The Curse of Clan Ross (54 page)

Percy didn’t flinch as he took the keys from Martin in exchange for the torch. Then he moved the old man’s arm to show him where the light must be held.

Still watching Percy, she said, “Notice how he wasn’t even curious when his name was mentioned?”

“Is that the bad news?” Quinn had sounded casual, but his fingers were digging into his own arms.

Percy began trying the keys in the door of Quinn’s cell.

“Not all of it,” she said. “The other bad news is the guy who claims to be my husband
is
Gabby’s hitman. When I insisted I didn’t know him, he started ranting about needing satisfaction from whoever had been turning my head.”
 

She knew she was wasting time, but how did she tell him he might be about to die.

“And then?”

Quinn was no longer leaning. His hands were on his hips and he was looking right at her. He still stood on the far side of his cell, though. She got the impression he’d already guessed what came next.

“Percy told him it was you. You were right. He knows that I care about you and he used it against me. I don’t think he planned to, but he was angry because I mentioned...Skully.”

Quinn nodded slightly, but didn’t move any closer.

Jules couldn’t take it anymore and grabbed the bars that separated them. They were out of time.

“He already knows, Quinn. He already knows.”

A heartbeat later he was pressed against the bars, pulling her tight. She was so relieved she could have laughed. Percy and Martin disappeared in the background. It was only them. Together again. He was kissing her all over her face, missing her mouth in spite of her trying to help him find it.

“Your chances of escaping are much better above ground, right?” she whispered, since her mouth was currently not in use. “I still think my stand-by plan is better than nothing—bash him on the head and fight your way out. His nose might be broken, so I’d try to hit him there first.”

Quinn kissed both eyes, then pulled back a little. By the look on his face, he wasn’t any more impressed with her plan that he was the first time she’d shared it. Then dread struck her in the chest like a boxing glove.

“You do know how to fight, don’t you?”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Of course I ken how to fight. Am I not a Scot? We’re taught in Primary School. Now, go back to the part where you were lusting after the man in yer dreams, aye?”

A key clicked in the lock and they froze. Percy rattled it, but it did not turn. He tried the next key. For a dungeon with only two cells, there were a helluva lot of keys on that ring. But one of them was going to fit.

Their hearts were pounding like horses’ hooves. She could hear her pulse in her ear where his hand covered it. She could feel his heart beating in his neck.

It was time. This was it. That last chance for a kiss. And if he kissed her like a damned butterfly, she was going to rip the bars apart and make him do it better.

“Kiss me, damn it,” she whispered.

He smiled at her and winked, his eyes sparkling in the light from the torch that Martin silently held.

Obviously, Percy was too impatient to wait for a blind man to find the right key, but even Martin didn’t take so long to unlock the doors.

She popped up on her toes and stretched her neck at the same time Quinn’s mouth came down firmly on hers. He seemed to understand that she wasn’t looking for butterflies. And except for bumping into the bars a few times, they managed to make more than their jailers disappear. His short whiskers were a soft brushed against her chin. His hand moved across her cheek and into her hair, like he needed to know the texture of it as badly as she’d needed to know the feel of his lips. When she finally had to stop to catch her breath and give her toes a break, she didn’t back away, but leaned her forehead against his chest, and for the first time since she’d landed in Scotland, she didn’t envy her sister.

Well, much anyway. At least Jillian would still have her Highlander tomorrow. Jules didn’t know what she’d have beyond this memory.

He smelled good for having been in a dungeon for days. And his shirt was a little too tight, like it wasn’t meant for him, but it was clean. She reached through the bars and ran her hands up his arms.

“Please tell me you can protect yourself.”

“I can protect myself,” he murmured.

“Really? Because Bond James Bond is in pretty good shape. He’s probably planning to open up a can of karate on your cute arse, you know?”

“Cute arse?” He let go of her and turned, so they could both get a better view.

Him trying to get a good look at his own ass was going to be mental snapshot she would never forget.

“Very nice,” she said. “Now please don’t let him damage it.”

He grabbed the bars again, just a few inches above her own hands and she realized what he was trying to do. Letting go of each other would have been painful and he’d ripped that bandage off before she had a chance to think about it.

“No worries,” he said.

The haze from their kiss was fading, but the compulsion to renew it was as strong as ever. All she wanted was to kiss him again, but there was so much to say.

“If you can get away, go,” she said. “Promise me you’ll go. I won’t be far behind. I have that plan, you see.”

“Aye, a fine plan,” he said.

She noticed he promised her nothing. She wasn’t going to waste precious time arguing.

Metal clicked against metal. It felt like someone had just locked her heart.

The gate swung open behind him. His hands were still on the bars, but she dared not touch him again. She put on a smile and let her hands drop to her sides.

“Forget about me,” she said. “Just concentrate on winning the fight. Don’t let him hit you in the head.”

A hand landed on his shoulder and he took a step back.

“Did Gordon say what I get if I win?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Me, I guess.”

“Well, then. I cannot lose.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

 

The guard held Quinn’s arm while Percy tied his hands together behind his back.

“What’s the harm in leaving her a bit of light, Percy?” Quinn asked.

The thin man said nothing, then left him to the guard and preceded them up the steps.

Their steps echoed in the stone stairwell.

“So,” Quinn said. “I see you’ve made your decision then. You don’t believe me.”

Percy glanced over his shoulder. “Not just yet. We’ll see how yer luck holds out with her husband.” Then he snorted. “Ye manage to keep from dying by his hand or hanging on the morrow, and then I’ll believe ye can change the future. For I’m certain the only thing yer future holds is a bit of dirt—or ash, o’course.”

