Not Without Juliet - By L.L. Muir Page 0,2

frightening it was to sleep alone in the woods at night. And thanks to her wild imagination, she’d imagined all kinds of animals breathing on the car windows every time she closed her eyes.

The only thing she should really worry about was the FBI catching up with her or one of Gabby Skedros’ men. But even that concern was second on her list. Her biggest fear was what kept her on that hillside—the probability that that woman and her big Highlander would decide that they weren’t going to give her what was hers.

She’d dreamt of him again last night. Exactly the same dream she’d been having for the last six months. Only this time she knew who he was...

It was dark, just like always.

His head fell forward, his black hair made it hard to see his face. When he moved, she would see just a little curve of his cheek, a little reflection of light from his eyes. She wanted to reach out and push that hair behind his ears, but she didn’t. Why didn’t she?

At least she could hear him breathing and feel his arms as they came around her. So warm. So soft. So hard.

"Stay with me," he begged.

"I will. I promise."

"Stay with me, just until the end. Then you may go."

"'Til the end of what?"

"'Til the end, lass. You'll know when it's over."

Frantic desperation hung in the air all around them.

"I'm not who you think I am," he said.

That was what she was supposed to say.

"Neither am I,” she confessed.

He pulled her closer, but there was something between them, again. She needed to get closer, to feel his hard chest against her cheek, to know, just for a minute, that she was safe.

But something was stopping her.

Finally knowing he was a living breathing man, and not some guy her subconscious had conjured up?

Good news.

Realizing he was married, and to whom he was married?

Bad news. Bad, bad news.

Wondering how the hell her mind knew about a man across the ocean, six months before she’d ever seen him?

Freaking insane.

Water dripped on her head again. At least she hoped it was water. She didn’t look up because she really didn’t want to know. If the little thing had peed on her, she had no place to wash her hair anyway. Not until she got her money.

She wished she had her gun...if only to kill her a friggin’ squirrel.

“I hear you taste like chicken,” she said, still not looking up.

It was time to resume the position.

She felt the ground. Thankfully, it was no more damp than before. Not much of the last little rainstorm had made it through the thick branches. She was on a little plateau, so she stretched out on her belly, propped her elbows up, and looked through the old field glasses she’d bought in a second-hand store, in a little town just outside Glasgow. She wasn’t about to go shopping in East Burnshire, the village down the road. Running into that woman in a public place was not the plan. And if the FBI figured out where she was headed, they’d be watching East Burnshire for any sign of one Juliet Bell.

She’d tried not to get her hopes up about the Rosses helping her, considering what she planned to say to the new lady of the manor. The big Scot seemed so...courteous...from afar, she tried to keep worst case scenarios out of her head. She only wished she could say the same about her fantasies. The guy was just too gorgeous.

Just one more reason to dislike his wife.

Below her, Castle Ross protruded out of an ancient hill, a massive wreck resisting its lush green grave. The main body of the castle was about three stories tall. The towers, on the corners, looked more like arms reaching for the sky. Just a few fingers left on each hand.

As she studied the place for the thousandth time, a stone tumbled away from the west wall that was painted liberally with the orange light of the setting sun. She raised her field glasses to see what might have shaken loose a building block placed hundreds of years ago.

A couple of blue-grey figures stood on the battlements. Of course she didn’t believe in ghosts, but there was something about Scotland that made you believe you weren’t in the real world anyway.

She rolled the focus.

Two old ladies—identical in every way—were fighting over a pair of binoculars. Jules would lay odds on the one on the right since the strap was around her

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