Not Without Juliet - By L.L. Muir Page 0,48

disease. She had toilets and hot showers and fast food. The winters would not threaten the lives of their children. Neither of them would have to break their backs to put food on the table, or keep a sword close by to defend that table.

But her double blessings had come at a price, and it was Quinn who had paid it. Willingly. Eagerly.

The most she and Montgomery had paid was the worry. Was Quinn safe? Was he happy? Was he regretting the choice he’d made? Should they go back and ask him? History hadn’t changed at all. They had no record of what had become of him.

Of course Jilly hadn’t been nearly as worried as Montgomery was—not that they talked about it much—because her husband knew the world in which they’d left the man. He knew much more about the dangers than she’d learned in history books. And every time she’d seen a shadow cross Monty’s face, she suspected he was thinking about Quinn, or Ewan, or Isobelle—the ones they’d left behind.

Of course, they couldn’t have brought through the tomb everyone Monty had ever cared about. Ewan had a clan to run, Quinn had asked to go back, and Isobelle was lost to them. It just wasn’t possible to make the world the way they wanted it, even with the help of a passageway through time.

The look on her husband’s face when Ewan announced Quinn was lost? It was that same old shadow of worry, but multiplied by a hundred. Beneath that quite surface, she imagined the ground was crumbling.

She knelt next to Ewan and pushed his knee down and straightened his kilt.

"Ewan? Where did you lose Quinn?" She asked it so Monty wouldn’t have to.

Ewan shook his head slowly. "Poor bastard. Can't remember where our land leaves off. Doesn't pay close mind to much, that one."

"Does he live?" whispered Monty.

Ewan nodded carefully. "For the moment, cousin, but nae for long."

"What do you mean?” her husband demanded. “Where is he?"

"He's in The Gordon's dungeon. And now Jules is there as well." Ewan peeked at Jilly, then looked away quickly. "Dinna let her hurt me, cousin.”

Jules? Her sister’s name was Jules, not Juliet?

The sound of it made her stomach do strange things. Or was it the baby? She thought she was going to be one of those lucky women who didn’t get morning sickness, but maybe not.

She looked at Monty. Just the sight of him always seemed to calm her.

He stared at Ewan and took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He certainly didn’t look like he was freaking out. It was enough to give her hope. Things must not be as bad as she’d thought they were. Monty would know just what to do, just like he always did.

"Och, Ewan,” he said. “No one is going to hurt ye. It’ll be ever so convenient to collect them both at the same time. Ye've done well, cousin. In the morning, we can have this entire conversation again, aye?" Monty pulled the big man up, then hefted him over his back. "We'll just put ye to bed first. It's a fine way to hurry tomorrow along."

Jilly numbly followed as Monty headed for the archway and the stairs beyond.

Ewan grunted. "I doona wish the morrow to hurry along, Monty darlin'. 'Tis the day your great nephew is to die. If not by Gordon's hand, then by mine."

Jilly’s heart stopped.

Monty halted and tipped forward, dumping his big cousin off his back and onto the floor. Then he fetched a pitcher of water from the high table and headed back for Ewan with murder in his eyes.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Quinn swallowed hard. As much as he wished Jillian away from that place, he couldn’t help but be thrilled to see her again. He’d never imagined his dream took place in a dungeon, but then again, he never thought his dream would become reality either.

"Come here, lass. Let me touch ye, just enough to know that ye're real, that I haven't conjured ye to comfort me in the dark." He shouldn’t have said it. He couldn’t have not.

Of course he had no intention of dishonoring his great uncle, but just like in those dreams, he seemed to have little control over his need for her. And now, awake, the need was much more intense. If it was the last thing he’d ever do—which it very well might be—he was going to hold her close and press his lips to hers. Just one perfect kiss. It was