The Curse of Clan Ross (50 page)

They went down another stairway, then came out into an actual dungeon.

Jail cells? Basement of a castle?

Yep. Dungeon.

“Percy Gordon wants this one locked up,” Cheval announced.

An old man came out of nowhere and juggled his keys, though he didn’t look at them. Cheval gave her a gentle shove, telling her to follow the guy. After the key man managed to open a cell that looked far too shiny to be medieval, he turned a sad smile in her direction. His pupils were white.

“I’m sorry, miss,” he said, as Izatt pushed her through the opening.

She reached out and gave the old man’s arm a squeeze. “Don’t you worry about me.”

Izatt grunted. “I thought you was blind, Martin Woolsey.”

“I am. Dinna tell me ye canna smell how pretty she is.”

Izatt slammed the gate shut behind her. She was sure he stole a little whiff in her direction before he released the bars and headed for the stairs.

“I smell naught,” he muttered.

“Maybe you should wash more than your kilt, Izatt,” she jeered.

Then she remembered, in Scotland, they didn’t call them balls, they called them—

“Ballocks! I meant ballocks! When Debra boils your
ballocks
, I hope you feel it! Every bubble!”
 

Izatt groaned on his way out. Jules started to laugh until she realized he was taking the last torch with him.

“God have mercy, let me be dreaming!” The anguished shout came from behind her and she spun around and backed against the cell door. She could see nothing in the dark.

“Who’s there?” She still had a voice, but the bravado had fled with the light.

“Jillian? Tell me ‘tis not you!” The man’s voice was deep, the brogue Scottish, but he spoke English. The chills it produced danced against her skin like musical notes.

It was
him.
It had to be.
 

Then her heart sank. She was dreaming again. But in her dreams, it had never been pitch black. She needed to see his face!

His breath was ragged, like he’d just returned from a run. He was waiting for her to say something.

“Mister Ross?” she whispered.

His breath caught, then he moaned. “Jillian! Tell me it’s not you, lass. Make me believe it!”

“Okay. I’m not Jillian.”

There. The truth was out there. The fact that she’d been flippant and he wouldn’t believe her wasn’t her fault, right?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

Castle Ross, 1496

Ewan Ross, laird of Clan Ross, groaned into his hands. “Oh, God!”

Jilly looked at Monty and shrugged. “After being gone a year, that’s not the reception I was expecting.”

Monty looked a bit disappointed too. “I’m no’ here to ask for the chair back, if that’s what ye’re worrit o’er.”

Ewan shook his head and tried to stand, then thought better of it, but his butt missed the seat and he slid down the front of the Great Ross Chair. She averted her eyes when his sporran and kilt started to rise along with his knees as he sank to the floor.

“I’ve been drinkin’. Quite a bit, as a matter of information.” The shaggy man peered around the dim hall. “Looks like they all ran away, the cowards.”

No fires were lit. There were only the torches that Monty had lit when they’d come into the hall. Jillian had tucked her little flashlight into her sock for safekeeping. The last time she’d come back to the fifteenth century she’d realized the only things that traveled with her were the things she was touching, so she was careful to keep it in hand. But now they were out of the cellar, she had to keep it out of sight. She had no intention of being burned as a witch.

“Who ran away?” asked Monty as he approached the dais.

“My clan. No, yer clan. The whole bloody lot of them.”

Jilly laughed. “It sounds like they’re having their supper outside.”

Ewan perked up. “Aye? Well, then. That’s fine. Hello, Monty,” he said, like he’d just noticed his arrival. “Did you see? Jillian has come back to kill me.”

This time it was Monty’s turn to laugh as he helped his cousin lift his backside onto his chair.

“And why would harmless little Jillian wish ye dead, cousin?”

Ewan leaned toward Monty’s shoulder. “Because I’ve lost her sister is why.”

His whisper was loud enough he might have been heard outside. Why did men always go deaf when they drank?

She tried not to panic. After all, Juliet was her age; it wasn’t as if she were a child wandering aimlessly around a jousting tournament without enough to sense to stay clear of the horses.

“I’m sorry you’ve lost her.” She tried not to sound worried. “Do you remember
where
you lost her?” For all she knew, the woman was outside having supper with the rest. She could hardly trust what Ewan said, as drunk as he was.
 

“I lost her out the hall door,” he gasped, as if the hall door were the gate to Hell. “That ruddy bastard got away from us and went after her, but he didn’t get her either. Do you ken why?”

Okay, the gunman didn’t get her. It was a start.

Monty gave her a wink and put both hands on the arms of the chair, demanding Ewan’s full attention.

“That’s fine, cousin,” he said. “So how do you ken the ruddy bastard didn’t find her?”

“Because I’ve men watchin’ the Gordon Keep. They came upon Gordon allies who were taking the lass with them. They’d have taken her back had they knows she was ours.” Ewan turned a little green, but swallowed hard. A few seconds later, he looked at Monty again. “So the ruddy bastard didna get her. But alas, the Gordon bastards did.”

Ewan started slipping again. Monty stood back and let him pour into a puddle on the floor.

“By way of information, Monty darlin’,” Ewan said, “did I tell ye that I’ve lost your great nephew?”

Jilly took a deep breath and looked at her husband. It was their worst fear...

