Not Without Juliet

chapter THREE



Hell hath no fury like a Gordon scorned.

When Quinn Ross exchanged places with Montgomery Ross, so the second man could live with his twenty-first century bride, in the future—without leaving a gaping hole in the past—he’d been amazed by the civilization of fifteenth century Scotland. That was, until he’d been taken prisoner by the mighty Clan Gordon. At that point, he realized that civilization related more to the people than to the modern conveniences he had so long associated with the word. Just because they didn’t have indoor plumbing didn’t mean they lived a mean life.

Except for the Gordons.

For all the clan’s grandeur in size and strength, both of land and men, they were sorely lacking in the finer things of life. A washed bit of table, for one. An absence of foul odors, for another.

Dogs lived better, cleaner lives. In fact, every time the great door opened, the beasts would make a run for the outdoors, as if they had risked their very lives to come scrounge for food beneath the long tables, and had since thought better of it.

Quinn had been placed in the corner furthest from the fire and forced to kneel upon filthy rushes. He tried not to wonder at the sharp and pointy bits that pressed into his knees. His arms remained tied behind him and mere children had been placed as his guards, each one of the four possessing a finely sharpened short-sword, the tips of which were held to his neck, his back, and both shoulders. If he flinched away from one biting blade, he’d push himself against its opposite, and it took only a few painful slices into his skin to inspire him to remain as absolutely still as possible. If he stood and tried to bully past them, he was afraid of what those blades would accomplish when only waist-high.

The children laughed and waited for him to relax his posture once more, but he wouldn’t give the little monsters the satisfaction. He marveled at the patience of ones so young. They took to their duty as if their suppers depended on it, which they may well have. When night fell and food started piling on the tables, only then were the monsters distracted from their bloody play.

The door banged open and a horde of ragged people poured through the opening. The last to enter, and casually, was a broad man with a red tinge to his gray beard that grew up the sides of his balding head. He looked immediately at the corner and locked gazes with Quinn.

Act as if you know him, Quinn reminded himself. Monty would have spoken with the man at least a dozen times, and it was still important for The Gordon to continue believing him to be Montgomery Ross.

“The Mighty Ross no longer resembles his statue, aye?” Laird Gordon, the Cock o’ the North, swaggered over for a closer look. He sounded as if he had rocks in his throat. “Are ye ailin’ mon? Is that why ye gave up yer clan to that cousin o’ yers?” He bent low, looking into Quinn’s eyes, then looked down at his neck and dabbed a dirty finger on the blood he’d found there. “Have our bairns been playing roughly with ye, Laird Ross?”

The Gordon had spoken carefully, as if to a child, or an elder that might no longer be right in the head. Is that what they all thought? That he’d lost his senses a year ago, when the switch had taken place? That could prove useful. In the old days, people with mental illness were given a wide berth. Oh, aye, and burned as witches, he recalled.

“Laird Gordon, is it?” He blinked a few times. “I know you, don’t I?” Witch or no, he was likely about to die anyway. What harm could it do to mess with their heads?

“You used to know me, Ross.” Still The Gordon used a kind tone.

“Yes. Before Isobelle’s spirit came. You don’t suppose she followed me here, do you?”

The hall fell silent. A moment passed before The Gordon threw his head back and laughed.

“Ye’re a sly one, Montgomery Ross. That ye are. You’ve made a fine foe for many the long day. You’d have made a fine son-of-the-law if your sisters wouldna ruint it.” And with that, the man turned and made his way to the high table. “Come. Enjoy yer last meal if ye can, with me bairns watchin’ o’er ye.”

The blades were drawn back, but the little monsters followed his every move as he straightened, stretched his legs then tested their ability to walk a straight line to the laird’s table.

Once he was seated, the devil’s wee army set up camp around his feet, aiming their blades in four directions as before. It was the North blade that worried him the most. The Gordon had known his business when he’d said, “Enjoy your meal if you can.”

The meat was greasy. The trencher of bread looked as if a few meals had been served from it before, but Quinn couldn’t be picky. His hands were cut loose and he ate whatever looked edible and even a few things that didn’t, but he managed to keep it all down. The Gordon was famous for his dungeons and if the man wanted to give him a grand tour for a week or two before he died of hunger and thirst, Quinn would be wishing he could have this disgusting meal back again.

I should just stand and fight. Die with my boots on. Wasn’t that the whole reason for trading Monty places? To put an end to my own suffering?

