Not Without Juliet - By L.L. Muir Page 0,61

within earshot seemed to appreciate Gordon’s joke.

"I won't kill him,” Quinn said. “I'll fight him. I might even beat him. But I'll not kill him. And I'll have your word the woman will be returned to Castle Ross, unharmed."

Gordon waived an impatient hand. "Fair enough. Ye have me word. But I'll wager Bond James, here, will be taking his wife home this night."

And so the betting began.

Quinn stripped off his constricting shirt and heard a gasp to his left. Betha was suddenly pushed behind one of her brothers. He got only a brief glimpse of her wide eyes before they disappeared behind the shoulders of two Gordons.

Too little, too late, he thought. She shouldn’t have taken her time about freeing him. No matter. He was destined to be in the Gordon’s dungeon when Juliet was brought in. He understood that now. Fate had been planning their encounter for a good while. He only hoped Fate had something in mind for he and the lass that involved a great deal of time together.

That was worth fighting for.

Quinn took the excess plaid from his ancient kilt and twisted it, then wrapped it about his waist and tucked in the end. A length of cloth over his shoulder would just prove a convenient hand hold for his enemy, or so Ewan had taught him. The more Quinn had trained in the plaid, the more he understood why old soldiers preferred to fight without any clothing at all. Of course, if he attempted to fight in the Gordon’s hall, in his altogether, he might find himself missing a vital part or two, all thanks to the armed audience in Gordon colors.

The big man noted how he’d wrapped his plaid and followed suit. Then he made a spectacle of giving up all his hidden blades.

Quinn met the man’s gaze and lifted a brow. The man had a gun hidden somewhere, but it would be wise for Quinn to insist he set the weapon aside. What the Gordons would think of the gun, he could not say. But he could at least make sure the man couldn’t use that gun on Juliet, whether to harm her or compel her to leave with him.

The man raised a brow as well.

Quinn made his hand into a pretend gun—a sign that would mean nothing to the onlookers.

The redhead frowned briefly, then gave his head a slight shake.

Quinn understood it to mean that he was supposed to keep his mouth shut about the gun. But why would he? Was this man not the enemy?

“Battle!” cried Laird Gordon, and suddenly any further discussion was ended.

The big man ran at him, threw his long arms around him and clamped his fingers together behind Quinn's neck. Then he pressed his forehead to Quinn’s own.

"Quinn Ross," he whispered. "You haven't got any more sense than Juliet. Did the name James Bond tell you nothing?"

Quinn pushed him off, but ran back at him again, anxious to keep the man from calling him Quinn again. But how did he know? Ewan wouldn't have told him. Not if he'd come chasing after Juliet, to eventually see her eliminated. Ewan would have guarded the Ross secrets with his life.

Quinn was surprised, actually, that Ewan hadn't sent a marksman after him, worried The Gordon might torture those golden secrets off his tongue. After all, one man's life was hardly worth the price the clan would pay if the truth got out. And they’d pay that price for generations.

"Who told you my name?" He ground the question out through his teeth while he held his arm around the other man's neck. Getting behind the bastard hadn't been easy.

"Ewan Ross told me," the man grunted, then held tight to Quinn's arm and flipped him over his wide back and onto the floor.

The filthy rushes were a fine inducement to get on his feet again, and they began circling each other. The crowd made accommodations.

"Liar,” Quinn said. “Ewan Ross would have taken my name to the grave. He'd tell no hitman—"

"You idiot!" the big man roared as he rushed him.

He wrapped his arms around Quinn's entire body, trapping his arms to his sides. Their faces were inches apart.

"Bond. James Bond. I'm MI6. Not some bleedin’ hitman. The FBI lost her at the airport. I was sent to watch her sister’s house. When Juliet ran from me, every time she ran from me, she never gave me a chance to explain.”

Quinn gave the bastard a Glasgow kiss and heard the satisfying crunch of