"Can we block this door?" she whispered. "That's the man who’s after me. He's got a gun. I'm sure he'll kill anyone who gets in his way."
The Scot nodded, handed her the torch, then rolled yet another barrel out of the dark and in front of the door.
"This should hold him for a mite,” he said. “But your only way back home is through that tomb, lass. If ye and Jillian are to meet, ye must face this man first, and no mistake. Sooner or later."
"Later sounds good to me."
The hitter beat on the door, having found his way out of the tomb with little light to help him.
"Juliet Bell! When I get my hands on ye... Listen, lass. If ye let me out now, it will go much smoother for ye. Ye have my word. No harm will come to ye."
She could hear him breathing against the door. He was probably listening to her breathe too. After a few seconds, he went back to beating on the door.
"He'll just blow the hinges off,” she warned the Scot.
"Truly?" The big man rolled his eyes in the torchlight. "Perhaps you underestimate the quality of a Scotsman's carpentry, or the strength of a full barrel of whisky. He'll not get out so easily. Now come up into the light. Let me get a good look at you, and I'll decide the message I wish you to give to Monty, once ye've got the courage to go back, of course. But tell me, why does yer pursuer call ye Juliet Bell?”
“Bell is a long story. And I don’t let anyone call me Juliet.”
The door seemed to be holding up well to the pounding, so they moved away. Ewan took back his torch and led her along the dirt-floored hallways. She was so turned around, she had no choice but to trust him.
Dirt floors. God, help me. I’ve lost my mind.
“But mayhap you could find your courage sooner, rather than later,” Ewan said. “As Quinn may not live long enough for Monty to be of any help. I would send others to bring his wandering hide back to Ross lands, but none else kens who the lad truly is. I fear a close look by our own lads might give the game away. We've been careful to keep the clan from getting too close. I imagine word of an imposter would be the type of tale to pass through the generations, aye? And Jillian was ever one to go on and on about the dangers of changing history."
Jules snorted. “Yeah, I’ll bet she was.”
Ewan stopped and looked at her. “What do ye mean, lass?”
“She’s got the world at her feet. Why would she wish anything different? She’s probably thrilled with the way things have turned out. Changing the past would screw up her little fairy tale, right?”
And just like that, Jules was glad she’d gone back in time. Maybe there was a reason she was there. Maybe she could fix all kinds of things. Screw Jillian’s rules about changing history.
“Lass,” said Ewan. “Jillian has a kind and gentle soul. If she believes that changing history will ruin lives, I have no doubt it is not her life for which she fears. She loves Monty, and yet she was willing to give him up so that Morna and Ivar could be together. You’ll find no selfishness in Jillian’s heart.”
“I hope so,” she said. It was the nicest thing she could think of to say since Ewan was clearly on Team Jillian.
Finally, he stopped yakking and started moving again.
But inside, there was a giant scrapbook of pain, and it had Jillian’s name written on the front in big jagged letters.
CHAPTER FIVE
Quinn woke to a painful throb at the back of his head. He was lying on a cold dirt floor, in the dark.
For a moment, he thought he was still stuck in his dream and waited for the softness of his mattress to register, but it didn't. Then, as he had hundreds of times in the last year, he remembered which century he was in. But this was the first time he'd awakened on the ground.
And it was still night?
His last memory was of going stir crazy inside the castle, of sneaking away without his young escort... And then he remembered the heather. He could still feel the scratches on his arms from gathering the branches. Then he remembered the scratches from sharp little knives.