The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karen Marie Moning

Jillian: scent of honeysuckle and a mane of silky golden hair, eyes of rich brown with golden flecks, the very color of the amber the Vikings had prized so highly. They appeared golden in the sunlight but darkened to a simmering brown flecked with yellow when she was angry—which around him was all the time. She was his every waking dream, his every nocturnal fantasy. And he was dangerous by his mere nature. A beast.

  “Milord, is something wrong?”

  Grimm dropped his hands from his face. The lad who’d been on Jillian’s lap when he’d first arrived was tugging on his sleeve and squinting up at him.

  “Are you all right?” the boy asked worriedly.

  Grimm nodded. “I’m fine, lad. But I’m not a laird. You can call me Grimm.”

  “You look like a laird to me.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “Why doesn’t Jillian like you?” Zeke asked.

  Grimm shook his head, begrudging a rueful twist of his lips. “I suspect, Zeke—it is Zeke, isn’t it?”

  “You know my name,” the lad exclaimed.

  “I overheard it when you were with Jillian.”

  “But you remembered it!”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Zeke stepped back, gazing at Grimm with blatant adoration. “Because you’re a powerful warrior, and I’m, well … me. I’m just Zeke. Nobody notices me. ’Cept Jillian.”

  Grimm eyed the lad, taking in Zeke’s half-defiant, half-ashamed stance. He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “While I’m here at Caithness, how would you like to serve as my squire, lad?”

  “Squire?” Zeke gaped. “I canna be a squire! I canna see well.”

  “Why doona you let me be the judge of that? My needs are fairly simple. I need someone to see to my horse. He doesn’t like to be penned, so his food and water must be brought to him wherever he happens to be. He needs to be brushed and groomed, and he needs to be ridden.”

  With his last words, Zeke’s hopeful expression vanished.

  “Well, he doesn’t need to be ridden for some time yet, he had a good hard ride on the way here,” Grimm amended hastily. “And I could probably give you a few lessons.”

  “But I canna see clearly. I canna possibly ride.”

  “A horse has a great deal of common sense, lad, and can be trained to do many things for his rider. We’ll take it slowly. First, will you care for my stallion?”

  “Aye,” Zeke breathed. “I will! I vow I will!”

  “Then let’s go meet him. He can be standoffish to strangers unless I bring them around first.” Grimm took the lad’s hand in his own; he was amazed by how the tiny hand was swallowed in his grip. So fragile, so precious. A brutal flash of memories burst over him—a child, no older than Zeke, pinioned on a McKane sword. He shook it off savagely and closed his fingers securely around Zeke’s.

  “Wait a minute.” Zeke tugged him to a stop. “You still didn’t tell me. Why doesna Jillian like you?”

  Grimm rummaged for an answer that might make sense to Zeke. “I guess it’s because I teased and tormented her when she was a young lass.”

  “You picked on her?”

  “Mercilessly,” Grimm agreed.

  “Jillian says the lads only tease the lasses they secretly like. Did you pull her hair too?”

  Grimm frowned at him, wondering what that had to do with anything. “I suppose I might have, a time or two,” he admitted after some thought.

  “Och, good!” Zeke exclaimed, his relief evident. “So you’re courting her now. She needs a husband,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Grimm shook his head, the merest hint of an ironic grin curving his lips. He should have seen that one coming.

  CHAPTER 7

  GRIMM CLAMPED HIS HANDS OVER HIS EARS, BUT IT didn’t help. He tugged a pillow over his head, to no avail. He considered getting up and slamming the shutters, but a quick glance revealed that he was to be deprived of even that small pleasure. They were already closed. One of the many “gifts” that was part and parcel of being a Berserker was absurdly heightened hearing; it had enabled him to survive on occasions when a normal man couldn’t have heard the enemy stealthily approaching. Now it was proving a grave disadvantage.

  He could hear her. Jillian.