They entered the hall to a mixture of applause and whistles. A wet bit of something struck him on the neck as he was led forward to face The Gordon. The smell that followed told him it had been an apple. He was simply grateful to have something pleasant to breathe for a change. He was also pleased to note the laird’s throne was not nearly as grand as the Great Ross Chair made by Monty’s grandfather.

Percy made a slight bow to his father and moved away. The guard remained at Quinn’s back. An impressively tall man with an equally impressive mane of red hair stood to the old man’s left. He glared at Quinn, sized him up, then gave him a wink.

The Gordon’s spawn laughed. They were queued up along the wall to his left as if they were waiting in line to kick him as soon as he was down. So brave.

No wonder The Runt will be able to take the reins here once the father is gone.

He tried to be as hopeful and fearless as Juliet. She seemed to see no complication so great that it couldn’t be faced, bashed, then run from.

He laughed just thinking about the stories she’d told. If only half of them were true, he might have a sporting chance against the red beast if he but kept to her daft excuse for a plan. The only thing she hadn’t considered was that he could never flee and leave her behind. Or perhaps she had considered it just before she asked for that promise—a promise he could not make.

Better get on, then. If he could best the man, he would at least have one more night in the dark with Juliet. Perhaps, once his date with the hangman was over, she’d be able to cajole her way out of the Gordon keep since she’d no longer be burdened with saving his hide.

He faced the laird of the clan.

“I’ve been told I’ll be fighting this day,” he said.

“Aye, ye will be.” The Gordon leaned to one side of his large chair and grinned.

Quinn tried to think of something that might douse the old man’s mood.

“Are you certain?” he asked. “What if I refuse the play?”

It worked. The Cock o’ the North sat forward and frowned.

“Then the woman below will be sent home with her husband.” He pointed to the tall one. “And ye will meet yer maker on the morn, as I’ve said. I suspected ye’d rather leave this world fightin’, but if ye’d rather leave it like a woman, then so be it.”

The redhead met his gaze, but he couldn’t guess what the man was thinking. It was a fact, the man was trying to say something with his brows, but only the devil could know.

Quinn turned back to his host. “And if I beat this man?”

The Gordon grinned. “‘Tis...unlikely.”

The hall erupted in laughter.

“‘Tis possible,” Quinn shouted to be heard.

The laird lifted a hand and the hall went silent.

“I’m ever a man of me word, Montgomery Ross. I promised ye a hanging in the mornin’, and if yer still alive when the sun shows itself, I’ll not fail ye. If he kills ye, then ye’ll be spared the hangin’ is all. But you were the one to claimed to have The Sight. We’ll still burn ye; we’ll do it proper or not at all.”

Quinn grinned. “I prefer not at all, of course.”

“Noted.” The Gordon sat back and relaxed.

Quinn couldn’t leave it at that. “But surely I’ll deserve a proper reward?”

Gordon frowned, then smiled knowingly. “Ye want the lass in yer cell for yer final night, is that it?”

The redhead’s mouth dropped open. He looked fairly irritated at the turn of the conversation. Either he didn’t care to hear that he might not win the battle—which meant he thought quite highly of himself—or he didn’t care for the idea of Quinn having the lass alone in the dark. And that didn’t make sense unless the bastard had similar intentions for Juliet.

Something was amiss with this one. Perhaps his journey through the tomb had left his brains a bit foosty.

Quinn shook his head and answered Gordon.

“Not at all. I want her released. I want her returned to Castle Ross and protected from him.” He pointed at the hitman.

“Well, if he’s dead, then she’ll have no need to fear him, aye?”

Everyone within earshot seemed to appreciate Gordon’s joke.

“I won’t kill him,” Quinn said. “I’ll fight him. I might even beat him. But I’ll not kill him. And I’ll have your word the woman will be returned to Castle Ross,
unharmed.
”
 

Gordon waived an impatient hand. “Fair enough. Ye have me word. But I’ll wager Bond James, here, will be taking his wife home this night.”

And so the betting began.

Quinn stripped off his constricting shirt and heard a gasp to his left. Betha was suddenly pushed behind one of her brothers. He got only a brief glimpse of her wide eyes before they disappeared behind the shoulders of two Gordons.

Too little, too late, he thought. She shouldn’t have taken her time about freeing him. No matter. He was destined to be in the Gordon’s dungeon when Juliet was brought in. He understood that now. Fate had been planning their encounter for a good while. He only hoped Fate had something in mind for he and the lass that involved a great deal of time together.

That was worth fighting for.

Quinn took the excess plaid from his ancient kilt and twisted it, then wrapped it about his waist and tucked in the end. A length of cloth over his shoulder would just prove a convenient hand hold for his enemy, or so Ewan had taught him. The more Quinn had trained in the plaid, the more he understood why old soldiers preferred to fight without any clothing at all. Of course, if he attempted to fight in the Gordon’s hall, in his altogether, he might find himself missing a vital part or two, all thanks to the armed audience in Gordon colors.

The big man noted how he’d wrapped his plaid and followed suit. Then he made a spectacle of giving up all his hidden blades.

Quinn met the man’s gaze and lifted a brow. The man had a gun hidden somewhere, but it would be wise for Quinn to insist he set the weapon aside. What the Gordons would think of the gun, he could not say. But he could at least make sure the man couldn’t use that gun on Juliet, whether to harm her or compel her to leave with him.

The man raised a brow as well.

Quinn made his hand into a pretend gun—a sign that would mean nothing to the onlookers.

The redhead frowned briefly, then gave his head a slight shake.

Quinn understood it to mean that he was supposed to keep his mouth shut about the gun. But why would he? Was this man not the enemy?