Gibraltar raised his goblet to Quinn’s and smiled. “That she is. If push comes to shove, I’ll stop the ceremony and give her a choice. But I won’t let her marry you without giving her that choice.” As he drank, he regarded Quinn thoughtfully. “Actually, I’m not sure I’d let her marry you even then.”
“You wound me,” Quinn protested.
“She’s my baby girl, Quinn. I want love for her. Real love. The kind that makes a man crazy inside.”
Jillian curled into a ball on the window ledge of the drum tower and stared, unseeing, into the night. Thousands of stars dimpled the sky, but she saw none of them. Staring into the night was like staring into a great vacuum—her future without Grimm.
How could she wed Quinn?
How could she refuse? Grimm obviously wasn’t coming.
The banns had been posted throughout the country. There was absolutely no way he could not know that tomorrow Jillian St. Clair was going to wed Quinn de Moncreiffe. The whole blasted country knew it.
Three weeks ago she might have run away.
But not tonight, not three weeks late for her monthly flow, not with no word from Grimm. Not after believing in him and being proven a lovesick fool.
Jillian rested her palm on her stomach. It was possible she was pregnant, but she wasn’t absolutely certain. Her monthly flow had often been irregular and she had been later than this in the past. Mama had told her that many things besides pregnancy could affect a woman’s courses: emotional turmoil … or a woman’s own devout wish that she was pregnant.
Was that it? Did she so long to be pregnant with Grimm Roderick’s child that she’d fooled herself? Or was there truly a baby growing inside her? How she wished she knew for certain. She drew a deep breath and expelled it slowly. Only time would tell.
She’d considered striking out on her own, tracking him down, and fighting for their love, but a defiant shred of pride coupled with good common sense made her refuse. Grimm was in the thick of a battle with himself, and it was a battle he had to win or lose. She’d offered her love, told him she would accept any kind of life as long as they lived it together. A woman shouldn’t have to fight the man she loved for his love. He had to choose to give it freely, to learn that love was the one thing in this world that wasn’t frightening.
He was an intelligent man and a brave one. He would come.
Jillian sighed. God forgive her, but she still believed.
He would come.
CHAPTER 23
HE DIDN’T COME.
The day of her wedding dawned cloudy and cold. Sleet started falling at dawn, coating the charred lawn with a layer of crunchy black ice.
Jillian stayed in bed, listening to the sounds of the castle preparing for the wedding feast. Her stomach rumbled a welcome to the scents of roasting ham and pheasant. It was a feast to wake the dead, and it worked; she stumbled from the bed and groped her way through the dimly lit room to the mirror. She stared at her reflection. Dark shadows marred the delicate skin where her cheekbones met her tilted amber eyes.
She would marry Quinn de Moncreiffe in less than six hours.
The rumble of voices carried clearly into her chambers; half the county was in residence, and had been since yesterday. Four hundred guests had been invited and five hundred had arrived, crowding the massive castle and spilling over into less accommodating lodgings in the nearby village.
Five hundred people, more than she would ever have at her funeral, tramping around the frozen black lawn.
Jillian squeezed her eyes tightly shut and refused to cry, certain she’d weep blood if she allowed even one more tear to fall.
At eleven o’clock Elizabeth St. Clair dabbed prettily at her tears with a dainty hanky. “You look lovely, Jillian,” she said with a heartfelt sigh. “Even more so than I did.”
“You don’t think the bags under my eyes detract, Mama?” Jillian asked acerbically. “How about the grim set of my mouth? My shoulders droop and my nose is beet red from crying. You don’t think anyone will find my appearance a bit suspect?”
Elizabeth sniffed, plunked a headpiece on Jillian’s hair, and tugged a thin fall of sheer blue gossamer over her daughter’s face. “Your da thinks of everything,” she said with a shrug.
“A veil? Really, Mama. No one wears a veil in these modern times.”
“Just think of it, you’ll start a new fashion. By the end of the year, everyone will be wearing them again,” Elizabeth chirped.