  All he wanted to do was sleep—for Christ’s sake, it wasn’t even dawn! Did the lass never rest? The trill of a lone flute drifted up, scaling the stone walls of the castle and creeping through the slats of the shutters on a chill morning breeze. He could feel the melancholy notes prying at the stubborn shutters on his heart. Jillian was everywhere at Caithness: blooming in the flower arrangements on the tables, glowing in the children’s smiles, stitched into the brilliantly woven tapestries. She was inescapable. Now she dared invade his sleep with the haunting melody of an ancient Gaelic love song, soaring to a high wail, then plummeting to a low moan with such convincing anguish that he snorted. As if she knew the pain of unrequited love! She was beautiful, perfect, blessed with parents, home, family, a place to belong. She had never wanted for love, and he certainly couldn’t imagine any man denying her anything. Where had she learned to play a heartbreaking love song with such plaintive empathy?

  He leapt from the bed, stomped to the window, and flung the shutters open so hard they crashed into the walls. “Still play that silly thing, do you?” he called. God, she was beautiful. And God forgive him—he still wanted her every bit as badly as he had years ago. Then he’d told himself she was too young. Now that she was a woman fully grown he could no longer avail himself of that excuse.

  She was standing below him on a rocky cleft overlooking the loch. The sun was a buttery gold crescent, breaking the horizon of the silvery loch. Her back was to him. She stiffened; the bittersweet song stuttered and died.

  “I thought you were in the east wing,” Jillian said without turning. Her voice carried as clearly to his ears as had the melody, despite her being twenty feet below him.

  “I choose my own domain, peahen. As I always have.” He leaned out the window slightly, absorbing every detail of her: blond hair rippling in the breeze, the proud set of her shoulders, the haughty angle at which she cocked her head, while she looked out over the loch as if she could scarcely bear to acknowledge his existence.

  “Go home, Grimm,” she said coldly.

  “ ’Tis not for you that I stay, but for your da,” he lied.

  “You owe him such allegiance, then? You, who gives allegiance to none?” she mocked.

  He winced. “Allegiance is not beyond me. ’Tis merely that there are so few deserving it.”

  “I don’t want you here,” she flung over her shoulder.

  It irritated him that she wouldn’t turn about and look at him; it was the least she could do while they said nasty things to each other. “I doona care what you want,” he forced himself to say. “Your da summoned me here, and here I will remain until he releases me.”

  “I have released you!”

  Grimm snorted. Would that she could release him, but whatever kept him bound to Jillian was indestructible. He should know; he’d tried for years to destroy the bond, not to care where she was, how she fared, if she was happy. “The wishes of a woman are insignificant when weighed against a man’s,” he said, certain insulting the feminine gender at large would bring her around to face him so he could savor the passion of her anger, in lieu of the sensual passion he desperately longed to provoke in her. Berserker, his mind rebuked. Leave her alone—you have no right.

  “You are such a bastard!” Jillian unwittingly accommodated his basest wishes, spinning so quickly she took a spill. Her brief stumble presented him with a breathtaking view of the swell of her breasts. Pale, they sloped to a gentle valley that disappeared beneath the bodice of her gown. Her skin was so translucent that he could see a faint tracing of blue veins. He pressed against the window ledge to hide the sudden rise of his kilt.

  “Sometimes I vow you aim to provoke me.” She scowled up at him, pushing off the ground with her hand as she stood up straight, stealing
his glimpse of cleavage.

  “Now, why would I bother to do that, brat?” he asked coolly—so coolly it was counterpoint and insult to her raised voice.

  “Could it be that you’re afraid if you ever stopped torturing me, you might actually like me?” she snapped.

  “Never suffer that delusion, Jillian.” He splayed his hand through his hair and winced self-consciously. He could never manage to tell a lie without making that gesture. Fortunately, she didn’t know that.

  “Seems to me you’ve developed an overwhelming fondness for your hair, Grimm Roderick. I hadn’t noticed your little vanities before. Probably because I couldn’t see that much of you beneath all the dirt and filth.”

  It happened in a flash. With her words he was dirty again—mud-stained, blood-soaked, and filthy beyond redemption. No bath, no scouring could ever cleanse him. Only Jillian’s words could make him clean again, and he knew he didn’t inspire absolution.

