To Tame a Highland Warrior

by Karen Marie Moning

  Jillian bit her lip. She always ended up saying too much around him, because he had the bad habit of talking over her, and she lost her head time and again.

  “The issue at hand is feelings—as in emotions,” she reminded stiffly.

  “And you think they’re mutually exclusive?” Grimm prodded.

  Had she said that? she wondered. By the saints, the man turned her brain into mush. “What are you talking about?”

  “Feelings and feelings, Jillian. Do you think they’re mutually exclusive?”

  Jillian pondered his question a few moments. “I haven’t had a lot of experience in that area, but I would guess they are more often for a man than a woman,” she replied at length.

  “Not all men, Jillian.” He paused, then added smoothly, “Exactly how much experience have you had?”

  “What was my point?” she asked irritably, refusing to acknowledge his question.

  He laughed. By the saints, he laughed! It was a genuine uninhibited laugh—deeply resonant, rich, and warm. She shuddered, because the flash of white teeth in his shadowed face made him so handsome she wanted to cry at the unfairness of his miserly dispensation of such beauty.

  “I was hoping you’d tell me that anytime now, Jillian.”

  “Roderick, conversations with you never go where I think they’re going.”

  “At least you’re never bored. That must count for something.”

  Jillian blew out a frustrated breath. That was true. She was elated, exhilarated, sensually awakened—but never, never bored.

  “So are they mutually exclusive for you?” she dared.

  “What?” he asked blandly.

  “Feelings and feelings.”

  Grimm tugged restlessly at his dark hair. “I suppose I haven’t met the woman who could make me feel while I was feeling her.”

  I could, I know I could! she almost shouted. “But you have those other kind of feelings quite frequently, don’t you?” she snipped.

  “As often as I can.”

  “There you go with your hair, again. What is it with you and your hair?” When he didn’t reply she said childishly, “I hate you, Roderick.” She could have kicked herself the moment she said it. She prided herself on being an intelligent woman, yet around Grimm she regressed into a petty child. She was going to have to dredge up something more effective than the same puerile response if she intended to spar with him.

  “No you doona, lass.” He uttered a harsh curse and stepped forward, doffing the shadows impatiently. “That’s the third time you’ve said that to me, and I’m getting bloody sick of hearing it.”

  Jillian held her breath as he moved closer, staring down at her with a strained expression. “You wish you could hate me, Jillian St. Clair, and Christ knows you should hate me, but you just can’t quite bring yourself to hate me all that much, can you? I know, because I’ve looked in your eyes, Jillian, and where a great big nothing should be if you hated me, there’s a fiery thing with curious eyes.”

  He turned in a swirl of shadows and descended from the roof, moving with lupine grace. At the bottom of the steps, he paused in a puddle of moonlight and tilted his head back. The pale moon cast his bitter expression into stark relief. “Doona ever say those words to me again, Jillian. I mean it—fair warning. Not ever.”

  Cobblestones crunched beneath his boots as he disappeared into the gardens, comforting her that he was, indeed, of this world.

  She pondered his words for a long time after he’d gone, and she was left alone with the bruised sky on the parapet. Three times he’d called her by name—not brat or lass, but Jillian. And although his final words had been delivered in a cool monotone, she had seen—unless the moon was playing tricks with her vision—a hint of anguish in his eyes.

  The longer she considered it, the more convinced she became. Logic insisted that love and hate could masquerade behind the same façade. It became an issue of simply peeling back that mask to peer beneath it and determine which emotion truly drove the man in the shadow. A glimmer of understanding pierced the gloom that surrounded her.

  Go with your heart, her mother had counseled her hundreds of times. The heart speaks clearly even when the mind insists otherwise.

  “Mama, I miss you,” Jillian whispered as the last stain of purple twilight melted into a raven horizon. But despite the distance, Elizabeth St. Clair’s strength was inside her, in her blood. She was a Sacheron and a St. Clair—a formidable combination.

  Indifferent to her, was he? It was time to see about that.

  CHAPTER 10

  “WELL, THAT’S IT, THEN—THEY’RE OFF,” HATCHARD MUTTERED, watching the men depart. He finger-combed his short red beard thoughtfully. He stood with Kaley on the front steps of Caithness, watching three horses fade into swirls of dust down the winding road.

  “Why did they have to choose Durrkesh?” Kaley asked irritably. “If they wanted to go catting about, they could very well have gone to the village right here.” She waved at the small town clustered protectively near the walls of Caithness that spilled into the valley beyond.

  Hatchard shot her a caustic glance. “Although this may come as a grave shock to your … shall we say … accommodating nature, not everyone thinks about catting all the time, Missus Twillow.”

  “Don’t be ‘Missus Twillowing’ me, Remmy,” she snapped. “I’ll not be believing you’ve lived nearly forty years without doing a bit of catting yourself. But I must say, I find it appalling that they’re off catting when they were brought here for Jillian.”

  “If you’d listen for a change, Kaley, you might hear what I’ve been telling you. They went to Durrkesh because Ramsay suggested they go—not for catting, but to acquire wares that can only be purchased in the city. You told me we’ve run short of peppercorns and cinnamon, and you won’t be finding those wares here.” He gestured to the village and allowed a significant pause to pass before adding, “I also heard one might find saffron at the city fair this year.”

  “Saffron! Bless the saints, we haven’t had saffron since last spring.”

  “You’ve kept me perennially aware of the fact,” Hatchard said wryly.

  “One does what one can to aid an old man’s memory.” Kaley sniffed. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you usually send your men for the wares?”

  “Seeing how Quinn was so avid to buy an elegant gift for Jillian, I certainly wasn’t about to stop him. Grimm, I believe, went with them simply to avoid getting stuck alone with the lass,” Hatchard added dryly.

  Kaley’s eyes sparkled, and she clapped her hands together. “A gift for Jillian. So it’s to be Jillian de Moncreiffe, is it? A fine name for a fine lass, I must say. And that would keep her nearby in the Lowlands.”

  Hatchard returned his pensive gaze to the ribbon of road wending through the valley. He watched the last rider disappear around a bend and clucked his tongue. “I wouldn’t be so certain, Kaley,” he murmured.

  “Whatever is that cryptic remark supposed to mean?” Kaley frowned.

  “Just that in my estimation the lass has never had eyes for anyone but Grimm.”

  “Grimm Roderick is the worst possible man for her!” Kaley exclaimed.

  Hatchard turned a curious gaze on the voluptuous maid. “Now, why would you say that?”

  Kaley’s hand flew to her throat, and she fanned herself. “There are men women desire and there are men women marry. Roderick is not the kind of man a woman marries.”

  “Why not?” Hatchard asked, bewildered.

  “He’s dangerous,” Kaley breathed. “Positively dangerous to the lass.”

  “You think he might harm her in some way?” Hatchard tensed, prepared to do battle if such was the case.

  “Without even meaning to, Remmy.” Kaley sighed.

  “They’ve gone where? And for how long did you say?” Jillian’s brow puckered with indignation.

  “To the city of Durrkesh, milady,” Hatchard replied. “I should suppose they’ll be gone just shy of a sennig
ht.”

  Jillian smoothed the folds of her gown irritably. “I wore a dress this morning, Kaley—a pretty one,” she complained. “I was even going to ride to the village wearing it instead of Da’s plaid, and you know how I hate riding in a dress.”

  “You look lovely, indeed,” Kaley assured her.

  “I look lovely for whom? All my suitors have abandoned me.”

  Hatchard cleared his throat gruffly. “There wouldn’t have been one in particular you were hoping to impress, would there?”

  Jillian turned on him accusingly. “Did my da put you up to spying on me, Hatchard? You’re probably sending him weekly reports! Well, boodle, I’ll tell you nothing.”

  Hatchard had the grace to look abashed. “I’m not sending him reports. I was merely concerned for your welfare.”

  “You can concern yourself with someone else’s. I’m old enough and I worry enough for both of us.”

  “Jillian,” Kaley chided, “crabby does not become you. Hatchard is merely expressing his concern.”

  “I feel like being crabby. Can’t I just do that for a change?” Jillian’s brow furrowed as she reflected a moment. “Wait a minute,” she said pensively. “Durrkesh, is it? They hold a splendid fair this time of year … the last time I went with Mama and Da, we stayed at a perfectly lovely little inn—the Black Boot, wasn’t it, Kaley?”

  Kaley nodded. “When your brother Edmund was alive the two of you went to the city often.”

  A shadow flitted across Jillian’s face.

  Kaley winced. “I’m sorry, Jillian. I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

  “I know.” Jillian drew a deep breath. “Kaley, start packing. I’ve a sudden urge to go a’fairing, and what better time than now? Hatchard, have the horses readied. I’m tired of sitting around letting life happen to me. It’s time I make my life happen.”

  “This doesn’t bode well, Missus Twillow,” Hatchard told Kaley as Jillian strolled briskly off.

  “A woman has as much right to cat about as a man. At least she’s catting after a husband. Now we just have to put our heads together and make certain she chooses the right one,” Kaley informed him loftily before sauntering after Jillian, twitching her plump hips in a manner that put Hatchard in mind of a long-forgotten, exceedingly bawdy ditty.

  He blew out a gusty breath and headed off to the stables.

  The Black Boot sagged alarmingly at the eaves, but fortunately the rooms Grimm had procured were on the third floor, not the top, which meant they should be reasonably safe from the deluge that had begun halfway through their trip.

  Pausing outside the open door to the inn, Grimm fisted double handfuls of his shirt and squeezed it. Water gushed from between his hands and splattered loudly on the great stone slab outside the door.

  A thick, swirling mist was settling over the town. Within a quarter hour the dense fog would be impossible to navigate through; they’d arrived just in time to avoid the worst of it. Grimm had settled his horse in the small U-shaped courtyard behind the inn, where a ratty lean-to swayed precariously from the drooping roof. Occam would find sufficient shelter, provided the flood didn’t carry him off.

  Grimm whisked the beaded water droplets off his plaid before entering the inn. Any weaver worth her salt wove the fabric so tightly it was virtually water-repellant, and the weavers at Dalkeith were some of the finest. He unfastened a length of the woolen fabric and draped it across his shoulder. Quinn and Ramsay were already at the fire, toasting their hands and drying their boots.

  “Bloody nasty weather out there, ain’t it, lads?” The barkeep beckoned cheerfully through the doorway to the adjoining tavern. “Me, I’ve got a fire in here s’warm as tha’ one, and a fine brew to chase yer chill, so dinna tarry. Me name’s Mac,” he added with a friendly nod. “Come bide a wee.”

  Grimm glanced at Quinn, who shrugged. His expression plainly said there wasn’t much else to do on such a miserably wet evening than pass it drinking. The three men ducked through the low doorway that partitioned the eatery from the tavern proper and claimed several battered wooden stools at a table by the hearth.

  “Seein’ as ’tis nearly deserted in here, I may as well pull up a seat once I’ve seen t’ yer drinks. No’ many venture out in a downpour such as this.” The barkeep ambled unevenly to the bar, then lumbered back to their table, producing a bottle of whisky and four mugs with a flourish.

  “ ’Tis a fardlin’ mess out there, ain’t it? An’ where be ye travelin’?” he asked, sitting heavily. “Dinna mind me leg, I think the wood’s goin’ soft,” he added as he grabbed a second stool, lifted his wooden leg by the ankle, and dropped it on the slats. “Sometimes it pains me when the weather goes damp. An’ in this damn country, tha’s all the time, ain’t it? Gloomy place, she is, but I love ’er. Y’ever been outside of Alba, lads?”

  Grimm glanced at Quinn, who was gazing raptly at the barkeep, his expression a mixture of amusement and irritation. Grimm knew they were both wondering if the lonely little barkeep would ever shut up.

  It was going to be a long night.

  A few hours later the rain hadn’t abated, and Grimm used the excuse of checking on Occam to escape the smoky tavern and Mac’s incessant prattle. Besieged by the same restlessness that had ridden him at Dalkeith, he could scarcely sit still for longer than a few hours. He slipped into the back courtyard of the inn, wondering what Jillian was doing at the moment. A slight smile curved his lips as he pictured her stomping about, tossing her glorious mane of hair, outraged that she’d been left behind. Jillian despised being excluded from anything “the lads” did. But this was for the best, and she would realize it when Quinn returned with his gift and made his formal pledge. Grimm could scarcely look at Quinn without being struck by what a perfect couple they would make, giving birth to perfect, golden children with aristocratic features and not a touch of inherited madness. Perhaps by getting the two of them together he could redeem himself in some small measure, he mused, although the thought of Jillian with Quinn caused his stomach to tighten painfully.

  “Get out o’ me kitchen and dinna be returnin’, ye ratty-ass whelp.” A door on the far side of the courtyard suddenly burst open. A child tumbled head over heels into the night and landed prone in the mud.

  Grimm studied the man whose wide frame nearly filled the doorway. He was a big, beefy man, well over six feet tall, with a frizzled crown of short-cropped brown curls. His face was mottled red in patches, either due to rage or exertion, or more likely both, Grimm decided. He clutched a wide butcher’s knife that gleamed dully in the light.

  The lad clambered to his knees, slipping on the sodden ground. He scrubbed at a spattering of mud on his cheek with thin, dirty fingers. “But Bannion always gives us the scraps. Please, sir, we need to eat!”

  “I’m no’ Bannion, ye insolent whelp! Bannion doesna work here anymore, and no wonder, if he be giving away to such as ye. I’m the meat butcher now.” The man cuffed the child with such vigor that the boy collapsed onto his backside in the mud, shaking his head dazedly. “Ye think we spare any cuts fer the likes o’ ye? Ye can rot in a gutter, Robbie MacAuley says. I dinna expect anyone to feed me. It’s the likes o’ ye rats that grow up to be thieves and murderers of honest, hardworkin’ men.” The meat butcher stepped out into the rain, dragged the child from the mud by his scruffy collar, and shook him. When the lad began howling, the butcher cracked a meaty hand across his face.

  “Release him,” Grimm said quietly.

  “Eh?” The man glanced around, startled. A sneer crossed his red face as his gaze lit on Grimm, who was partially concealed by the shadows. The meat butcher straightened menacingly, suspending the boy by one hand. “What’s yer concern wi’ me business? Stay out o’ it. I dinna ask yer opinion and I dinna want it. I found the l’il whelp stealing me vittles—”

  “Nay! I dinna steal! Bannion gives us the scraps.”

  The meat butcher backhanded the lad across the face, and blood sprayed from the child’s nose.

/>   In the shadow of the lean-to Grimm stared transfixed at the bleeding child. Memories began to crowd him—the flash of a silver blade, a tumble of blond curls and a bloodstained smock, pillars of smoke—an unnatural wind began to rise, and he felt his body twisting inside, reshaping itself until he was hopelessly lost to the rage within. Far beyond conscious thought, Grimm lunged for the meat butcher, crushing him against the stone wall.

  “You son of a bitch.” Grimm closed his hands around the man’s windpipe. “The child needs food. When I release you, you’re going to go in the kitchen and pack him a basket of the finest meat you’ve got, and then you’re going to—”

  “Like ’ell I am!” the butcher managed to wheeze. He twisted in Grimm’s grip and plunged blindly forward with the knife. As the blade slid home, Grimm’s hand relaxed infinitesimally, and the butcher sucked in a whistling breath of air. “There, ye bastard,” he cried hoarsely. “Nobody messes wi’ Robbie MacAuley. ’At’ll be teachin’ ye.” He shoved Grimm with both hands, twisting the knife as he pushed.

  As Grimm swayed back, the butcher started forward, only to fall instinctively backward again, his eyes widening incredulously, for the madman he’d stabbed with a brutality and efficiency that should have caused a mortal wound was smiling.

  “Smile. That’s it—go on, smile as ye be dyin’,” he cried. “ ’Cause dyin’ ye are, and that’s fer sure.”

  Grimm’s smile contained such sinister promise that the meat butcher flattened himself up against the wall of the inn like lichen seeking a deep, shady crevice between the stones. “There’s a knife in yer belly, man,” the meat butcher hissed, eyeing the protruding hilt of the knife to reassure himself it was, indeed, lodged in his assailant’s gut.

  Breathing evenly, Grimm grasped the hilt with one hand and removed the blade, calmly placing it beneath the butcher’s quivering jowls.

  “You’re going to get the lad the food he came for. Then you will apologize,” Grimm said mildly, his eyes glittering.

  “To ’ell with ye,” the butcher sputtered. “Any minute now ye’ll be falling on yer face.”