The Curse of Clan Ross (38 page)

“Sorry I scared you,” she called. “But you need to hide. You don’t want this guy to find you. He’s a killer. Go!”

The man didn’t budge. “Jillian?”

Jules was temporarily frozen by the fact that he’d mistaken her for
that woman
, but she shook it off.
 

“No, I’m not Jillian. It’s God. Now go!”

The man burst out laughing. “Oh, Jillian. I’ve missed ye. Come down and give us a kiss before Monty can stop it.”

“I tried to warn you, you idiot. Not my fault if you won’t hide.”

Juliet didn’t want to see this strange Scot or anyone else get killed because of her. Maybe if she removed the plug she could drop down on the hitter and knock his weapon away. Or maybe it wasn’t too late for the big lug to climb up inside with her. The hole might not be big enough for him, but they could at least try.

She tried to move the plug, but it only wobbled, even when she used the crowbar. She needed light, so she felt around for the little pile of supplies. It had to be there somewhere, but she kept missing it. She was so turned around she couldn’t remember which direction she’d been facing before the sneeze, but the flashlights were gone—even the one that had died.

Which is impossible
.
 

Finally, she found a handle. It turned out to be a hammer. Then she found a small tin cup, a couple of candles, a leather bag with a cork in it, but nothing she remembered seeing when she’d had a flashlight. The hammer wouldn’t get the plug out of the hole any better than the crowbar, but at least it was another weapon.

The little room lightened and she turned back to the plug, to find that it had been removed. She was so surprised she nearly fell through the hole.

The light from below jumped and flared like firelight and the big blond stood directly beneath her, where the barrel had been, with his arms held out like he was planning on catching her. A large tree trunk was tipped against the wall behind him, next to the barrel. The end of it looked like it was just the right size to plug the hole. Maybe it was the source of the original plug.

The foaming puddle of urine was now only a shadow on the floor.

And still, the hitter hadn’t come.

She whispered, in case he was listening just outside the room. “When he comes in, I’ll jump on him and bash him with this hammer. Just don’t look up!”

The blond man’s face fell.

“No one is comin’, lass. Daniel’s guardin’ the steps. Ye’re safe, ye are. Now come down and give us a hug.” Again, he raised his arms.

Great. They were both going to die. Why couldn’t she have just backed up into the trees and waited Gabby’s man out?  She had enough chocolate in her pockets to keep from starving, and she’d left a couple bottles of water against that stupid squirrel’s tree. She should have crawled back...but no, she’d frozen. She’d let fear cripple her and now she and at least two others would die for it—this one, and whoever Daniel was. Unless she could prove herself one last time and take the hitter down.

“I dinna ken what’s running through that head of yers, Jillian,” said the man. “But since you dinna seem to be goin’ anywhere else, ye may as well come doon.”

She’d never get the drop on the hitter with this big bear staring at her, and since it didn’t look as if he was going to listen to a word she said, she gave up.

“I’m not Jillian, by the way.” She dropped her legs through the hole and was caught against a large chest, then lowered to the ground. She stood on one foot, refusing to lower her stockinged foot to the ground until she had hopped side-ways away from the dark circle. Then she discreetly wiped one boot on the drier dirt.

“I don’t suppose ye brought along Monty darlin’?”

“No, I’m alone,” she said.

“And ye say ye’re not Jillian. Then just what are ye doin’ in the witch’s hole, wearing Jillian’s own face?”

Jules huffed out a breath and summoned up the courage to answer.

“I’m the sister, the sister she conveniently doesn’t remember she has.”

She’d been practicing that line for a while, only she’d hoped to say it to Jillian’s face. Now she’d never get the chance. That was, unless the hitter was so stupid he couldn’t find the basement. If she hurried, maybe she could get out of the castle without being caught, but she wasn’t about to run away and let these people take a bullet meant for her.

Then she got an idea.

She grabbed the barrel and started tugging.

“Please, Mister,” she said. “Do me a favor and climb up into the hole. Just for a few minutes. I wasn’t kidding—a killer is gunning for me, and he can’t know you’re in here. There’s nothing you can do for me, so you may as well save yourself.”

She stopped trying to move the barrel. The guy was shaking his head, standing there with his arms crossed like she’d said something to piss him off.

“I’ll never stick so much as me nose in that tomb, lass. And no man is coming. Daniel would have made a great clattering if someone tried to get past him.”

Great. Well, at least she’d given it a shot. It wasn’t like she could force him into the friggin’ ceiling. Although...

She still had the hammer in her hand. It didn’t feel very heavy, so she’d have to put her weight behind it. And she’d have to get him to turn around.

“Give me that, Jillian.” He pulled the hammer out of her hands as if she wasn’t resisting at all.

Considering the look he was giving her, like he wanted to tell her that little girls shouldn’t play with such things, she thought it would be no use asking him to reach into the hole to get the crowbar for her. Since she’d been in New York, working alongside a lot of Greek men with the same attitudes, she knew better than to beat her head against the wall trying to convince this guy she could take care of herself.

“I’m hurt, I am, that ye’d think of clouting me with it,” he said. “I’m Ewan. Do ye not remember me, lass?” His bottom lip, plump and pink, was suddenly visible in the middle of all that hair on his face.

“Oh, don’t go getting your feelings hurt. It wasn’t
your
head I was thinking about bashing,” she lied. “And I told you, I’m not Jillian. My name’s Jules.”
 

“And ye left Jillian back there?” The guy kept looking up into the dark hole above their heads.

“Back where?” she asked.

“Back in the twenty-first century.” He looked at her and frowned, like he wasn’t buying the sister act and thought she was just Jillian, messing with him. And now he was messing with her.

What the hell. Life was short and getting shorter by the second. She’d play along.

“Oh?” she said. “Have I
left
the twenty-first century?”
 

