Cinead to do the deed in the middle of the night? Or was it only that the little man wanted his own revenge and would take it out from under the old man’s nose?
Perhaps there was good reason Cinead Gordon would end up leading his clan.
The future laird looked up into his face and grinned.
“I know what ye think, Laird Ross,” he said. “But if we doona allow you to speak, you canna call the devil to your rescue, aye?” He stopped just below the noose and jumped up to swat at it, like he was proving he was tall enough to reach it.
But he wasn’t.
The noose hung perfectly still. The men holding Quinn stifled their laughter.
“Get on with it,” Cinead hissed. “Someone’s coming,”
Quinn tried to turn, to see if maybe Percy had finally decided to act, but the guards pushed him forward. One had a fist full of hair at the back of his head that kept Quinn from seeing anything but the closing proximity of his head to the noose. With his arms tied behind his back once again, there was only so much bucking he could do. His only hope was to bob and weave to keep that noose off his head. And pray for a miracle, of course.
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
Perhaps there was good reason Cinead Gordon would end up leading his clan.
The future laird looked up into his face and grinned.
“I know what ye think, Laird Ross,” he said. “But if we doona allow you to speak, you canna call the devil to your rescue, aye?” He stopped just below the noose and jumped up to swat at it, like he was proving he was tall enough to reach it.
But he wasn’t.
The noose hung perfectly still. The men holding Quinn stifled their laughter.
“Get on with it,” Cinead hissed. “Someone’s coming,”
Quinn tried to turn, to see if maybe Percy had finally decided to act, but the guards pushed him forward. One had a fist full of hair at the back of his head that kept Quinn from seeing anything but the closing proximity of his head to the noose. With his arms tied behind his back once again, there was only so much bucking he could do. His only hope was to bob and weave to keep that noose off his head. And pray for a miracle, of course.
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
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