“How can he do this to me, Mama? Knowing the kind of love you and he share, how can he justify condemning me to a loveless marriage?”
“Quinn does love you, so it won’t be loveless.”
“It will be on my part.”
Elizabeth perched on the edge of the bed. She studied the floor a moment, then raised her eyes to Jillian’s.
“You do care,” Jillian said, somewhat mollified by the sympathy in Elizabeth’s gaze.
“Of course I care, Jillian. I’m your mother.” Elizabeth regarded her a pensive moment. “Darling, don’t fret, your da has a plan. I hadn’t intended to tell you this, but he doesn’t plan to make you go through with it. He thinks Grimm will come.”
Jillian snorted. “So did I, Mama. But it’s ten minutes to the hour and there’s no sign of the man. What’s Da going to do? Halt the wedding in the middle if he doesn’t show up? In front of five hundred guests?”
“You know your da has never been afraid of making a spectacle of himself—or of anyone else, for that matter. The man abducted me from my wedding. I do believe he’s hoping the same will happen to you.”
Jillian smiled faintly. The story of her mama’s “courtship” by her da had enthralled her since she’d been a child. Her da was a man who could give Grimm lessons. Grimm Roderick shouldn’t be battling himself about her, he should be battling the world for her. Jillian drew a deep breath, hoping against hope, imagining such a scene for herself.
“We are gathered here today in the company of family, friends, and well-wishers to unite this man and woman in the holy, unbreakable bonds….”
Jillian blew furiously at her veil. Although it puffed a bit, it didn’t clear her view. The preacher was slightly blue, Quinn was slightly blue. Irritably she plucked at the veil. No rose-colored hues for her on her wedding day, and why should there be? Outside the tall windows, sleet fell in vaguely blue sheets.
She stole a glance at Quinn, who stood at her side. She was eye level with his chest. Despite her despair, she conceded he was a magnificent man. Regally clad in ceremonial tartan, he’d pulled his long hair back from his chiseled face. Most women would be thrilled to be standing beside him, saying the vows of a lifetime, accompanying him to be mistress of his estate, to give him bonny blond bairns and live in splendor for the rest of their days.
But he was the wrong man. He’ll come for me, he’ll come for me, I know he will, Jillian repeated silently as if it were a magic spell she could weave from the fibers of sheer redundancy.
Grimm plucked another bann from the wall of a church as he sped by. He crumpled it and crammed it in a satchel that was overflowing with balled-up parchment. He’d been in the tiny highland village of Tummas when he’d seen the first bann, nailed to the side of a ramshackle bothy. Twenty paces beyond it he’d found the second, then the third and the fourth.
Jillian St. Clair was marrying Quinn de Moncreiffe. He’d cursed furiously. How long had she waited? Two days? He hadn’t slept that night, consumed by a rage so violent that it had threatened to release the Berserker without any bloodshed to bring it on.
The rage had only intensified, goading him to Occam’s back, sending him in circles around the Highlands. He’d ridden to the edge of Caithness, turned around, and come back, ripping down banns all the way, ranging like a maddened beast from Lowland to Highland. Then he turned around again, compelled to Caithness by a force beyond his understanding, a force that reached into the very marrow of his bones. Grimm tossed his braids out of his face and growled. In the forest near
by, a wolf responded with a mournful howl.
He’d had the dream again last night. The one in which Jillian watched him turn Berserk. The one in which she laid her palm against his chest and looked into his eyes and they connected—Jillian and the beast. In his dream, Grimm had realized the beast loved Jillian as deeply as the man, and was just as incapable of ever harming her. In the light of day, he no longer feared that he might hurt Jillian, not even with the threat of his da’s madness. He knew himself well enough to know that not even in the wildest throes of Berserkergang could he harm her.
But in his dream, as Jillian had searched his blazing, unholy eyes, fear and revulsion had marked her lovely features. She’d extended a hand palm out to stay him, begging him to go far away as quickly as Occam could carry him.
