Not Without Juliet - By L.L. Muir Page 0,43

of a horse.

"Mon Dieu!" a man shouted.

Jules landed on her butt and raised her arm in case the animal felt the need to defend itself. The poor thing might have been even more surprised than she was. But the rider was able to calm it. The screaming had stopped.

The swearing was only getting started.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Quinn was having that dream again, so he knew he was still alive. But the dream was so frustrating he simultaneously wished he would stop having it and wished it would never end. He’d been haunted by it for months upon months, but it was his own fault.

Ewan had ordered Mhairi and Margot to stay away from the witch’s hole, so when Quinn had caught the Muirs wandering up out of the cellar again he thought they should be punished. As usual, they’d had a better idea. They thought they should pay for their misdeeds in another way. For instance, how would he like a bit of potion to help him dream of his true love?

Of course, when he’d fallen for their little trick, he’d been hoping to revive his dreams of Libby, to remind himself how she’d looked, how she’d sounded. The memories had been fading since he’d left the modern world and he felt as though he was being punished for fooling with the natural order of things. He’d tried to convince himself that his memories were fading because they weren’t memories any longer; it was the fifteenth century, so Libby had yet to be born. But that knowledge didn’t take the soreness from his heart and he’d been desperate to get a tighter hold on those precious recollections.

And he’d played right into the Muir’s conniving, clever hands.

That night, he’d taken their potion, not knowing if he’d wake in the morning, not caring if he didn’t. And he’d dreamt, as they’d promised he would. Only it hadn’t been Libby in the dream, but Jillian, Monty’s wife! And oh, how he’d loved her in his dreams. His heart had wept at the sight of her, as if it had been Jillian who had died years before, only to return to him again in his hour of need. For in his dream, he’d been sick with desperation. Something was about to go horribly wrong. They wouldn’t have much time together.

Knowing this, they’d knelt on the floor, in the darkness, holding tight to each other, measuring the moments. But something was between them. He’d supposed it was the thought of betraying Monty, for the thought of doing so—if only in his dream—made him sick. Sick while he was dreaming and after he’d awakened as well.

This time, the dream was no different from that night he’d taken the potion, except for the fact he was finally able to kiss her! Always he fought the urge to betray his great uncle, but the urge to press his lips to hers had been too powerful. Nothing else mattered. When they were alone together, in his dream, this woman mended together the pieces of his soul, a soul that had been ripped and tattered by loss and loneliness. Of course he had to kiss her, possess her, make certain she knew she possessed him in turn.

If they could only move a little closer...

“Wake, Montgomery,” a woman whispered.

“Jillian?” he mumured.

“Who is Jillian?”

Quinn hid his anguish at being jarred from his dream and rolled onto his side.

Betha stood before his cell door with her man, Boyd, by her side. The man smirked. Betha, even from his sideways view, looked furious.

“I dinna ken,” he lied.

Betha considered for a moment, then nodded to Boyd. The man dropped his smile and moved to unlock the cell door.

“Hold!” The Runt himself moved out of the shadows and Quinn was strangely relieved.

After his dream, as disturbing as it was, he was loath to pretend affection for another woman. Of course he would show no affection for Jillian either—even if she weren’t more than five hundred years into the future.

Quinn rose from his fresh pallet. Thus far, he’d been allowed to bathe and eat a decent meal, but all within his cell. He supposed the pallet was merely to keep him clean until Betha was ready for him, for the lass couldn’t mean to lie with him in the dungeon. He’d seen yet another reason to get to his feet, however—no use lying about—he feared leaving his head within easy reach of the violent little man when it might take little to kill him.

“What do ye here, sister?” Cinead