Beyond the Highland Myst

by Highlander 01-08

  Adrienne laughed. "Silly man, that's how I described your heart when I first met you. And stop fidgeting, Grimm," she chided. "Or is there some reason you want those braids at your temples in this portrait?"

  Grimm froze, then slowly touched his hair in disbelief.

  Hawk stared at him. "What's on your mind, Grimm?" he asked, fascinated.

  Grimm swallowed. He hadn't even realized he'd plaited the war braids into his hair. A man wore war braids only during the blackest hours of his life—when he was mourning his lost mate or preparing for battle. So far, he'd worn them twice. What had he been thinking? Grimm stared blankly at the floor, confused, unable to vocalize his thoughts. Lately he'd been obsessed with ghosts of the past, memories he'd tossed savagely into a shallow grave years ago and buried beneath a thin sod of denials. But in his dreams the shadow corpses walked again, trailing behind them a residue of unease that clung to him throughout the day.

  Grimm was still struggling to answer when a guard burst through the doors to the study.

  "Milord. Milady." The guard nodded deferentially to Hawk and Adrienne as he hastily entered the room. He approached Grimm, a somber expression on his face. "This just came for ye, Cap'n." He thrust an official-looking piece of parchment into Grimm's hands. "The messenger insisted'twas urgent, and to be delivered into your hands only." Grimm turned the message slowly in his hand. The elegant crest of Gibraltar St. Clair was pressed into the red wax. Suppressed memories broke over him: Jillian. She was a promise of beauty and joy he could never possess, a memory he'd consigned to that same uncooperative, shallow grave that now seemed determined to regurgitate its dead.

  "Well, open it, Grimm," Adrienne urged.

  Slowly, as if he held a wounded animal that might turn on him with sharp teeth, Grimm broke the seal and opened the missive. Stiffly, he read the terse, three-word command. His hand fisted reflexively, crumpling the thick vellum.

  Rising, he turned to the guard. "Prepare my horse. I leave in one hour." The guard nodded and left the study.

  "Well?" Hawk demanded. "What does it say?"

  "Nothing you need to address, Hawk. Doona worry. It doesn't concern you."

  "Anything that concerns my best friend concerns me," Hawk said. "So give over, what's wrong?"

  "I said nothing. Leave it, man." Grimm's voice held a note of warning that would have restrained a lesser man's hand. But the Hawk had never been, and would never be, a lesser man, and he moved so unexpectedly that Grimm didn't react quickly enough when he whisked the parchment from his hand. Grinning mischievously, Hawk backed away and uncrumpled the parchment. His grin broadened, and he winked at Adrienne.

  "'Come for Jillian,' it says. A woman, is it? The plot thickens. I thought you'd sworn off women, my fickle friend. So who's Jillian?"

  "A woman?" Adrienne exclaimed delightedly. "A young, marriageable woman?"

  "Stop it, you two. It's not like that."

  "Then why were you trying to keep it a secret, Grimm?" Hawk pressed.

  "Because there are things you doona know about me, and it would take far too long to explain. Lacking the leisure to tell you the full story, I'll send you a message in a few months," he evaded coolly.

  "You're not getting out of this so easily, Grimm Roderick." Hawk rubbed the shadow beard on his stubborn jaw thoughtfully. "Who is Jillian, and how do you know Gibraltar St. Clair? I thought you came to court directly from England. I thought you knew no one in all of Scotland but for those you met at court."

  "I didn't exactly tell you the whole story, Hawk, and I doona have time for it now, but I'll tell you as soon as I get settled."

  "You'll tell me now, or I'm coming with you," Hawk threatened. "Which means Adrienne and Carthian are coming as well, so you can either tell me or prepare for company, and you never know what might happen if Adrienne comes along."

  Grimm scowled. "You really can be a pain, Hawk."

  "Relentless. Formidable," Adrienne agreed sweetly. "You may as well give in, Grimm. My husband never takes no for an answer. Believe me, I know this."

  "Come on, Grimm, if you can't trust me, who can you trust?" he coaxed. "Where are you going?"

  "It's not a question of trust, Hawk." Hawk merely waited with an expectant look on his face, and Grimm knew he had no intention of relenting. Hawk would push and poke and ultimately do exactly as he'd threatened—come along—unless Grimm gave him a sufficient answer. Perhaps it was time he admitted the truth, although the odds were that once he did, he wouldn't be welcomed back at Dalkeith. "I'm going home, sort of," Grimm finally conceded.

  "Caithness is your home?"

  "Tuluth," Grimm muttered.

  "What?"

  "Tuluth," Grimm said flatly. "I was born in Tuluth."

  "You said you were born in Edinburgh!"

  "I lied."

  "Why? You told me your entire family was dead! Was that a lie too?"

  "No! They are. I didn't lie about that. Well… mostly I didn't lie," he corrected hastily. "My da is still alive, but I haven't spoken to him in more than fifteen years."

  A muscle twitched in Hawk's jaw. "Sit down, Grimm. You're not going anywhere until you tell me all of it, and I suspect it's a tale that's long overdue."

