act like she didn’t care. “I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?"
"Ross. Mister Ross. At your service, milady." He gave her a little bow, but his eyes never left her face.
"Oh, here now, Laird Ross,” said the bigger guard. “Don't go about propositionin’ a marrit woman. There now. Hold fast to her arms, just in case she bolts. With such a big bounder for a husband, it's understandable her being a mite skittish."
The guards laughed at her all the way up the steps and into a huge common room. All the while, Jules was aching to return to the dungeon. It was ridiculous, but she felt like every step she took was a betrayal of Quinn, that she shouldn’t ever leave his side. She’d promised. She was supposed to stay until the end.
She had to go back. No matter what she was offered, she’d have to make sure they took her back to the dungeon.
***
The guards deposited Jules in the middle of the hall and let go. Their arms were poised to grab her again if need be. She rolled her eyes and ignored them.
One look at the men lining the room and Jules realized this would be like a practice run for the trial in seven days—the trial she hoped was still scheduled because she still intended to be there to testify. It had taken her three days to get into this mess. Even if it took her as long to get out, she’d still have time to make a flight to New York.
Yeah, it was like a practice run, but instead of just one cold-blooded murderer at the front of the room, there were two. The Dungeon Master and McKiller.
As the big redhead turned, she braced herself for the sneer she expected on his face. But she was wrong. He was frowning.
Still mad, huh?
He stood off to the left of a rough-looking throne in which sat a large balding man. The straggly strands of hair growing out the sides of that one’s head were orange on the end. Once upon a time, he probably had hair just like his visitor.
McKiller stepped forward. "Are ye harmed, Juliet?"
He was an incredible actor. For a second, she could almost believe he was worried. But why should he care how she'd been treated? As long as he was able to take her back to Gabby, a bruise here and there didn't matter.
He held out his arms and briefly narrowed his eyes, like a warning to play along.
She shook her head. "Sorry. I don't know you, pal. Nice try though."
She turned around to go back to the dungeon, but Moe and Curly blocked her path. Finally, when her dirtiest look didn’t affect them, she turned back to McKiller.
The redhead took a step toward her, but the one on the throne, presumably Laird Gordon, held out an arm, as if his reach were so vast he could hold the man back while sitting six feet away. He was draped in furs in spite of the summer weather. She wondered if they were the symbol of his power, somehow.
"Nay, Bond,” Gordon said. “As ye so kindly pointed out, me hostage's wellbeing is me duty to protect. I canna have the likes of ye stomp into me hall and claim any woman ye like."
McKiller looked the laird over like he was trying to decide the least messy way to take him out, or the best angle from which he might break the old man’s neck. His would-be victim gave him a look that screamed, “Go ahead, idiot. Make my day.”
Finally, McKiller looked back at Jules.
"My men saw her taken by Cheval,” he said. “Cheval agreed, with a bit of persuasion, to tell us where he'd left her. How else would I have known where to find my wife?"
He shifted his weight, to take another step, but thought better of it. He finally settled for glaring at Gordon. No one in the room seemed worried enough to defend the older man if the younger one attacked. Maybe they didn’t care.
"How indeed?” said Gordon. “But can you explain why the lass would deny yer claim, then? She looks of sound mind to me."
Juliet smiled at the awful man and tried to forget, for the moment, that he'd let his own son rot in the basement.
She gave a little curtsy. "Thank you, sir. My mind is just fine."
Gordon lost his smile when she spoke. She guessed her accent sucked.
"Juliet, darlin'," said McKiller, smirking. "Didn't I say you'd