Steamy thoughts decamped abruptly when her stomach chose that moment to lurch alarmingly. Rendered momentarily breathless from the sudden nausea, she curled on her side and waited for the feeling to recede. As they’d had little to eat last night and been very active, she concluded she was probably hungry. An aching tummy would certainly make her plan to convince Grimm she was too sick to ride to Dalkeith easier to enact. What illness could she claim? An upset stomach might not be convincing enough to make him consider stopping in a village he’d sworn never to see again.
Conveniently, another wave of nausea gripped her. She scowled as the possibility occurred to her that she’d actually made herself ill merely by planning to pretend she was. She lay motionless, waiting for the discomfort to subside, and conjured visions of her favorite food, hoping that imagination would quaff the hunger pains.
Thoughts of Kaley’s pork roast nearly doubled her over. Baked fish in wine sauce had her gagging in an instant. Bread? That didn’t sound so bad. The crustier the better. She tried to inch away from Grimm to snatch the satchel where she’d seen a loaf of brown bread the night before, but in his sleep he tightened his arm around her waist. Stealthily she worked at his fingers, but they were like iron vises. As a fresh wave of nausea assaulted her, she moaned and curled into a ball, clutching her stomach. The sound woke Grimm instantly.
“Are you all right, lass? Did I hurt you?”
Afraid he was referring to their excessive lovemaking, she hastened to reassure him. She didn’t wish to give him any reason to think twice before bestowing such pleasure on her again. “I’m only a bit sore,” she said, then groaned as her stomach heaved again.
“What is it?” Grimm shot up in bed, and despite her misery she marveled at his beauty. His black hair fell about his face, and although the thought of food made her feel impossibly queasy, his lips still looked inviting.
“Did I harm you in my sleep?” he asked hoarsely. “What is it? Talk to me, lass!”
“I just don’t feel well. I don’t know what’s wrong. My stomach hurts.”
“Would food help?” He scuffled through the packs rapidly. Uncovering a large piece of greasy, salted beef, he thrust it beneath her nose.
“Oh, no!” she wailed, lunging to her knees. She scuttled away from him as quickly as possible, but made it only a few feet before retching. He was at her side in a heartbeat, smoothing the hair back from her face. “Don’t,” she cried. “Don’t even look at me.” Jillian hadn’t been sick much in her life, but when she had she loathed anyone seeing her weakened by forces beyond her control. It made her feel helpless.
She was probably being punished for planning to be deceitful. That was hardly fair, she thought crossly. She’d never been deceitful in her life—surely she was entitled to one time, especially since it was for a such good cause. They had to stop at Tuluth. She needed answers that she suspected could be found only by returning to Grimm’s roots.
“Hush, lass, it’s all right. What can I do? What do you need?” It couldn’t be poison, Grimm thought frantically. He’d prepared the food they’d eaten last night himself, of venison he’d tracked and cured while up in the Highlands. Then what was it? he wondered, deluged by a flood of emotions: helplessness, fear, realization that this woman in his arms meant everything to him and that he would take whatever sickness she had and bear it himself, if he could.
She convulsed again in his arms, and he held her trembling body.
It was some time before she stopped heaving. When she finally calmed, he wrapped her in a warm blanket and heated some water over the fire. She lay absolutely still while he washed her face. He was transfixed by her beauty; despite her illness Jillian certainly did seem radiant, her skin a translucent ivory, her lips deep pink, her cheeks flushed with rose.
“Are you feeling better, lass?”
She took a deep breath and nodded. “I think so. But I’m not certain I can ride very far today. Is there a place we might stop between here and Dalkeith?” she asked plaintively.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t go at all,” he hedged, but they had to move on, and he knew it. Lingering here another day was the most dangerous thing he could do. If the McKane were following, one more day might well cost them their lives. He closed his eyes and pondered the dilemma. What if they started off again and she became sicker? Where could he take her? Where they could they hide away until she was well enough to travel?
Of course, he thought sardonically.
Tuluth.
CHAPTER 27
AS THEY NEARED THE VILLAGE OF HIS BIRTH, GRIMM lapsed into a protracted silence.
