ones who had put her in the tomb. Fiftyish. Long, straight, strawberry blond hair that was turning gray in all the same places. They even held onto their skirts the same way. It was like watching a woman walk up the steps while someone held a mirror next to her.

Very freaky.

There was something unnerving about their matching smiles, though. Jules didn’t trust them for a second.

Ewan let out a deep sigh and she couldn’t tell whether he was glad to see them or really disappointed.

"Speak of the sisters and they’ll appear,” he muttered. “Ye’ll see I spoke the truth about them.”

The women in question reached the landing. One of them looked surprised to see Jules. The other one kept her eyes on Ewan and gave him a little bow.

"Laird Ross,” she said. “Ye've a busy cellar this day it seems."

Ewan shook his head slightly. "Hopefully, ye’re the last to come out of it. Won't the pair of ye sup with us this e'en?" The last sentence came out through his teeth.

The second woman gave him a sly nod. "Such a kind laird ye are, Ewan. We'd like nothing more than to sit and have a grand chat with Jillian.

The way the woman was eyeing her, Jules knew she understood perfectly well she wasn't Jillian. Was she hoping for an introduction? Or did she expect Jules to lie about who she was? She had to admit, it was a little intriguing to know that her sister had known these people. She just wondered why Jillian had come to be there in the first place.

Jules had been about nine when she’d demanded to know why her grandmother had stolen Jillian and disappeared. They’d been searching for six years and the only explanation her parents had given was, “
Ivy MacKay is mentally ill.”
But at nine, Jules wasn’t buying it anymore. Finally, they’d told her what the paranoia was all about, that the old woman was certain there were people in Scotland who would try to kill Jillian, who would try to bury her alive. The crazy part was that Grandmother claimed that she’d traveled to the future and been there when those murderers were planning it.

Since Jules’ mother couldn’t believe her, the old woman had taken Jillian away, to protect her. And back in the days of no internet, it was much harder to find someone who didn’t want to be found.

Now that Jules realized she, too, had been convinced to climb into that Scottish tomb—and apparently traveled through time—she was beginning to think her grandmother wasn’t as paranoid or crazy as her parents had believed.

But even if she hadn’t been, that didn’t excuse her for the hell she’d made of their lives. No amount of money could make up for that. And half a fortune wasn’t going to excuse Jillian for not trying to come home.

No. She wasn’t Jillian. She’d never be Jillian.

Jules put her hands in the pockets of her jacket. "My name is Jules. I'm not Jillian."

"Of course ye're not Jillian." The woman winked. "How silly of me. I can see the difference now."

Jules resisted the urge to ask what the woman saw that made her so different. She never wanted to look like Jillian, of course, but she didn’t care for the feeling that she was lacking in some way. She wasn’t jealous.

Well, maybe just a little envious—it didn’t help that Jillian was married to the mouth-watering Highlander that had started to haunt her dreams for no reason whatsoever. The website for Castle Ross Tours said the man was Quinn Ross, but it must have been the name he used for tourists. Jillian’s husband was Montgomery Ross, or Monty, as Ewan called him.

In her dreams, she’d never known his name, only that they had to stay together or...something bad would happen. And she’d always been pretty sure it would be bad for them both. Pretty melodramatic for a dream with a stranger, but anyone who’d laid eyes on Montgomery Ross wouldn’t laugh. Even the shot of him on the website took her breath away and made her heart stutter—and this from a girl who never got breathy over anything but a great dessert.

Every night, when she’d fallen asleep, she’d willed herself back into that dark dream. She’d make it there, too, but only every couple of weeks when she went to bed early. Maybe their dreams only linked up when they were both asleep, and time-zone-wise, that meant earlier in New York.