The Curse of Clan Ross (42 page)

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.

Holy shit. What if the guy was really dreaming about her too? What if he might be sharing the whole emotional ride?

Jules shook her head and sighed. It wouldn’t make any difference if he was—he’d just think it was a dream about his own wife. And that thought made her instantly sad.

She dragged along next to Ewan, hoping he’d take her somewhere quiet where she could sit down and shut her eyes for a minute. What she really needed was to just confront her sister and get the hell away from her, and her husband, but the woman was even farther out of her reach than before. Over five hundred years away. And the only short cut back was through that tomb, now inconveniently guarded by Jules’ personal Angel of Death.

It was just so surreal. What had it been, an hour since she’d started running down that hill? She couldn’t have made it into another time zone, and yet she’d traveled centuries? What a crock. Maybe, after she’d rested a bit, she could figure out another explanation. And it was a great plan...

...until they rounded a corner.

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

Since she’d come through the back entrance to the castle, Jules had never seen the great hall except in a photo gallery on the internet. But this was no polished museum. It was a madhouse. Tables filled every corner except for the raised dais where three large items were the only decoration. The tomb—the one she had to have been inside. A giant carved throne which looked a little too imposing to sit in. And a massive statue of Jillian’s husband, in his kilt. It looked so much like him—or at least what he looked like through binoculars—that she expected him to walk right off the stage.

But the most shocking part, and the thing making her nauseous again, was the crowd.

They were all dressed in medieval garb. Every last one of them. Women, children—even the dogs looked a little barbaric.

She turned back to Ewan and took a good look at his clothes. His kilt was nothing like any kilt she’d ever seen in real life. In the movies, yes. But modern day Scotsmen did not dress this way, not even for their Highland Games and Scottish Festivals. She knew. Her parents had taken her to them every year. They’d always been searching the crowds for some reason. When she was big enough, she realized they were searching for Jillian.

Always Jillian. Their lives had centered on finding Jillian. If her parents hadn’t been driving across that long stretch of Wyoming highway, hunting down one more lead, they would have still been alive. But they’d been sure they were going to find her that time, just like every other time, and Jules had refused to go along. She found a friend whose parents would let her sleep over for a few days. She hadn’t even told them goodbye.

Of course, if she’d have gone along, she’d be dead too. No one could have survived, even with seat belts. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about that. But she’d been pretty damn sure how she felt about Jillian.

Out of habit, and a sort of homage to her parents, she’d kept going to the festivals. She’d even looked for Jillian, but her reasons were different. She wanted her sister to know she was responsible for their deaths, responsible for how they’d wasted the short lives they’d had—looking for a girl who never looked back.

Watching the Scots gathering around for their evening meal, all the anger came flooding back, swirling in her nearly empty stomach like the ghost of a rotten meal—anger so sharp it brought tears to her eyes. She nearly turned around and headed back to the cellar, ready to confront her sister, mad enough to rip off the hitter’s head and spit down the hole. But she’d never get past him. Not without a gun. And she wasn’t sure these people even knew what a gun was.

She let out a harsh breath. It was no use fighting it. She really was Dr. Who, and there was a monster inhabiting her tardis. She had to figure out a way to capture that monster so the friggin’ episode could end—so she could turn off the nightmare.

Or maybe the Monster would go back the way he’d come, see Jillian, and kill her instead, mistaking her for Jules.

One of the Muir sisters gasped, as if she’d read her thoughts. Then she frowned at Jules and shook her head. What was with her?

“Mind your own business, Witchy Poo,” she snarled.

I didn’t say I wanted it to happen,
she thought, and she thought it hard, just in case someone was listening in. And she’d be damned if the woman didn’t nod.
 

Holy shit. I’m not in Kansas anymore.

She and the sisters were led toward the dais. She couldn’t tell which disturbed the people more, the Muirs or the fact Jules wasn’t wearing a dress like all the other women. Ewan gestured for them to sit at his round table, just in front of the dais where the giant chair, the tomb, and the statue stood like three pink elephants in the room that everyone pretended not to notice. The crowd quieted when Ewan took his seat. But they weren’t looking his way anymore. They were looking back at the doorway, the one that led to the kitchens—and the cellar—where a very angry, though slightly confused hitman stood with his forearms braced against the walls to either side of him. In one hand, he held a shiny black gun. His black leather coat and blue jeans stood out as badly as her own. It took three seconds for him to locate her.

Ewan reached out and squeezed her hand. Under his breath he said, “Stay calm, Jules. We’ll catch him and cage him. Just ye stay calm.”