He’d expected to die from grief, after losing his wife, Libby. If he died now, he’d be with her all the sooner. Why drag it out? He’d been trying to picture her in his mind all evening, anticipating their ethereal reunion, but her image was never clear. Even remembering her photos wasn’t working.

It had to be the stress. If he could relax, he’d remember every detail.

“I’ll show ye the dungeon when ye’re finished, Ross. Ye’ll be impressed, ye will.”

This was it. The chance to stand and die. He might be able to wrench a nice sharp blade from the boy in front of him, slit the throat of The Gordon, then be quickly skewered by his numerous full grown sons glaring at him from the other side of the table. And it would all be over.

Why did he hesitate?

Did he truly want to live? After years of mourning, was he ready to live again? How cruel was Fate if that were true, taking away his life just as he’d decided to embrace it?

His tense muscles relaxed with one deep, accepting breath. He would go where he was bid and no doubt use every last moment mourning the years he’d wasted. When he met her in Heaven, he was sure Libby would have a few choice words for him as well.

The thought of his wife brought to mind the wife Montgomery Ross would have had a year ago if his wedding hadn’t been interrupted by a charming lass from Quinn’s own century.

“How fares yer daughter, Gordon? Any chance—”

“Silence! Ye’ll nay lay eyes upon the lass, let alone anything else.” Gordon glanced at Quinn’s crotch. “Ye had yer chance.”

The laird ate faster then, more anxious to show off his dungeons, no doubt.

“I can honestly say, Laird, that I’m not the man you knew a year ago. I’m a kinder man. A forgiving man, even.”

“Aye. ‘Tis best ye left yer clan into Ewan Ross’ hands, then. A laird canna lead with kindness and live long.” Gordon eyed his sons, as if he expected one of them to attack him before the enemy at his side might do so. Six men, including Long Legs, glared back as they chewed, as if they were considering doing just that as soon as the food was gone.

Someone was missing.

“Hey, now,” Quinn said. “Where’s my brother of the law, then? Where’s Cinead?”

The laird choked, then took a long pull of wine from his tankard. When he set the drink aside, Quinn realized the man was furious, but trying to control himself. Oh, he was going to end up in the dungeons all right. But at least there wouldn’t be small boys cutting his flesh to ribbons there. Or so he hoped.

Finally, the other man spoke.

“Ye’ve no brother of the law here, Ross. When yer sister chose Neptune’s arms over Cinead’s, the marriage was nulled.” The Gordon took a deep breath and the redness that had been climbing up his neck receded. “The man is above stairs, with his bride.”

“Ah yes, I remember now.” Quinn couldn’t contain his excitement as histories began to bubble up in his mind.

Gordon frowned and leaned forward. “Ye remember what?”

“Morna’s husband, Cinead, took a second wife and had nearly a dozen children, one of whom ruled the Gordon Clan after...you...died.”

Oops.

Judging from the fury on the faces of Cinead’s brothers, Quinn had hit a sore spot. But their anger wasn’t directed at him, but at their father, as if they’d just had some suspicion verified. The fact that Quinn had been telling fortunes hadn’t seemed to impress them at all.

The older man growled at the pack of wolves rising to their feet and Quinn realized the rocks in the man’s voice was likely due to a lifetime of making that same noise.

“The man’s no witch, ye dolts. He’s tryin’ to stir ye up so he can get away in the confusion.” The Gordon turned a wild eye on Quinn. “Ye’ve not The Sight, Montgomery Ross. Otherwise ye would have known what yer sister Morna would do, and ye would have stopped her!”

Quinn snorted. “I knew enough of what would happen here that I gave Ewan the Clan, did I not?”

The Gordon snorted and banged his tankard for a refill.

What else? What else could he remember to make them think twice about keeping him prisoner? There had to be something. Something that happened near the year 1496!

“The grandson of the current King James will be handed the crown of England.” They needn’t know it would be given by an English woman.

“What do we care of English politics a hundred years from now?” Gordon snorted again. His sons’ hackles were back down and they were now laughing at their father’s comment like he was the king and they were pretending to kiss his arse.

“One day a man will walk on the moon,” Quinn offered, sure that would give them pause.

Gordon’s nose curled to one side. “I care more who walks onto Gordon lands, and today, someone did.”

Another sore subject then.

“What would you like to ken of the future, Laird Gordon? I will trade any information for my freedom. I’m more surprised than anyone to find that I’d prefer to live.”

“Ach, now. Bad timing that,” said a strange voice very near his ear. He turned to see a small man, who had to be Cinead Gordon, forcefully lowering a club to his head.