Not Without Juliet

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.

"Jillian. Dear Jilly. Have ye lost yer senses? Do ye not remember me? We spent the better part of two weeks together, greetin’ over the loss of our loved ones. Do you remember none of it, then?"

"I'm...I’m not Jillian. I'm not Jillian. I swear to you, I'm not Jillian." She laughed, but it only served to worry him more.

He’d never been so desperate for light.

"Martin! Martin, can ye give us a wee bit o' candle? Just a quick bit of light, aye? Martin,” he whispered as loud as he dared. “Can ye hear me?"

There was movement near the door. A few minutes later, the old man approached.

"Trusting a blind man with fire is terrible foolish,” said Martin. “But lucky for ye, they're a foolish lot. But ye mustn’t risk more than a moment or two before ye must douse it."

"Don't move," Quinn told the woman. He pressed himself against the cell door with his hands outstretched and clicked his fingers. He could not wait to prove this angel from his dream was not Montgomery Ross's wife.

An eternity passed, then a box crashed into his hands. He took it, gave Martin’s hand a squeeze, then opened the box. He located the flint, the tinder, and a short nub of a candle only two inches long.

"God bless ye, Martin," he said, but the man was already shuffling away.

"I'd stay to have a peek at her, but I doona wish to interfere," Martin said, then laughed.

After a lifetime of tries, the candle took. By the time it did, he was worried that he’d imagined it all and there would be none but Skully in the adjoining cell.

His hands shook as he put a protective hand around the flame and turned. Each step he took gripped his heart tighter...

Tighter...

Tighter still.

There was a bit of shine to the woman’s coat. Leather, like Jillian wore the first time she set foot in the Ross hall. A plaid dress, like the one Jillian was wearing when she brought Morna and Ivar through the tomb and into the twenty-first century.

His stomach dropped when he noticed the Western cowboy boots. How could she not be Jillian? Dare he hope the way she was dressed was but coincidence?

When he finally stood before the dimly lit form beyond the bars, he removed the hand that blocked the light from her face.

His own face fell. He could not help it from doing so, he was that disappointed. The only thing different about her was that her hair looked a bit darker than before, but it might only be the lack of proper lighting.

"Jillian." He wanted to demand why she would have lied to him, but it was hard enough to just say her name. He wanted to take her by the arms and shake her, to make her understand how her pretense had hurt him.

"I'm not Jillian. I'm her sister, Juliet. I go by Jules. Apparently, we're twins."

He shook his head. How could she tease him like this? Especially now, when he might actually hang in the morning.

"Ah, Jilly. Surely ye didn't find your way in here only to tease me." He held out the candle. "Here. You take it."

The thing was small. She tried to take it from his fingers, but couldn't do so without them losing the light altogether.

"Forget it," she said sharply and turned away, leaving him holding he candle up to empty space. "And I'm not Jillian, a*shole."

He stood there in stunned silence. Was she telling the truth?

Then, with no more warning than a low keening to precede it, a painful scream shot through his ears and head and ricocheted through the dungeon. Jillian’s scream. When he finally thought to shield his eyes from the candle, he found her, whimpering with her back against her cell door. She was staring at the corpse.

"I'm sorry, lass. I should have warned ye. I call him Skully.”

The pet name was no help. She didn’t seem to be listening on any account.

“He’s harmless, lass. Look at me.”

She took a few deep breaths, then turned her face. Eventually, her eyes turned too.

“And by the way,” he said. “I believe ye're not Jillian after all."

"Oh yeah?" She took a deep breath and choked, then she pulled up a t-shirt from under her blouse and covered her face. It muffled her voice. "Why? Don't I scream like her?"

"I don't ken about that,” he said. “But I do know she would have never called me an arsehole. Ever."