Not Without Juliet - By L.L. Muir Page 0,11
be able to put up any kind of fight. How pathetic.
Wuss!
As her head grew lighter and she started to collapse, she prayed the blond would keep her from landing where he’d peed.
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