They’d ridden at an easy gait through the day, and Jillian had rapidly recovered her customary vigor. Despite her improved health, she forced herself to continue the charade. They were too close to Tuluth for her to waffle in indecision.
They had to go to Tuluth. It was necessary, whether she condoned her methods or not. She suffered no delusions that Grimm would return voluntarily. If he had his way he’d forget the village ever existed. While she accepted the fact that Grimm couldn’t bring himself to talk about his past, she had a suspicion that returning to Tuluth might be more necessary for him than it was for her. It was possible he needed to confront his memories in order to lay them to rest.
For her part, she needed to examine the evidence with her own eyes and hands, speak with his “batty” da, and fish for information. In the rubble and debris of the destroyed castle she might find clues to help her understand the man she loved.
Jillian glanced down at his hand, so big it nearly cupped both of hers, while he guided Occam with the other one. What could he possibly think was wrong with him? He was noble and honest, with the exception of speaking about his past. He was strong, fearless, and one of the best warriors she’d ever seen. The man was virtually invincible. Why, he put the legends of those mythical beasts, the Berserkers, to shame.
Jillian smiled, thinking men like Grimm were where such legends were born. Why, he even had the legendary fierce blue eyes. If such beings truly existed, he might have been one of those mighty warriors, she thought dreamily. She hadn’t been surprised to learn he was the son of a chieftain; nobility was evident in every line of his magnificent face. She released a sigh of pleasure and leaned back into his chest.
“We’re nearly there, lass,” he said comfortingly, misinterpreting the sigh.
“Will we be going to the castle?” she asked weakly.
“No. There are some caves where we can take shelter on a cliff called Wotan’s Cleft. I played there when I was a boy. I know them well.”
“Wouldn’t the castle be warmer? I’m so cold, Grimm.” She shivered in what she hoped was a convincing manner.
“If my memory serves me, Maldebann is a shambles.” He tucked the plaid more securely about her shoulders and cradled her in the heat from his body. “I’m not certain any of the walls are standing. Besides, if my da is still around anywhere he probably haunts those crumbling halls.”
“Well, how about the village? Surely some of your people remained?” She refused to succeed in her bid to reach Tuluth but be denied contact with people who might know something about her Highland warrior.
“Jillian, the entire valley was wiped out. I suspect it will be completely deserted. We’ll be lucky if the caves are still passable. A lot of the passageways shifted, even collapsed into rubble during the years I played there.”
“More reason to go to the castle,” she said quickly. “It sounds as if the caves are dangerous.”
Grimm expelled a breath. “You’re persistent, aren’t you, lass?”
“I’m just so cold,” she whimpered, pushing away the guilt she felt about being deceitful. It was for a good cause.
His arms tightened around her. “I’ll take care of you, Jillian, I promise.”
“Where are they, Gilles?” Ronin asked.
“Nearly three miles east, milord.”
Ronin plucked nervously at his tartan and turned to his brother. “Do I
look all right?”
Balder grinned. “ ‘Do I look all right?’” he mocked in falsetto, preening for an imaginary audience.
Ronin punched him in the arm. “Stop it, Balder. This is important. I’m meetin’ my son’s wife today.”
“You’re seein’ your son today,” Balder corrected.
Ronin cast his gaze to the stones. “Aye, that I am,” he said finally. His head whipped back and he glanced at Balder anxiously. “What if he still hates me, Balder? What if he rides up, spits in my face, and leaves?”
The grin faded from Balder’s lips. “Then I’ll beat the lad senseless, tie him up, and we’ll both be talkin’ to him. Persuasively and at our leisure.”
Ronin’s face brightened considerably. “Now, there’s a plan,” he said optimistically. “Maybe we could do that straightaway, what say you?”
“Ronin.”
Ronin shrugged. “It just seems the most direct course,” he said defensively.