“Aye, lass. Ye have. Welcome to the Year of Our Lord, fourteen hundred and ninety-six.”

Well, if that were true, if the big Scot wasn’t out of his gourd, that would explain why the hitter hadn’t ever made it to the basement. And she wouldn’t be responsible for anybody’s death today. Not even her own. Too bad it couldn’t have been true.

Then again, she
had
prayed for a miracle. Did that mean she might find a nice Highland warrior for sale too?  
 

She laughed. Too bad all she had tucked in her bra was a Visa, and there were about eleven dollars left before it was maxed.

“Fourteen ninety-six?” she asked.

“Aye, lass.”

Well, he certainly smells like a medieval Scot should.
She snorted.
And he’d peed on the floor without so much as blinking
.
 

She looked at the dark outline in the dirt.

And the floor hadn’t been dirt before.

She tried to remember. Maybe it had. It’d been pretty dark.

There was a torch hanging on the wall, for hell sakes.

Since she knew nothing about torches, that meant nothing.

And there had been that foreboding...

No. The warnings in her head were due to the fact that a hitter was minutes away from taking her out.

But the flashlights had disappeared.

Trying to think in a straight line was taking the fight right out of her and she wondered how long she’d be able to stay on her feet. Gabby’s hitter would burst into the room any second, and she wouldn’t be able to put up any kind of fight. How pathetic.

Wuss!

As her head grew lighter and she started to collapse, she prayed the blond would keep her from landing where he’d peed.

CHAPTER THREE

 

Hell hath no fury like a Gordon scorned.

When Quinn Ross exchanged places with Montgomery Ross, so the second man could live with his twenty-first century bride, in the future—without leaving a gaping hole in the past—he’d been amazed by the civilization of fifteenth century Scotland. That was, until he’d been taken prisoner by the mighty Clan Gordon. At that point, he realized that civilization related more to the people than to the modern conveniences he had so long associated with the word. Just because they didn’t have indoor plumbing didn’t mean they lived a mean life.

Except for the Gordons.

For all the clan’s grandeur in size and strength, both of land and men, they were sorely lacking in the finer things of life. A washed bit of table, for one. An absence of foul odors, for another.

Dogs lived better, cleaner lives. In fact, every time the great door opened, the beasts would make a run for the outdoors, as if they had risked their very lives to come scrounge for food beneath the long tables, and had since thought better of it.

Quinn had been placed in the corner furthest from the fire and forced to kneel upon filthy rushes. He tried not to wonder at the sharp and pointy bits that pressed into his knees. His arms remained tied behind him and mere children had been placed as his guards, each one of the four possessing a finely sharpened short-sword, the tips of which were held to his neck, his back, and both shoulders. If he flinched away from one biting blade, he’d push himself against its opposite, and it took only a few painful slices into his skin to inspire him to remain as absolutely still as possible. If he stood and tried to bully past them, he was afraid of what those blades would accomplish when only waist-high.

The children laughed and waited for him to relax his posture once more, but he wouldn’t give the little monsters the satisfaction. He marveled at the patience of ones so young. They took to their duty as if their suppers depended on it, which they may well have. When night fell and food started piling on the tables, only then were the monsters distracted from their bloody play.

The door banged open and a horde of ragged people poured through the opening.  The last to enter, and casually, was a broad man with a red tinge to his gray beard that grew up the sides of his balding head. He looked immediately at the corner and locked gazes with Quinn.

Act as if you know him
, Quinn reminded himself. Monty would have spoken with the man at least a dozen times, and it was still important for The Gordon to continue believing him to be Montgomery Ross.
 

“The Mighty Ross no longer resembles his statue, aye?” Laird Gordon, the Cock o’ the North, swaggered over for a closer look. He sounded as if he had rocks in his throat. “Are ye ailin’ mon?  Is that why ye gave up yer clan to that cousin o’ yers?” He bent low, looking into Quinn’s eyes, then looked down at his neck and dabbed a dirty finger on the blood he’d found there. “Have our bairns been playing roughly with ye, Laird Ross?”

The Gordon had spoken carefully, as if to a child, or an elder that might no longer be right in the head. Is that what they all thought?  That he’d lost his senses a year ago, when the switch had taken place?  That could prove useful. In the old days, people with mental illness were given a wide berth.
Oh, aye, and burned as witches,
he recalled.
 

“Laird Gordon, is it?” He blinked a few times. “I know you, don’t I?” Witch or no, he was likely about to die anyway. What harm could it do to mess with their heads?  

“You used to know me, Ross.” Still The Gordon used a kind tone.

“Yes. Before Isobelle’s spirit came. You don’t suppose she followed me here, do you?”

The hall fell silent. A moment passed before The Gordon threw his head back and laughed.

“Ye’re a sly one, Montgomery Ross. That ye are. You’ve made a fine foe for many the long day. You’d have made a fine son-of-the-law if your sisters wouldna ruint it.” And with that, the man turned and made his way to the high table. “Come. Enjoy yer last meal if ye can, with me bairns watchin’ o’er ye.”

The blades were drawn back, but the little monsters followed his every move as he straightened, stretched his legs then tested their ability to walk a straight line to the laird’s table.

Once he was seated, the devil’s wee army set up camp around his feet, aiming their blades in four directions as before. It was the North blade that worried him the most. The Gordon had known his business when he’d said, “Enjoy your meal if you can.”

The meat was greasy. The trencher of bread looked as if a few meals had been served from it before, but Quinn couldn’t be picky. His hands were cut loose and he ate whatever looked edible and even a few things that didn’t, but he managed to keep it all down. The Gordon was famous for his dungeons and if the man wanted to give him a grand tour for a week or two before he died of hunger and thirst, Quinn would be wishing he could have this disgusting meal back again.