The Berserker had made a pathetic sound while the man’s heart slowly iced over, cooler than the ice-blue eyes that had witnessed so much loss. In his dream, he’d fled for the cover of darkness to hide from her horrified gaze.
Once Quinn had asked him what could kill a Berserker, and now he knew.
A thing so slight as the look on Jillian’s face.
He’d woken from the dream filled with despair. Today was Jillian’s wedding, and if dreams were portents, she would never forgive him for what he was about to do should she ever uncover his true nature.
But need she ever know?
He would hide the Berserker inside him forever if necessary. He would never again save anyone, never fight, never view blood; he would never reveal himself. He would live as a mere man. They would stop at Dalkeith, where the Hawk stored a considerable fortune for Grimm, and, with enough gold to buy her a castle in any country, they would flee far from the treacherous McKane and those who knew his secret.
If she would still have him.
He knew what he was about to do was not the honorable thing, but truth be told, he no longer cared. God forgive him—he was a Berserker who likely suffered his da’s madness somewhere in his veins, but he could not stand by and permit Jillian St. Clair to wed another man while he still lived and breathed.
Now he understood what she’d known instinctively, years ago, the day he’d stepped out of the woods and stood looking down at her.
Jillian St. Clair was his.
The hour was approaching noon and he was no more than three miles from Caithness when he was ambushed.
CHAPTER 24
YE GODS! JILLIAN DRIFTED BACK FROM HER WANDERING thoughts, alarmed. The pudgy priest was almost to the “I do” part. Jillian craned her neck, searching frantically for her father, with no success. The Greathall was crammed to overflowing; guests angled up the staircase, hung over the balustrade, and were stuffed into every nook and cranny.
Fear gripped her. What if her mother had made up the story of her father’s plan merely as a ruse to get her to stand up in front of the crowd? What if her mama had deliberately lied, wagering that once they got to the vows, Jillian wouldn’t have the nerve to dishonor her parents and Quinn, not to mention herself, by refusing to wed him?
“If there are any here today who know some reason why these two should remain separate, speak now or forever haud yer wheesht.”
The hall was silent.
The pause stretched over the length of several heartbeats. As it lengthened intolerably into minutes, people began to yawn, shuffle their feet, and stretch impatiently.
Silence.
Jillian puffed at her veil and peeked at Quinn. He stood ramrod straight beside her, his hands clasped. She whispered his name, but either he didn’t hear or he refused to acknowledge it. She peered at the priest, who seemed to have fallen into a trance, gazing at the bound volume in his hands.
What on earth was going on? She tapped her foot and waited for her da to say something to bring this debacle to a screeching halt.
“I said, if there are any here who see some reason …” the priest intoned dramatically.
More silence.
Jillian’s nerves stretched to breaking. What was she doing? If her da wouldn’t rescue her, to hell with him. She refused to be cowed by fear of scandal. She was her father’s daughter, by God, and he’d never genuflected to the false idol of propriety. She puffed at her veil, flipped it back impatiently, and scowled at the priest. “Oh, for goodness’ sake—”
“Don’t get snippy with me, missy,” the priest snapped. “I’m just doing my job.”
Jillian’s courage was momentarily quaffed by his unexpected rebuke.
Quinn caught her hand in his. “Is something wrong, Jillian? Are you feeling unwell? Your face is flushed.” His gaze was full of concern and … sympathy?
“I—can’t marry you” is what she started to say when the doors to the Greathall burst open, crushing several unsuspecting people against the wall. Her words were swallowed in the din of indignant squeals and yelps.
All eyes flew to the entrance.
A great gray stallion reared up in the doorway, its breath frosting the air with puffs of steam. It was a scene from every fairy-tale romance she’d ever read: the handsome prince bursting into the castle astride a magnificent stallion, ablaze with desire and honor as he’d declared his undying love before all and sundry. Her heart swelled with joy.
Then her brow puckered as she scrutinized her “prince.” Well, it was almost like a fairy tale. Except this prince was dressed in nothing but a drenched and muddy tartan with blood on his face and hands and war braids plaited at his temples. Although determination glittered in his gaze, a declaration of undying love didn’t appear to be his first priority.