  “Some people grow up and mature, brat. I woke up one day, shaved, and discovered I was a bloody handsome man.” When her eyes widened, he couldn’t resist pushing her a little harder. “Some women have said I’m too handsome to have. Perhaps they feared they couldn’t hold me in the face of so much competition.”

  “Spare me your conceit.”

  Grimm smiled inwardly. She was so lovely, temper-flushed and disdainful, and so easily provoked. Countless times he’d wondered what kind of passion she’d unleash with a man. With a man like him. His thoughts took a dangerous segue into the forbidden. “I’ve heard men say you’re too beautiful to touch. Is that true? Are you untouched?” He bit his tongue the instant the words escaped.

  Jillian’s mouth dropped in disbelief. “You would ask me that?”

  Grimm swallowed. There’d been a time when he’d known from firsthand experience precisely how untouched she was, and that was a memory he’d do well to bury. “When a lass permits virtual strangers to kiss her, it makes one wonder what else she permits.” Bitterness tightened his lips, clipping his words.

  Jillian stepped back as if he’d flung something more substantial than an insult in her direction. She narrowed her eyes and studied him suspiciously. “Curiously, it sounds like you care.”

  “Not a chance. I simply doona wish to have to force you into marrying Ramsay before your da returns. I suspect Gibraltar might like to be present to give the maiden away.”

  Jillian was watching him intently, too intently for his liking. He wondered desperately what was going on inside her head. She’d always been far too clever, and he was perilously close to acting like a jealous suitor. When she’d been young, he’d needed every ounce of his will to carry on a convincing charade of dislike. Now that she was a woman grown, drastic measures were necessary. He shrugged his shoulders arrogantly. “Look, peahen, all I want is for you to take your bloody flute off somewhere else so I can get a bit of sleep. I didn’t like you when you were a wee lass, and I doona like you now, but I owe your da and I will honor his missive. The only thing I remember about Caithness is that the food was good and your da was kind.” The lie practically burned his tongue.

  “You don’t remember anything about me?” she asked carefully.

  “A few things, nothing of any significance.” Restless fingers twined through his hair, tugging it free from his thong.

  She glared at him. “Not even the day you left?”

  “You mean the McKane attacking?” he asked blandly.

  “No.” She frowned up at him. “I meant later that day, when I found you in the stables.”

  “What are you talking about, lass? I doona recall you finding me in the stables before I left.” He caught his traitorous hand in mid-rise to his hair and crammed it into the waistband of his kilt.

  “You remember nothing of me?” she repeated tightly.

  “I remember one thing: I remember you following me around until you nearly drove me mad with your incessant chattering,” he said, looking as bored and long-suffering as possible.

  Jillian turned her back on him and didn’t utter another word.

  He watched her for a few moments, his eyes dark with memories, before pulling the shutters closed. When a few moments later the haunting silvery notes of her flute wept, he held his hands over his ears so tightly that it hurt. How could he possibly hope to remain here yet continue to resist her when every ounce of his being demanded he make her his woman?

  I doona recall you finding me in the stables before I left.

  He’d never uttered a greater lie. He recalled the night in the stables. It was seared into his memory with the excruciating permanence of a brand. It had been the night twenty-two-year-old Grimm Roderick had stolen an unforgettable taste of heaven.

  After the McKane were driven off and the battle was over, he’d desperately scrubbed the blood from his body, then packed, flinging clothing and keepsakes without care for what they were or where they landed. He’d nearly brought destruction upon the house that had sheltered him freely, and he would never again subject them to such danger. Jillian’s brother Edmund had been wounded in the battle, and although it seemed certain he would recover, young Edmund would bear scars for life. Leaving was the only honorable thing Grimm could do.

  He found Jillian’s note when his fingers had closed upon the book of Aesop’s fables she had given him his first Christmas at Caithness. She’d slipped the note with her big, looping scrawl between the pages so it protruded above the binding. I will be on the roof at gloaming. I must speak to you tonight, Grimm!

