Not Without Juliet (A Scottish Time Travel Romance) (Muir Witch Project #2) (27 page)

Five minutes later, in ridiculous disguises, he and Monty waited by the door for Ewan and James to bring round the horses.

“She’s a fine lass, Quinn,” said his uncle. “Almost as fine as my Jillian.”

Quinn realized he’d been chewing off his fingernails and stopped.

“Oh? I admit your wife is a fine woman. There was a time I wished I would have been worthy of her myself.”

Monty’s smile dropped.

Quinn held up a hand to discourage the other man from swinging at him. His head had only begun to heal from all the pounding of the week before.

“But Jillian was never for me, Monty. She was always as a sister, though in my dreams I believed myself to be falling in love with her. But when I laid eyes on Juliet, I realized she was the one I’d been dreaming of. The Muirs had a hand in that dream, but I cannot begrudge them for it. Which reminds me, if that tunnel is as cursed as they claim, it should be destroyed. I find it hard to believe that danger has lain below our feet all these years.”

“Och, aye, nephew. We’ll see to it as soon as Juliet is safe.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Quinn allowed Ewan and Monty to take the lead. He was a poor hand at finding his way beyond Ross lands, but it was more than that. As desperate as he was to have Juliet safely in his arms, he was afraid of what they might find. He hoped someone else might catch sight of her and Percy before he did, so he might have some kind of warning. It was cowardly, he knew, but allowing the love of his life to be buried had almost killed him once. He was certain he couldn’t survive doing it again.

How unworthy he was.

They’d been together for nigh a week and he’d never even asked her age. He had no idea how old the lass would be if she’d truly had ten years removed. If she’d been thirty to begin with... But she hadn’t. He was sure of it. And what teenager would want a thirty-five year old man waiting about for her to grow up and fall in love with him?

She wouldn’t.

Then he realized the answer rode before him.

“Monty! How old is Jillian?”

His uncle turned but did not slow his horse. “Doona think it, man. Just keep prayin’, aye?”

“Easy for you to say,” Quinn mumbled.

“Twenty-three,” said James. “The yanks forwarded her file, aye?”

Quinn gave the agent a curt nod in thanks.

That would make her thirteen.

Oh, God!

He could not wrap his mind around it. He could not conjure an image of her at thirteen, but hopefully, Monty could, so they’d know what kind of lass to be looking for.

Blasted Muirs! Blasted tunnel
.

But wait!

If Juliet was now thirteen, he’d just have to go through the tunnel as well—and twice! He’d make Monty promise to pick him up and send him through again. He’d be fifteen.

Perfect.

But would he remember to fall in love with her? Aye, there was the rub. If he weren’t going to end up with Juliet by his side for the rest of his days, would he take that chance? Was he willing to live the horror of being a teenager—again—for the chance of winning Juliet’s heart?

“Please, God. Help me.”

He whispered the same prayer a dozen times while they came ‘round the northern tip of the wee mountain. Ewan dropped to the road and peered closely at every hoofprint.

“Nothing fresh. They’ve not come through yet.” Ewan remounted and headed southeast.

None but Muirs from that point until they crossed back into Ross land. It was an odd bit of land that jutted from the sea to the hill that separated their clan homes. As if Fate had decreed the witches have access to Ross lives. They certainly had enough to do with their history, and their legends. But in modern times, Muirs had become a sept of Clan Gordon.

How he hoped he wouldn’t be around to see that bit of history unfold. He could almost pity the formidable Gordons.

As the road turned due south and slowly filled with people, Quinn began searching faces. A boy there. A young lass there. The Muirs were a friendly lot, smiling and nodding as the four horsemen cut their way into their home ground.

An old man stepped back to give them a wider path. He looked at Quinn, then Montgomery, and back again, then slid a finger along the side of his nose as if it meant something. A heartbeat later, Quinn noticed the man again, only on the other side of the road, touching his nose in the same manner.

James leaned closer.

“Twins,” he said. “There are many.”

Quinn was relieved he wasn’t losing his mind, but the presence of more Muir twins in their midst left him unsettled. Again, he tasted metal and wondered if it was new or just the phantom of the time before.

The taste was gone. Memory then.

A young lass with black hair turned away from her mother to watch their passing. Quinn looked closely, to see if her eyes were green. The lass smiled and shook her head as if she’d read his thoughts.

Another chill ran up his spine when he noticed something else. He glanced at James to find the man staring at him with eyes wide.

“It’s quiet,” Quinn told him. “Why do they not speak?”

But he was afraid he knew the answer.

James shivered. “’Tisn’t possible.”

Monty, being Monty, pulled his sword from behind his saddle. The Muirs stopped making eye contact and wandered their way off the road. A hundred yards later, the four horsemen were alone and Quinn was grateful for it.

Monty and Ewan fell back until they were four abreast.

“We will go slowly now,” Monty said, “to be sure we doona pass them in haste. I think ye should prepare yerself, nephew. I believe Margot and Mhairi might have been telling the truth. If anyone could devise the devil’s own tunnel, it would be these people, or their ancestors, aye?”

Quinn had been coming to the same conclusion.

Ewan laughed. “He’s been to Muirsglen before, aye?”

Monty grunted and faced forward with an unkind stare.

“I drugged him a year ago, when Jillian took Morna and Ivar into the future and left him behind. I thought he would kill himself with grievin’, wear himself out walking the path from the Great Ross Chair, to the witch’s hole and back again. More than a dozen times a day, mind. And he wouldna eat. So I drugged his drink. Had him taken to the Muirs to keep him away while I had the cellar filled in. Turned out for the best that I only filled it with barrels of whisky, because the lass came back for ‘im.”