Balder assessed his brother, his nervous, callused fingers smoothing the ceremonial tartan. His sleekly combed black hair, liberally sprinkled with silver. His jeweled sgain dubh and velvet sporran. His wide shoulders and not-so-trim waist. He stood taller and with more pride than Balder had seen him stand in years. His blue eyes reflected joy, hope, and … fear. “You look like every inch a fine laird, brother,” Balder said gently. “Any son would be proud to call you da.”
Ronin took a deep breath and nodded tightly. “Let’s hope you’re right. Are the banners hung, Gilles?”
Gilles grinned and nodded. “You do look regal, milord,” he added proudly. “And I must say Tuluth has made a fine showing for us. The valley fairly sparkles. Any lad would be pleased to see this as his future demesne.”
“And the Hall of Lords, has it been cleaned and opened? Are the torches lit?”
“Yes, milord, and I’ve hung the portrait in the dining hall.”
Ronin gulped a breath of air and began pacing. “The villagers have been informed? All of them?”
“They’re waitin’ in the streets, Ronin, and the banners have been hung throughout Tuluth as well. It’s a fine homecoming you’ve planned,” Balder said.
“Let’s just hope he thinks so,” Ronin muttered, pacing.
Grimm’s fingers tightened on Jillian’s waist as Occam carefully picked his way up the back pass to Wotan’s Cleft.
He had no intention of taking Jillian to the cold damp caves where a fire could smoke them out if the wind suddenly changed course down one of the tunnels, but from the Cleft he could assess the village and the castle. If any part of it was still standing, he could scan for smoke from a hearth if anyone inhabited the ghost village. Besides, he preferred Jillian to see immediately what a desolate place it was so she might wish to hurry on to Dalkeith as soon as she was able. She seemed to be making a rapid recovery, although she was still weak and complained of intermittent queasiness.
The sun topped the peak of the Cleft. It wouldn’t set for several more hours, allowing him ample time to assess the potential dangers and secure shelter somewhere in the ruined village. If Jillian was well tomorrow morning they could race for the shores of Dalkeith. To avoid leading the McKane to the Douglas estate, he planned to stop in a nearby village and send a messenger for Hawk. They would meet discreetly to discuss the possibility of raising an army and plan Jillian’s and his future.
As the tall standing stones of Wotan’s Cleft came into view, Grimm’s chest tightened painfully. He forced himself to take deep, even breaths as they navigated the rocky path. He hadn’t anticipated the force with which his bitter memories would resurface. He’d last climbed this path fifteen years ago and it had forever changed his life. Hear me, Odin! I summon the Berserker … He’d ascended a boy and descended a monster.
His hands fisted. How could he have considered coming back here? But Jillian snuggled against him, seeking warmth, and he knew he would enter Tuluth willingly even if it were occupied by hordes of demons, to keep her safe and warm.
“Are you all right, Grimm?”
How typically Jillian, he marveled. Despite her own sickness, her concern was for him. “I’m fine. We’ll be warm soon, lass. Just rest.”
He sounded so worried that Jillian had to bite her tongue to prevent an instant confession from escaping.
“In just a moment you’ll be able to see where the village used to be,” he said, sorrow roughening his voice.
“I can’t imagine what it would be like to see Caithness destroyed. I didn’t mean to bring you back to a place that is so painful …”
“It happened many years ago. It’s almost as if it happened in another lifetime.”
Jillian sat up straight as they topped the crest and searched the landscape with curious eyes.
“There.” Grimm directed her attention to the cliff. “From the promontory the whole valley comes into view.” He smiled faintly. “I used to come up here and look out over the land, thinking that a lad had never been born luckier than I.”
Jillian winced. Occam moved forward, his gait steady. Jillian held her breath as they approached the edge.
“The caves lie behind us, beyond that tumble of stones where the slope of the mountain is steepest. My best friend Arron and I once vowed we would map out every tunnel, every chamber in that mountain, but the passages seemed to go on forever. We’d nearly mapped out a quarter of it before … before …”
Remorse for dragging him back to face his demons flooded her. “Was your friend killed in the battle?”
“Aye.”
“Was your da hurt in the battle?” she asked gently.
“He should have died,” Grimm said tightly. “The McKane buried a battle-ax in his chest clear to the hilt. It’s amazing he survived. For several years after, I assumed he had died.”