“Jillian!” he roared.
Her knees buckled. His voice brought her violently to life. Everything in the room receded and there was only Grimm, blue eyes blazing, his massive frame filling the doorway. He was majestic, towering, and ruthless. Here was her fierce warrior ready to battle the world to gain her love.
He urged Occam into the crowd, making his way toward the altar.
“Grimm,” she whispered.
He drew up beside her. Sliding from Occam’s back, he dropped to the floor next to the bride and groom. He looked at Quinn. The two men gazed at each other a tense moment, then Quinn inclined his head the merest fraction and stepped back a pace. The Greathall hushed as five hundred guests stood riveted by the unfolding spectacle.
Grimm was at a sudden loss for words. Jillian was so beautiful, a goddess clad in shimmering satin. He was covered with blood, mud-stained and filthy, while behind them stood the incomparable Quinn, impeccably attired, titled and noble—Quinn, who had all he lacked.
The blood on his hands was a relentless reminder that despite his fervent vows to conceal the Berserker, the McKane would always be there. They’d been lying in wait for him today. What if they attacked when he was traveling with Jillian? Four had escaped him. The others were dead. But those four were trouble enough—they would round up more men and continue hunting Grimm until either the last McKane was dead, or he was. Along with anyone traveling with him.
What could he hope to accomplish by taking her now? What fool’s dream had possessed him to come here today? What desperate hope had convinced him he might be able to hide his true nature from her? And how would he survive the look on her face when she saw him for what he really was? “I’m a bloody fool,” he muttered.
A smile curved Jillian’s lip. “Yes, that you’ve been on more than one occasion, Grimm Roderick. You were most foolish when you left me, but I do believe I might forgive you now that you’ve come back.”
Grimm sucked in a harsh breath. Berserker be damned, he had to have her.
“Will you come with me, Jillian?” Say yes, woman, he prayed.
A simple nod was her immediate response.
His chest swelled with unexpected emotion. “I’m sorry, Quinn,” Grimm said. He wanted to say more, but Quinn shook his head, leaned close, and whispered something in Grimm’s ear. Grimm’s jaw tensed, and they stared at each other in silence. Finally Grimm nodded.
“Then you
go with my blessing,” Quinn said clearly.
Grimm extended his arms to Jillian, who slipped into his embrace. Before he could succumb to the urge to kiss her senseless, he tossed her on Occam’s back and mounted behind her.
Jillian scanned the worried faces around her. Ramsay was gazing at Grimm with a shocking amount of hatred in his eyes, and she was momentarily flustered by the intensity of it. Quinn’s expression was a blend of concern and reluctant understanding. She finally spotted her da where he stood with her mother a dozen feet away. Elizabeth’s face was grim. Gibraltar held her gaze a moment, then nodded encouragingly.
Jillian leaned back into Grimm’s broad chest and gave a small sigh of pleasure. “I would live any kind of life I had to live, so long as I lived it with you, Grimm Roderick.”
It was all he needed to hear. His arms tightened around her waist, he kneed Occam forward and together they fled Caithness.
“Now that’s my idea of how a man takes a woman to wife,” Gibraltar observed with satisfaction.
AN ILLYOCH PROPHECY
Legend tells that the Clan Illyoch will prosper for one thousand years, birthing warriors who will accomplish great good for Alba.
In the fertile vale of Tuluth a castle shall rise around the Hall of Gods and many shall covet what belongs to Scotia’s blessed race.
The seers warn that an envious clan shall pursue the Illyoch until they are but three. The three will be scattered like seeds uprooted by the wind of betrayal, cast far and wide, and all will appear to be lost. Much grief and despair will descend upon the holy vale.
But harken to hope, sons of Odin, for the three shall be gathered by his far-reaching grasp. When the young Illyoch finds his true mate, she shall bring him home, the enemy shall be vanquished, and the Illyoch shall thrive for a thousand years more.
The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle Page 52