  Crumpling the note furiously, he stomped off for the stables.

  He dared not risk seeing her before he left. Filled with self-loathing for bringing the McKane to this sacred place, he would not commit another transgression. Ever since Jillian had started to mature, he’d been unable to get her out of his mind. He knew it was wrong. He was twenty-two years old and she was scarcely sixteen. While she was certainly old enough to be wed—hell, many lasses were wed by thirteen—he could never offer her marriage. He had no home, no clan, and he was a dangerously unpredictable beast to boot. The facts were simple: No matter how much he might want Jillian St. Clair, he could never have her.

  At sixteen he’d lost his heart to the wee golden lass; at twenty-two he was beginning to lose his head over the woman. Grimm had concluded a month ago that he had to leave soon, before he did something stupid like kiss her, like find reasons to justify carrying her off and making her his woman. Jillian deserved the best: a worthy husband, a family of her own, and a place to belong. He could offer her none of that.

  Strapping his packs on the horse’s back, he sighed and shoved a hand through his hair. As he began leading his horse from the stable, Jillian burst through the doors.

  Her eyes darted warily between him and his horse, not missing a detail. “What are you doing, Grimm?”

  “What the hell does it look like I’m doing?” he snarled, beyond exasperated that he’d failed to escape without encountering her. How much temptation was he expected to resist?

  Tears misted her eyes, and he cursed himself. Jillian had seen so much horror today; he was the lowest of bastards to add to her pain. She’d sought him out in need of comfort, but unfortunately he was in no condition to console her. The aftereffects of Berserkergang left him unable to make clear choices and sensible decisions. Experience had taught him that he was more vulnerable after a Berserker rage; both his mind and body were more sensitive. He needed desperately to get away and find a safe, dark place to sleep for days. He had to force her to leave this instant, before he did something unforgivably stupid. “Go find your da, Jillian. Leave me alone.”

  “Why are you doing this? Why are you leaving, Grimm?” she asked plaintively.

  “Because I must. I never should have come here to begin with!”

  “That’s silly, Grimm,” she cried. “You fought gloriously today! Da locked me in my room, but I could still see what was going on! If you hadn’t been here, we wouldn’t have had a chance against the McKane—” H
er voice broke, and he could see the horror of the bloody battle fresh in her eyes.

  And Christ, she’d just admitted that she’d watched him when he’d been berserk! “If I hadn’t been here—” he began bitterly, then caught himself on the verge of admitting he was the only reason the McKane had come at all.

  “If you hadn’t been here, what?” Her eyes were huge.

  “Nothing,” he muttered, staring at the floor.

  Jillian tried again. “I watched you from the win—”

  “And you should have been hiding, lass!” Grimm cut her off before she could prattle glowingly about his “bravery” in battle—bravery that sprang from the devil himself. “Have you no idea what you look like? Doona you know what the McKane would have done to you if they’d found you?” His voice cracked on the words. It had been fear of what the McKane might do to his beloved lass that had driven him even deeper into Berserkergang during battle, turning him into a ruthless killing animal.

  Jillian nervously tugged her lower lip between her teeth. The simple gesture shot a bolt of pure lust through him, and he despised himself for it. He was strung tighter than a compound bow; residual adrenaline from the battle still flooded his body. The heightened arousal attained in Berserkergang had the unfortunate effect of lingering, riding him like a demon, goading him to mate, to conquer. Grimm shook his head and turned his back on her. He couldn’t continue looking at her. He didn’t trust himself. “Get away from me. You doona know what you risk, being here with me.”

  Straw rustled against the hem of her gown as she moved. “I trust you completely, Grimm Roderick.”

  The sweet innocence in her young voice nearly undid him. He grimaced. “That’s your first mistake. Your second mistake is being here with me. Go away.”

  She stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. “But I do trust you, Grimm,” she said.

  “You can’t trust me. You doona even know me,” he growled, his body rigid with tension.

  “Yes, I do,” she argued. “I’ve known you for years. You’ve lived here since I was a wee lass. You’re my hero, Grimm—”