James laughed, then laughed harder when Monty glared at him. As they rode on, the rest of Morna and Ivar’s story came out including a few details that had never been included in his script for the tourists of Castle Ross. Monty also explained how they’d gotten Isobelle out of the tomb.

A few minutes later, Monty and Ewan shared a horrified look, and Quinn knew just what they were thinking.

“Don’t worry about it,” he told them. James here will keep the secret like the rest of us. Who would believe him anyhow? When he starts telling someone that he’s spent time in the fifteenth century, they’ll stop listening.”

James frowned. “But what about Isobelle? Only a wee while ago, we were all ready to go back into the tomb and never return, and no one made mention of her. Did she die?”

Monty turned away, silent.

Quinn didn’t feel as though it was his place to speak of Isobelle.

Ewan shifted in his saddle, then finally, he spoke.

“We dinna ken where she is, James. Our man Ossian went with her, to get her safely settled. We received word from him once, that he and his travelling companion had decided to make a go of things in Spain. We sent a letter there, only to have it returned. A note had been written upon it, claiming the pair had disappeared in the night. We’ve heard nothing since.”

James shifted in his saddle. “And she wasn’t a witch, ye say?”

“Nay,” said Ewan. “Bewitching to be sure. Red hair, like yers, but nary so many curls. Turned men’s heads since the day she was born. Always causin’ trouble.”

James turned to Monty. “Allow me find her for you, Laird Ross.”

Monty wiped an arm across his face before he turned back.

“Why would you say such a thing? This is not yer time. You canna locate her on the internet. She could be anywhere in the wide world—a world that is not so small as you might think at this point in history.”

James grinned. “To tell the truth, I’m not quite ready to go back yet. If this is the only chance I have, I’d like to see more of your time. I may as well see Spain and look around for your sister while I’m at it, aye?”

Monty shook his head. His brow was a threatening thundercloud.

“It willna matter,” he said. “The tomb’s a bit touchy. Only seems to work with Jillian and now, with Juliet. A Muir creation and not to be trusted. For all we ken, we’re stuck here for the rest of our days,” he turned and looked at the Muir clansmen who were once again making use of the road. “Here, among so many Muirs. A tomb. A tunnel. Only God kens what else. We’ll none of us be safe.”

James let the subject drop.

No matter what Monty had said, Quinn had the feeling the man was just touchy about anyone getting a look at, or getting their hands on, his sister. Even if it meant he might see her again. After all, hadn’t he become immediately protective of Juliet? It seemed it was just Monty’s nature.

He hoped Jillian’s baby was a boy, or boys rather, because he pitied the lad who came to court any daughter of Montgomery Ross.

They reached the glen and headed for the side of the hill where a couple of youths might have emerged and perhaps had their presence noted.

“Keep a sharp eye. A young lass and a younger laddie,” said Monty. “I’ve no ken how old Percy was, only that he was a mite younger than our lasses.”

Quinn nodded. He was also hoping that since these Muirs seemed to read their minds, there might be some among them to lead them in the right direction.

Juliet, sweet. I’m coming.

The village spread much further than expected. From a distance, it hadn’t looked like much. As they came nearer, a small city unfolded like a wild rose in bloom. Patches of mist clung to it like morning dew in defiance of the midday sun. Would the mist ever lift completely from a place that sheltered witches?

A tall fort stood at the Eastern edge of town and Quinn wondered if perhaps it hid a good sized castle behind the wooden facade. At one point, they passed through the gates of an ancient wall that likely contained the entire settlement in decades past. Into his mind popped a fanciful image of a city wall that might hide everything and everyone within it from the eyes of their enemies standing ten feet away.

He shuddered.

Ridiculous.
He needed to find a handle on his imagination.

An entire clan of witches?
Nonsense.

They split up. Monty took James and followed the edge of the hillside. Quinn and Ewan dismounted and led their horses into the village, following the flow of its citizens who seemed much too busy to stop and read the minds of strangers. He was relieved to hear the rather normal hum of voices and laughter.

Eventually, they followed a curve and through a light cloud, they saw a well at the top of the street. Two dozen women stood in line awaiting a turn with the bucket. While they waited, they were all turned their attention to a young woman who stooped before a youngster while she washed his face. The lad was seated on a low stone wall beside a large white-washed cottage.

Quinn froze.

The woman wore Juliet’s leather coat over her plaid gown. The mist made the colors unclear. Her hair was not nearly so neat as Juliet’s had been, and the color was dark, but again, unclear. When she turned to the side, to take a bucket of water from another woman, she didn’t look a day less than twenty.

“But that can’t be!” Quinn’s voice stretched across the distance between them, daring her to turn and prove him wrong. But she didn’t turn.

The boy might have been Percy. He looked like a lad of ten wearing his father’s clothes. His sleeves hung nearly a foot past the bend of his wrist. For once, his plaid covered his knees. When the lad turned and noticed Quinn, there was no hint of recognition. His attention returned to the woman washing his face. She took a handful of his hair to hold him still while she scrubbed.

Turn. Please, turn.

And yet he dreaded her turning. What if she looked at him, as Percy had done, and she would see a stranger. If she, too, turned away from him, what then? Who might stand beside him for the rest of his life and remind him to breathe in, and then out again? Because he would need reminding.

But if he couldn’t find the strength to move his bloody feet, he would never know.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT