The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karen Marie Moning

  She drew a shaky breath. He was even more magnificent than he’d been years ago. His black hair was neatly restrained in a leather thong. The angle of his jaw was even more arrogant than she remembered—if that was possible; jutting slightly forward, it caused his lower lip to curl in a sensual smirk regardless of the occasion.

  The air itself felt different when Grimm Roderick was in it; her surroundings receded until nothing existed but him. And she could never mistake those eyes! Mocking blue-ice, his gaze locked with hers over the heads of the forgotten curious children. He was watching her with an unfathomable expression.

  She lunged to her feet, tumbling a startled Zeke to the ground. As Jillian stared wordlessly at Grimm, memories surfaced and she nearly drowned in the bitter bile of humiliation. She recalled too clearly the day she’d vowed never to speak to Grimm Roderick again. She’d sworn never to permit him near Caithness—or near her vulnerable heart again—as long as she lived. And he dared saunter up now? As if nothing had changed? The possibility of reconciliation was instantly squashed beneath the weighty heels of her pride. She would not dignify his presence with words. She would not be nice. She would not grant him one ounce of courtesy.

  Grimm worried a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. “You’ve … grown, lass.”

  Jillian struggled to speak. When she finally found her tongue, her words dripped ice. “How dare you come back here? You are not welcome. Leave my home!”

  “I can’t do that, Jillian.” His soft voice unnerved her.

  Her heart racing, she drew a slow, deep breath. “If you don’t leave of your own accord, I’ll summon the guards to remove you.”

  “They won’t do that, Jillian.”

  She clapped her hands. “Guards!” she cried.

  Grimm didn’t move an inch. “It won’t help, Jillian.”

  “And quit saying my name like that!”

  “Like what, Jillian?” He sounded genuinely curious.

  “Like … like … a prayer or something.”

  “As you wish.” He paused the length of two heartbeats—during which she was astonished he’d capitulated to her will, because he certainly never had before—then he added with such husky resonance that it slipped inside her heart without her consent, “Jillian.”

  Perish the man! “Guards. Guards!”

  Her guards arrived on a run, then halted abruptly, studying the man standing before their mistress.

  “Milady, you summoned?” Hatchard inquired.

  “Remove this iniquitous scoundrel from Caithness before he breeds … brings”—she corrected herself hastily—“his depravity and wicked insolence into my home,” she sputtered to a finish.

  The guards looked from her to Grimm and didn’t move.

  “Now. Remove him from the estate at once!”

  When the guards still didn’t move, her temper rose a notch. “Hatchard, I said make him leave. By the sweet saints, toss him out of my life. Banish him from the country. Och! Just remove him from this world, will you, now?”

  The flank of guards stared at Jillian with openmouthed astonishment. “Are you feeling well, milady?” Hatchard asked. “Should we fetch Kaley to see if you’ve a touch of the fever?”

  “I don’t have a touch of anything. There’s a degenerate knave on my estate and I want him off it,” Jillian said through gritted teeth.

  “Did you just grit?” Hatchard gaped.

  “Pardon?”

  “Grit. It means to speak from between clenched teeth—”

  “I’m going to scream from between clenched teeth if you disobedient wretches don’t remove this degenerate, virile”—Jillian cleared her throat—“vile rogue from Caithness.”

  “Scream?” Hatchard repeated faintly. “Jillian St. Clair doesn’t scream, she doesn’t grit, and she certainly doesn’t have fits of temper. What the devil is going on here?”

  “He’s the devil,” Jillian seethed, motioning to Grimm.

  “Call him what you will, milady. I still can’t remove him,” Hatchard said heavily.

  Jillian’s head jerked as if he’d struck her. “You disobey me?”

  “He doesn’t disobey you, Jillian,” Grimm said quietly. “He obeys your da.”

  “What?” She turned her ashen face to his. He proffered a crumpled, soiled piece of parchment.

  “What is that?” she asked icily, refusing to move even an inch closer.

  “Come and see, Jillian,” he offered. His eyes glittered strangely.

  “Hatchard, get that from him.”

  Hatchard didn’t budge. “I know what it says.”

  “Well then, what does it say?” she snapped at Hatchard. “And how do you know?”

  It was Grimm who answered. “It says ‘come for Jillian’ … Jillian.”

  He’d done it again, added her name after a pause, a husky veneration that left her oddly breathless and frightened. There was a warning in the way he was saying her name, something she should understand but couldn’t quite grasp. Something had changed since they’d last fought so bitterly, something in him, but she couldn’t define it. “Come for Jillian?” she repeated blankly. “My da sent you that?”

  When he nodded, Jillian choked and nearly burst into tears. Such a public display of emotion would have been a first for her. Instead, she did something as unexpected and heretofore undone as gritting and cursing; Jillian spun on her heel and bolted toward the castle as if all the banshees of Scotland were nipping at her heels, when in truth it was the one and only Grimm Roderick—which was far worse.

  Sneaking a glance over her shoulder, she belatedly remembered the children. They were standing in a half-circle, gaping at her with disbelief. She stormed, absolutely mortified, into the castle. Slamming the door was a bit difficult, since it was four times as tall as she was, but in her current temper she managed.

  CHAPTER 3

  INCONCEIVABLE! JILLIAN SEETHED AS SHE PACED HER chambers. She tried to calm down, but reluctantly concluded that until she got rid of him, calm was not possible.

  So she stormed and paced and considered breaking things, except that she liked everything in her room and didn’t really want to break any of her own belongings. But if she could only have gotten her hands on him, oh—then she’d have broken a thing or two!

  Vexed, she muttered beneath her breath while she quickly slipped out of her gown. She refused to ponder her urge to replace the plain gown and chemise that had been perfectly suitable only an hour before. Nude, she stalked to her armoire by the window, where she was momentarily distracted by the sight of riders in the courtyard. She peered out the tall opening. Two horsemen were riding through the gate. She studied them curiously, leaning into the window. As one, the men raised their heads, and she gasped. A smile crossed the blond man’s face, giving her the impression he’d glimpsed her poised in the window, clad in nothing but temper-flushed skin. Instinctively she ducked behind the armoire and snatched up a gown of brilliant green, assuring herself that just because she could see them clearly didn’t mean they could see her. Surely the window reflected the sun and permitted little passage of vision.

  Who else was arriving at Caithness? she fumed. He was bad enough. How dare he come here, and furthermore, how dare her da summon him? Come for Jillian. Just what had her da intended with such a note? A shiver slipped down her spine as she contemplated the possessive sound of the words. Why would Grimm Roderick respond to such a strange missive? He’d tortured her ceaselessly as a child and he’d rejected her as a young woman. He was an overbearing lout—who’d once been the hero of her every fantasy.

  Now he was back at Caithness, and that was simply unacceptable. Regardless of her da’s reasons for summoning him, he simply had to go. If her guards wouldn’t remove him, she would—even if it meant at sword point, and she knew just where to find a sword. A massive claymore hung above the hearth in the Greathall; it would do nicely.

  Her resolve firm, her gown fastened, Jillian marched out of her chambers. She was ready to confro
nt him; her body was bristling with indignation. He had no right to be here, and she was just the person to explain that to him. He’d left once before when she’d begged him to stay—he couldn’t arbitrarily decide to come back now. Snatching her hair back, she secured it with a velvet ribbon and made for the Greathall, moving briskly down the long corridor.

  She drew to a sudden halt at the balustrade outside the solar, alarmed by the rumble of masculine voices below.

  “What did your message say, Ramsay?” Jillian heard Grimm ask.

  Their voices floated up, carrying clearly in the open Greathall. The tapestries were currently down for a cleaning, so the words reverberated off the stone walls.

  “Said the lord and his lady would be leaving Caithness and called upon an old debt I owe him. He said he wished me to oversee his demesne while he was not here to do it himself.”

  Jillian peeked surreptitiously over the balustrade and saw Grimm sitting with two men near the main hearth. For an eternal moment she simply couldn’t take her eyes off him. Angrily she jerked her gaze away and studied the newcomers. One of the men was tossed back in his chair as if he owned the keep and half the surrounding countryside. Upon closer scrutiny, Jillian decided he would likely act as if he owned any place he deigned to be. He was a study in black from head to toe: black hair, tanned skin, clad in a length of black wool that was unbroken by even one thread of color. Definitely hulking Highland blood, she concluded. A thin scar extended from his jaw to just below his eye.

  Her eyes drifted over the second man. “Quinn,” she whispered. She hadn’t seen Quinn de Moncreiffe since he’d fostered with Grimm under her father years ago. Tall, golden and breathtakingly handsome, Quinn de Moncreiffe had comforted her on the many occasions Grimm had chased her away. In the years since she’d last seen him he had matured into a towering man with wide shoulders, a trim waist, and long blond hair pulled back in a queue.

  “It would seem just about every man in Scotia and half of England is indebted to Gibraltar St. Clair for one thing or another,” Quinn observed.

  Ramsay Logan folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, nodding. “Aye. He bailed me out of more than a few tight spaces when I was a younger lad and more prone to thinking with the wee head.”

  “Och, so you think you’ve changed, Logan?” Quinn provoked.

  “Not so much that I couldn’t knock you senseless still, de Moncreiffe,” Ramsay shot back.

  Ramsay Logan, Jillian mused; she’d been right about his bloodline. The Logans were indeed Highlanders. Ramsay certainly looked like one of those savage mountain men whose notoriety was exceeded only by their massive holdings. They were a land-rich clan, owning a large portion of the southern Highlands. Her eyes crept back to Grimm, despite her best intentions. He relaxed in his chair regally, composed as a king and acting as if he had every bit as much right to be there. Her eyes narrowed.

  The corners of Grimm’s mouth twitched faintly. “It’s like old times with the two of you poking at each other, but spare me your dissension. There’s a puzzle here. Why did Gibraltar St. Clair summon the three of us to Caithness? I’ve heard of no trouble here in years. Quinn, what did your message say? That he needed you to serve Caithness in his absence?”

  Above them, Jillian frowned. That was a good question—why would her parents bring these three men to Caithness while they attended their grandson’s christening? Hatchard, Caithness’s chief man-at-arms, commanded a powerful force of guards, and there hadn’t been trouble in these parts of the Lowlands for years.

  “It said that he wished me to watch over Caithness in his absence, and if I couldn’t take the time away from my ships to come for him, I should come for Jillian. I found his message rather odd but got the impression he was worried about Jillian, and truth be told, I’ve missed the lass,” Quinn replied.

  Jillian jerked. What was her deceitful da up to?

  “Jillian—the Goddess-Empress herself.” Ramsay flashed a wolfish grin.

  Jillian’s nostrils flared and her spine stiffened.

  “What?” Grimm looked puzzled.

  “He’s referring to her much-lauded reputation. Didn’t you stop at the stables when you rode in?” When Grimm shook his head, Quinn snorted. “You missed an earful. The lads there prattled on and on about her before we even had a chance to dismount, warning us not to defile her ‘saintly’ mien. The ‘Goddess-Empress Jillian,’ one of the young lads called her, saying mere ‘Queen’ was too commonplace.”

  “Jillian?” Grimm looked dubious.

  Jillian glared at the top of his head.

  “Bespelled,” Ramsay affirmed. “The lot of them. One lad told me she’s the second Madonna, and he believes if she bears children, it will surely be the product of divine intervention.”

  “I must say, any intervention with Jillian would be divine,” Quinn said, grinning.

  “Aye, right between those divine thighs of hers. Did you ever see a lass more well fashioned for a man’s pleasure?” Ramsay kicked his feet up on the hearth and shifted in his chair, dropping his hands in his lap.

  Jillian’s eyebrows climbed her forehead, and she placed a hand over her mouth.

  Grimm glanced sharply at Ramsay and Quinn. “Wait a minute—what do you mean by ‘her divine thighs’? You’ve never met Jillian, have you? You doona even know what she looks like. And Quinn, you haven’t seen her since she was a wee lass.”

  Quinn looked away uncomfortably.

  “Does she have golden hair?” Ramsay countered. “Masses of it, falling in waves past her hips? Flawless face and about yay-tall?” He held his hand slightly above his seated head to demonstrate. “Is her bedroom on the second floor, facing due east?”

  Grimm nodded warily.

  “I do know what she looks like. Quinn and I saw her in a window as we rode in,” Ramsay informed him.

  Jillian groaned softly, hoping he wouldn’t continue.

  Ramsay continued, “If she’s the woman who was changing her gown, the one with the breasts a man could—”

  Jillian’s hands flew protectively to her bodice. It’s a little late for that, she rued.

  “You did not see her getting dressed,” Grimm growled, glancing at Quinn for reassurance.

  “No,” Ramsay supplied helpfully, “we saw her undressed. Framed in the window, sun spilling over the most splendid morning gown of rosy skin I’ve ever seen. Face of an angel, creamy thighs, and everything golden in between.”

  Mortification steeped Jillian in a furious blush from the crown of her head to her recently viewed breasts. They had seen her; all of her.

  “Is that true, Quinn?” Grimm demanded.

  Quinn nodded, looking sheepish. “Hell, Grimm, what did you expect me to do? Look away? She’s stunning. I’d long suspected the wee lass would ripen into a lovely woman, but I’d never imagined such exquisite charms. Although Jillian always seemed like a younger sister to me, after I saw her today …” He shook his head and whistled admiringly. “Well, feelings can change.”

  “I didn’t know Gibraltar had such a daughter,” Ramsay hastened to add, “or I’d have been sniffing around years ago—”

  “She’s not the sniffing around kind. She’s the marrying kind,” Grimm snapped.

  “Aye, she is the marrying kind, and the keeping kind, and the bedding kind,” Ramsay said coolly. “The dolts at Caithness may be intimidated by her beauty, but I’m not. A woman like that needs a flesh-and-blood man.”

  Quinn shot Ramsay an irritated look and rose to his feet. “Exactly what are you saying, Logan? If any man is going to be speaking for her, it should be me. I’ve known Jillian since she was a child. My message specifically mentioned coming for Jillian, and after seeing her, I intend to do precisely that.”

  Ramsay came to his feet slowly, unfolding his massive frame until he stood a good two inches above Quinn’s six-foot-plus frame. “Perhaps the only reason my message wasn’t worded the same way is because St. Clair knew I’d never met her. Regardless, it
’s past time I take a wife, and I intend to give the lovely lass an option besides hanging her nightrail—if she ever wears one, although I’m certainly not complaining—beside some common Lowland farmer.”

  “Who’s calling who a farmer here? I am a bleeding merchant and worth more than all your paltry skinny-ass, shaggy-haired cows put together.”

  “Pah! My skinny-ass cows aren’t where I get my wealth, you Lowland skivvy—”

  “Aye, raiding innocent Lowlanders, more likely!” Quinn cut him off. “And what the hell is a skivvy?”

  “Not a word a flatlander would know,” Ramsay snapped.

  “Gentlemen, please.” Hatchard entered the Greathall, an expression of concern on his face. Having served as chief man-at-arms for twenty years, he could foresee a battle brewing half a county away, and this one was simmering beneath his nose. “There’s no need to get into a brawl over this. Hold your tongues and bide a wee, for I have a message for you from Gibraltar St. Clair. And do sit down.” He gestured to the chairs clustered near the hearth. “It’s been my experience that men who are facing off rarely listen well.”

  Ramsay and Quinn continued to glare at each other.

  Jillian tensed and nearly poked her head through the spindles of the balustrade. What was her father up to this time? Shrewd, red-haired Hatchard was her father’s most trusted advisor and longtime friend. His vulpine features were an accurate reflection of his cleverness; he was canny and quick as a fox. His long, lean fingers tapped the hilt of his sword as he waited impatiently for the men to obey his command. “Sit,” Hatchard repeated forcefully.