She’d lived a wildly exciting and wonderful year as the wife of Montgomery Ross, made doubly so by the fact that she’d gotten the best of both worlds, or both centuries at least. He was bold and beautiful and unrepentant. He saw things clearly, simply, like an old cowboy. He loved and never analyzed why he loved. He judged only himself. The dangerous life he’d come from made him enjoy every minute he had. Nothing was wasted, especially not a chance for a nap together—or whatever else they could think of.

And she’d been able to enjoy the gloriousness that was Montgomery Ross in the comfort of the twentieth century. She didn’t have to worry about losing him to infection or disease. She had toilets and hot showers and fast food. The winters would not threaten the lives of their children. Neither of them would have to break their backs to put food on the table, or keep a sword close by to defend that table.

But her double blessings had come at a price, and it was Quinn who had paid it. Willingly. Eagerly.

The most she and Montgomery had paid was the worry. Was Quinn safe? Was he happy? Was he regretting the choice he’d made? Should they go back and ask him? History hadn’t changed at all. They had no record of what had become of him.

Of course Jilly hadn’t been nearly as worried as Montgomery was—not that they talked about it much—because her husband knew the world in which they’d left the man. He knew much more about the dangers than she’d learned in history books. And every time she’d seen a shadow cross Monty’s face, she suspected he was thinking about Quinn, or Ewan, or Isobelle—the ones they’d left behind.

Of course, they couldn’t have brought through the tomb everyone Monty had ever cared about. Ewan had a clan to run, Quinn had asked to go back, and Isobelle was lost to them. It just wasn’t possible to make the world the way they wanted it, even with the help of a passageway through time.

The look on her husband’s face when Ewan announced Quinn was lost? It was that same old shadow of worry, but multiplied by a hundred. Beneath that quite surface, she imagined the ground was crumbling.

She knelt next to Ewan and pushed his knee down and straightened his kilt.

“Ewan? Where did you lose Quinn?” She asked it so Monty wouldn’t have to.

Ewan shook his head slowly. “Poor bastard. Can’t remember where our land leaves off. Doesn’t pay close mind to much, that one.”

“Does he live?” whispered Monty.

Ewan nodded carefully. “For the moment, cousin, but nae for long.”

“What do you mean?” her husband demanded. “Where is he?”

“He’s in The Gordon’s dungeon. And now Jules is there as well.” Ewan peeked at Jilly, then looked away quickly. “Dinna let her hurt me, cousin.”

Jules?
Her sister’s name was
Jules, not Juliet?
 

The sound of it made her stomach do strange things. Or was it the baby? She thought she was going to be one of those lucky women who didn’t get morning sickness, but maybe not.

She looked at Monty. Just the sight of him always seemed to calm her.

He stared at Ewan and took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He certainly didn’t look like he was freaking out. It was enough to give her hope. Things must not be as bad as she’d thought they were. Monty would know just what to do, just like he always did.

“Och, Ewan,” he said. “No one is going to hurt ye. It’ll be ever so convenient to collect them both at the same time. Ye’ve done well, cousin. In the morning, we can have this entire conversation again, aye?” Monty pulled the big man up, then hefted him over his back. “We’ll just put ye to bed first. It’s a fine way to hurry tomorrow along.”

Jilly numbly followed as Monty headed for the archway and the stairs beyond.

Ewan grunted. “I doona wish the morrow to hurry along, Monty darlin’. ‘Tis the day your great nephew is to die. If not by Gordon’s hand, then by mine.”

Jilly’s heart stopped.

Monty halted and tipped forward, dumping his big cousin off his back and onto the floor. Then he fetched a pitcher of water from the high table and headed back for Ewan with murder in his eyes.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

Quinn swallowed hard. As much as he wished Jillian away from that place, he couldn’t help but be thrilled to see her again. He’d never imagined his dream took place in a dungeon, but then again, he never thought his dream would become reality either.

“Come here, lass. Let me touch ye, just enough to know that ye’re real, that I haven’t conjured ye to comfort me in the dark.” He shouldn’t have said it. He couldn’t have not.

Of course he had no intention of dishonoring his great uncle, but just like in those dreams, he seemed to have little control over his need for her. And now, awake, the need was much more intense. If it was the last thing he’d ever do—which it very well might be—he was going to hold her close and press his lips to hers. Just one perfect kiss. It was all he wanted.

It was all.

She moved along the bars. He could hear her hands bumping each one as she came slowly toward him. The anticipation twisted his chest and made him want to groan with the exquisite frustration of it. There, in the dark, she was merely the woman from his dream, not Jillian, his friend.

“Montgomery Ross?”

Her whispered question cut through his fantasy, sobering him.

“Nay. I cannot pretend that I am Monty. It is I, Quinn. Has my homely uncle returned as well?”

She stopped moving. Her small gasp came from only an arm’s length away. He wanted to reach out and pull her to him, to give her no choice in the matter. But surely she would come to him, even as a friend, Jillian would come. They’d comforted each other before, when they’d been in the depths of despair—he still mourning Libby, and she rent in twain after leaving Montgomery in the past. Now, tossed in the enemy’s dungeon, she would need a bit of comfort again. Why did she hesitate?

Why, oh, why couldn’t he have let her believe he was Monty, if only for a few moments?

“Quinn?”
Her voice broke, as if on a sob. “Quinn
Ross?
The one on the website? I thought Quinn and Montgomery were the same man.”
 

He suddenly felt as confused as she sounded.