toes—and yet, she could not get close enough. His head fell forward, his hair made it difficult to see his face. But 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. His voice was edged with worry, ragged. Didn’t he know she’d stay?
In some dreams, he’d say it simply, like an invitation to lunch. This time it was different. He was feeling as desperate as she was.
"I will. I’ll stay,” she whispered. “I promise."
How could she comfort him? It was driving her crazy.
"My own lass. Stay with me, just until the end,” he said, then whispered, “then ye may go." He’d said it so softly she wondered if he hadn’t meant for her to hear, didn’t want her to worry too.
"I’m not going anywhere. And I won’t let go. I swear.” She was almost too afraid to ask, but she did. “'Til the end of what?"
His hands gave a little squeeze. It was so real, she was sure she felt it, that he was really there with her, and she refused to open her eyes, to prove he wasn’t.
"Just ‘till the end, lass. You'll know when it's over."
Sometimes the dream ended there, but she wouldn’t let it. This time, it was important that she figure it out. And she needed to hurry.
"I'm not who you think I am," he said, when she was the one who should be saying those words.
"Neither am I,” she confessed, half hoping he hadn’t heard her. Of course he thought she was Jillian. If he knew she was only Jules, he wouldn't be holding her like this, wouldn't be cherishing her like this. It was going to kill her to tell him she'd been Jules all along, through all the months they’d been meeting like this, in her dreams.
He pulled her nearer and bent his head to kiss her. She could feel his hair brush her cheeks, felt his lips press ever so slightly against hers. She willed him to kiss her harder, give her a solid memory to hold onto in the light of day, but there was something between them, always between them. It was so frustrating. She wanted to get closer, to feel his hard chest against her cheek, to know, just for a minute, that she was safe. To pretend she was loved.
Whatever it was separating them was cold. Ice cold. Like bars. Like...a knife.
"Wake, lassie." A man's voice. "Ye be dreamin’. Wake before ye slit yer own throat with yer thrashing about."
"Wake, my lady!" The desperation in Deb's voice brought Jules fully alert.
A man stood over her holding a long dagger against her neck. She looked up his arm and into his face. She was going to remember that face because she was going to make him pay for interrupting her dream, from taking her away from her Highlander when she’d just promised not to leave him.
She was way too disoriented to see it any other way.
"Get up nice and slow-like, else Debra be punished on yer behalf. Ye understand me well enough, aye? Yer the lass that big ruddy bastard was hunting last eve. How did ye slip away from him? Mm?"
"Izatt,” Debra snarled, “you harm her or me and you'll be boiled along with your kilt next time." She elbowed a second man who held her. When he let go, she didn’t try to run. "Get up, lassie,” she said. “These two are harmless, and no mistake. But ye must do as they bid. She'll need her boots and her mantle, lads."
Jules didn't know what Debra was talking about, but she was grateful to be given a chance to get her boots back on. To her, boots might mean the difference between escape and not. They also waited for her to put on her jacket.
Once she was on her feet, the taller one pointed to the door with that same dagger. "After ye, milady."
Debra winked at her as she walked past, then slid behind her and blocked the doorway. "Run, lassie!"
Jules didn't dare turn around to make sure the washerwoman was going to be okay. She hadn't seemed particularly afraid of the men, so maybe she knew best. It killed her to leave her new friend in danger, but she didn't want Debra's sacrifice to go to waste, either.
She picked up her skirts and hit her stride as she went into a curve in the road, then ran face first into the neck