Not Without Juliet

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?

“Battle!” cried Laird Gordon, and suddenly any further discussion was ended.

The big man ran at him, threw his long arms around him and clamped his fingers together behind Quinn's neck. Then he pressed his forehead to Quinn’s own.

"Quinn Ross," he whispered. "You haven't got any more sense than Juliet. Did the name James Bond tell you nothing?"

Quinn pushed him off, but ran back at him again, anxious to keep the man from calling him Quinn again. But how did he know? Ewan wouldn't have told him. Not if he'd come chasing after Juliet, to eventually see her eliminated. Ewan would have guarded the Ross secrets with his life.

Quinn was surprised, actually, that Ewan hadn't sent a marksman after him, worried The Gordon might torture those golden secrets off his tongue. After all, one man's life was hardly worth the price the clan would pay if the truth got out. And they’d pay that price for generations.

"Who told you my name?" He ground the question out through his teeth while he held his arm around the other man's neck. Getting behind the bastard hadn't been easy.

"Ewan Ross told me," the man grunted, then held tight to Quinn's arm and flipped him over his wide back and onto the floor.

The filthy rushes were a fine inducement to get on his feet again, and they began circling each other. The crowd made accommodations.

"Liar,” Quinn said. “Ewan Ross would have taken my name to the grave. He'd tell no hitman—"

"You idiot!" the big man roared as he rushed him.

He wrapped his arms around Quinn's entire body, trapping his arms to his sides. Their faces were inches apart.

"Bond. James Bond. I'm MI6. Not some bleedin’ hitman. The FBI lost her at the airport. I was sent to watch her sister’s house. When Juliet ran from me, every time she ran from me, she never gave me a chance to explain.”

Quinn gave the bastard a Glasgow kiss and heard the satisfying crunch of another man’s bones. The redhead stumbled back, one hand on his nose, the other flung wide in search of support. Two Gordon brothers were knocked on their arses, as was Betha. She was lost under the pile, but they heard her screeching clearly enough.

“I don’t believe you.” Quinn spit at the man. “How long does it take to say I’m MI6?”

He moved back and gave the man room to get up. He also needed time to recover. That head-butt was the worst thing he could have done to himself. The world was spinning around him, slightly off axis. The crowd watched closely and he could tell which men had bet against him by the frowns on their faces.

Percy, surprisingly enough, was smiling.

Bond wiped a bloody hand across his chest as he stood.

Quinn smiled. At least he’d drawn first blood.

The man hurried forward, and as prepared as Quinn believed he was, he still was unable to avoid the big man’s fist.

He spun around once and though his face was numb and his neck burned, he was pleased to find himself still on his feet. That was, until he realized that the other man was holding him up with a flat hand against his chest. Disappointing, that.

Bond’s big fist pulled back and held. Quinn was pretty sure he could drop like a sack of wheat just before contact.

“I was warned she'd fight me,” said the taller man. “that she didn’t want protection. I thought she understood who I was.”

Quinn couldn’t afford to listen. If that fist connected, it might just kill him. The man had no knowledge of the beating Quinn’s skull had already taken thanks to Gordon hospitality. He might kill Quinn whether or not he meant to.

The fist came slowly. Quinn dropped his butt toward the ground, and when he found himself sitting on it, he also found his head was still attached.

Lucky thing, that.

Bond grabbed his hair in one hand and pulled him to his feet. Standing behind Quinn, he leaned close and spoke low.

“Now quickly, I need you to act like you've passed out. I’m going to cut you. You’re going to play dead.”

“Kiss my arse,” Quinn said, then spit blood on the floor.

The crowd laughed.

“Play dead, Quinn. Ewan’s waitin’ with horses. I'll insist on taking your body back to Ewan."

Bond pushed him away and Quinn spun to face him. They danced in a circle again.

“MI6? Truly?”

“MI6, ye dense bastard.” The man rushed him and put his hands around his neck.

Quinn bore down to turn his face red, but he couldn't resist complaining.

"It's a bit too Romeo and Juliet, don't you think? My playing dead?"

