Not Without Juliet - By L.L. Muir Page 0,16

the back of his broken skull, and every muscle in his body complained. At first, he wondered if they'd beaten him, after he'd lost consciousness, but then he remembered all those hours of kneeling at attention to keep those blades from breaking his skin. The pain from a beating wouldn't have gone quite so deep.

A smell wafted around him when he moved—the smell of a tomb where a body would have rotted away for years. The smell of stale urine was a pleasant relief—he only hoped the urine wasn't his.

No. His kilt was dry. Thank goodness the ground below him was dry as well. The blade was gone from his boot.

So, this was the famous Gordon dungeons. They were so close to the sea, he expected it to be damper—not that he was complaining. But if he was going to die here, he could wish for harsher conditions that might speed along his demise.

And even as the thought presented itself, his stomach tightened.

He remembered now. That moment at Gordon's table, when he realized he wanted to live. Lord help him, when had that happened?

Quinn sat up and searched the darkness, straining to capture even the smallest hint of a reflection. He needed to know what surrounded him, but he would not go feeling about. He could only wait for someone to come with a light. Of course, he might be able to persuade them to come sooner...

"Gordon! Gordon! You can either grant me some light or I shall have the devil call up a fire, here, beneath your home. Which do you prefer?"

There was movement, but he had no idea how far away it had been. Were there other's sharing his dark hotel?

"Who's there?" he said.

When there was no answer, he tried again in Scots. Still no answer.

The pain in his head bid him lie down again, and he did so, but gently. As he was just about to drift off to sleep, the room grew lighter. Someone must have heard him after all.

He suppressed a groan as he pushed against the floor and forced himself up to sit. There was nothing in his ten-by-ten cell to sit upon, so he stayed put. A young lad with bulging eyes carried a torch to light the way for a tall, thin man. At the entrance to the dungeon, about thirty feet off to the left, an old man took a seat. Considering the bandages across his eyes, Quinn guessed he was blind—a natural babysitter for a prisoner kept in the dark. He must have been the one to carry his message to The Gordon.

Quinn was also pleased when he recognized his visitor, Long Legs.

"Why Long Legs! What a pleasant surprise ye make."

The thin man laughed." Ah, but ye were not so pleased at our first meeting, were ye, Laird Ross?"

"Mmm. No. I can't say as I was,” he admitted, wishing now he had taken his stand back in the heather and perhaps gotten away before Orie could have come along.

"You were bellerin' for something?" Long Legs raised a patient brow and folded his arms.

"Yes,” Quinn said cheerfully. “The Gordon promised me a tour of his dungeons and I had no light by which to see it.”

"Well, then, look yer fill. I suggest you be quick about it.” Long Legs turned to go.

Desperate for a few more minutes of light, Quinn looked about him, searching for some topic of conversation. His eyes caught the white reflection of bare bone in the next cell.

“Perhaps ye could pass on a request to The Gordon,” he said.

It worked. The man came back, and his light-bearer with him.

“Aye, sure. What would ye like, yer lairdship? New straw fer yer mattress no doubt? A better wine with yer supper?”

Quinn gestured to his left, to the only other cell between his and the entrance. “A bit of housekeeping is in order, aye? Seems this one’s overdue for a grave. Was his crime the same as mine? Stepping on Gordon soil?”

Long Legs expanded as he filled himself with a deep breath. His eyes, in the shadows, flickered with some emotion Quinn could not identify. If it were possible, the young man grew taller and looked down upon him as a hawk about to rip apart the mouse in its grip. And Quinn found himself grateful for the bars between them. Otherwise, he might be forced to kill the man in defense of himself—that was, if he somehow found the strength to get to his feet. It had been a