“And your mother?” she said in a whisper.
There was a silence, broken only by the sound of shale crushing beneath Occam’s hooves. “We’ll be able to see it any moment, lass.”
Jillian’s gaze fixed on the cliff’s edge where the rock terminated abruptly and became the horizon. Hundreds of feet down she would find the ashes of Tuluth. She drew herself up straighter, nearly tumbling from the horse in her anxiety, and braced herself for the grim scene.
“Hold, lass,” Grimm soothed as they took the last few steps to the cliff and gazed out over the lifeless valley.
For nearly five minutes he didn’t speak. Jillian wasn’t certain he breathed. On the other hand, she wasn’t certain she did either.
Below them, nestled around a crystalline river and several sparkling lochs, a vibrant city teemed with life, white huts washed to soft amber by the afternoon sun. Hundreds of homes dotted the valley in even rows along meticulously maintained roads. Smoke from cozy fires spiraled lazily from flues, and although she couldn’t hear the voices, she could see children running and playing. People walked up and down the roads where an occasional lamb or cow wandered. Two wolfhounds played in a small garden. Along the main roadway that ran down the center of the city, brilliantly colored banners waved and flapped in the breeze.
Astonished, she scanned the valley, following the river to the face of the mountain. It bubbled from an underground source at the mountain’s base, the castle towering in stone above it. Her hand flew to her lips to smother a cry of shock. This was not what she’d expected to see.
A bleak and dreary castle, he’d called it.
Nothing could have been further from the truth. Castle Maldebann was the most beautiful castle she’d ever laid eyes on. With its exquisitely carved towers and regal face, it looked as if it had been liberated from the mountain by the hammer and chisel of a visionary sculptor. Constructed of pale gray stone, it rose in mighty arches to a breathtaking height. The mountain effectively sealed the valley at that end and the castle sprawled along the entire width of the closure, wings stretching east and west from the castle proper.
Its mighty towers made Caithness look like a summer cottage—nay, like a chil
d’s tree loft. No wonder Castle Maldebann had been the focus of an attack; it was an incredible, enviable stronghold. The guard walk at the top was dotted with dozens of uniformed figures. The entrance was visible beyond the portcullis and postern and soared nearly fifty feet. Brightly clad women dotted the lower walkways, scurrying to and fro with baskets and children.
“Grimm?” Jillian croaked his name. Ruins? Her brow furrowed in consternation as she wondered how this could possibly be. Was it possible Grimm had misunderstood who lost that fateful battle years ago?
A huge banner with bold lettering rippled above the entrance to the castle. Jillian narrowed her eyes and squinted, much as she chided Zeke for doing, but she couldn’t make out the words. “What does it say, Grimm?” she managed in a hushed whisper, awed by the unexpected vista of peace and prosperity stretching before her eyes.
For a long moment he didn’t answer. She heard him swallow convulsively behind her, his body as rigid as the rocks Occam shifted his hooves upon.
“Do you think maybe some other clan took over this valley and rebuilt?” she offered faintly, latching on to any reason she could find to make sense of things.
He released a whistling breath, then punctuated it with a groan. “I doubt it, Jillian.”
“It’s possible, isn’t it?” she insisted. If not, Grimm might genuinely suffer his da’s madness, for only a madman could call this magnificent city a ruin.
“No.”
“Why? I mean, how can you be certain from here? I can’t even make out their plaids.”
“Because that banner says ‘Welcome home, son,’” he whispered with horror.
CHAPTER 28
“HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO MAKE SENSE OF THIS, GRIMM?” Jillian asked as the tense silence between them grew. He was staring blankly down at the valley. She felt suddenly and overwhelmingly confused.
“How are you supposed to make sense of it?” He slid from Occam’s back and lowered her to the ground beside him. “You?” he echoed incredulously. He couldn’t find one bit of sense in it either. Not only wasn’t his home a ruin of ashes scattered across the valley floor as it was supposed to be, there were bloody welcome banners flapping from the turrets.
The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle Page 54