"Well, just be glad you get to play the part of Romeo. I, for one, wouldn't touch her with a ten meter pole."

Quinn went limp, then was glad the man tossed him onto his face so those watching wouldn't notice any twitching.

"Here. Finish him," came Gordon's voice. "Through the heart, Bond James. I'll not have him rousing while he's roasting on the spit. The women doona appreciate it."

"I can imagine," said Bond. "Will you have my wife brought?"

"Aye. Percy. Fetch her."

Someone knelt on Quinn's back. "Sorry about this," the man said.

Hot fire sliced his back. There was no telling how deeply the blade had gone. He could only pray he’d put his trust in a true MI6 agent and not some lunatic whose mind was bent by a wee jaunt through time.

He dared not move, even when warm blood puddled on his back and tickled his side on its way toward the floor. If Bond James Bond wasn’t MI6, Quinn was going to take him apart. Slice by slice.

He concentrated on breathing as slowly as possible—not easy when his mind was reeling. He only needed to think calming thoughts. Immediately, his mind went to Juliet and the panic dissolved.

His lungs were still working. Neither of them punctured, thankfully. His sweat was drying quickly on his face.

The murmurs of the crowd turned to chatter. A dog trotted over and started licking his face. He fought his facial muscles, forcing them to relax when the beasts tongue slipped past his lips.

He hoped the thing wouldn't start licking up his blood, and even the thought of it pushed him over the edge—he couldn't help it when his entire body shivered in revulsion.

“There now, there's a death rattle for ye," said Gordon. "Ah, here comes yer wife now. Let her see that her lover is dead and she should look to you now."

Dear Lord! Juliet! How could he just lie there and let her believe him dead? She didn't know yet that Bond was an agent. She would fight him. And how would she react when she thought she had sent Quinn to his death?

He couldn't stand it another second. He had to stand up and fight their way out. Use the fall back plan. Bash, fight, and run.

A boot came down hard on his back.

"Here, wife. Come. There is no reason for you to pretend. Tell Laird Gordon I'm your rightful husband."

He felt her coming, heard her slow steps, how she choked back a sob.

"I'll kill you for this," she whispered. "You've just removed any leverage you might have had over me. I would have done anything to have him spared. Anything. Now you’re the dead man."

There was only silence while his heart beat loud in his ears. He couldn’t help but be touched by the passion in her voice and be thrilled that her feelings for him might equal his for her. The pressure on his back never let up and he was lucky it didn’t. He needed the reminder to keep his breathing slow in spite of his urge to shout for joy.

When Juliet spoke again, her voice had changed.

"Forgive me, Laird Gordon. We'll get out of your way now. I'm sorry we bothered you with our personal problems. Come, husband. We really don't need witnesses." Her voice was sticky sweet. Her accent wasn’t pretty.

"Hold a moment, Lady Bond,” the agent said. “We'll go when I'm ready. Laird Gordon, allow me to return Laird Ross to his cousin. Ewan will wish to seal him in the tomb with his sister witch. Ye can hardly wish to have the likes of him haunting yer home."

There was a drawn out silence. The only thing Quinn heard was the sound of the crowd’s breathing.

“Why would ye do such a thing, Bond James? Do ye not believe the more pressing need is to meet out the woman’s punishment and set yer house to rights? Perhaps there is something ye mean to hide from me?”

The agent laughed. “Nothing to hide. Ye’ve been right generous with me. I’ll be the same. ‘Tis the truth, Ewan Ross has something I need. I mean to trade the body of Montgomery Ross for it. I also meant what I said about Laird Ross’s ghost. It is only my opinion that a man’s ghost will likely be more bothersome than that of a woman, but I might be mistaken. Perhaps ye have a priest about who might have better advice?”

In the silence that followed, Monty could imagine dry wood being added around the pole in the outer bailey. If his enemy remained unmoved, how in the bloody hell was he going to escape that?

“Devil take ye,” Gordon snarled. "Away with ye, then. Take Montgomery Ross. And someone clean his blood from my hall. I won’t have him coming back for it on Samhain!"