  "I doona have time, Hawk. If St. Clair said it was urgent, I was needed at Caithness weeks ago."

  "What relevance has Caithness to any of this, or to you? Sit. Talk. Now"

  Sensing no possibility of reprieve, Grimm paced as he began his story. He told them how, at the age of fourteen, he'd left Tuluth the night of the massacre and wandered the forests of the Highlands for two years, wearing his war braids and hating mankind, hating his father, hating himself. He skipped the brutal parts—his mother's murder, the starvation he'd endured, the repeated attempts on his life. He told them that when he was sixteen he'd found shelter with Gibraltar St. Clair; that he'd changed his name to Grimm to protect himself and those for whom he cared. He told them how the McKane had found him again at Caithness and attacked his foster family. And finally, in the tone of a dreaded confession, he told them what his real name had been.

  "What did you just say?" Hawk asked blankly.

  Grimm drew a deep breath into his lungs and expelled it angrily. "I said Gavrael. My real name is Gavrael." There was only one Gavrael in all of Scotland; no other man would willingly own up to that name and that curse. He braced himself for the Hawk's explosion. He didn't have to wait for long.

  "McIllioch?" Hawk's eyes narrowed disbelievingly.

  "McIllioch," Grimm confirmed.

  "And Grimm?"

  "Grimm stands for Gavrael Roderick Icarus McIllioch." Grimm's Highland brogue rolled so thickly around the name, it was a nearly unintelligible burr of r's and l's and staccato-sharp k's. "Take the first letter of each name, and there you have it. G-R-I-M."

  "Gavrael McIllioch was a Berserker!" Hawk roared.

  "I told you you didn't know so much about me," Grimm said darkly.

  Crossing the study in three swift strides, Hawk bristled to a stop inches from Grimm's face and studied him, as if he might uncover some telltale trace of a beast that should have betrayed Grimm's secret years ago. "How could I not have known?" Hawk muttered. "For years I'd been wondering about some of your peculiar… talents. By the bloody saints, I should have guessed if only from your eyes—"

  "Lots of people have blue eyes, Hawk," Grimm said dryly.

  "Not like yours, Grimm," Adrienne remarked.

  "This explains it all," Hawk said slowly. "You're not human."

  Grimm flinched.

  Adrienne leveled a dark look at her husband and linked her arm through Grimm's. "Of course he's human, Hawk. He's just human… plus some."

  "A Berserker." Hawk shook his head. "A fardling Berserker. You know, they say William Wallace was a Berserker."

  "And what a lovely life he had, eh?" Grimm said bitterly.

  * * * * *

  Grimm rode out shortly thereafter, answering no more questions and leaving the Hawk immensely dis
satisfied. He left quickly, because the memories were returning of their own accord and with fury. Grimm knew he had to be alone when full recollection finally reclaimed him. He didn't willingly think about Tuluth anymore. Hell, he didn't willingly think anymore, not if he could help it.

  Tuluth: in his memory a smoky valley, clouds of black so thick his eyes had stung from the acrid stench of burning homes and burning flesh. Children screaming. Och, Christ!

  Grimm swallowed hard as he spurred Occam into a gallop across the ridge. He was impervious to the beauty of the Highland night, lost in another time, surrounded only by the color of blood and the blackness of soul-disfiguring desolation—with one shimmering spot of gold.

  Jillian.

  Is he an animal, Da? May I keep him? Please? He's an ever-so-glorious beastie!

  And in his mind he was sixteen years old again, looking down at the wee golden lass. Memory swept over him, dripping shame thicker than clotted honey off a comb. She'd found him in the woods, scavenging like a beast.

  He'd be fiercer than my Savanna TeaGarden, Da!

  Savanna TeaGarden being her puppy, all one hundred forty pounds of Irish wolfhound puppy.

  He'd protect me well, Da, I know he would!

  The instant she'd said the words, he'd taken a silent vow to do just that, never dreaming it might one day entail protecting her from himself.

  Grimm rubbed his clean-shaven jaw and tossed his head in the wind. For a brief moment he felt the matted hair again, the dirt and sweat and the war braids, the fierce eyes brimming with hatred. And the pure, sweet child had trusted him on sight.

  Och, but he'd dissuaded her quickly.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 2

  gibraltar and elizabeth st. clair had been riding toward their son's home in the Highlands for over a week before Gibraltar finally confessed his plan. He wouldn't have told her at all, but he couldn't stand to see his wife upset.

  "Did you hear that?" Elizabeth said accusingly to her husband as she rounded her mare and cantered back to his side. "Did you?"

  "Hear what? I couldn't hear a thing. You were too far away," he teased.

  "That's it, Gibraltar. I've had it!"

  Gibraltar raised an inquiring brow. "What's it, love?" Flushed with outrage, his wife was even more alluring than she was when calm. He wasn't above gently provoking her to enjoy the show.

  Elizabeth tossed her head briskly. "I am sick of hearing men talk about our flawless, saintly, unwed—as in nearly a spinster—daughter, Gibraltar."

  "You've been eavesdropping again, haven't you, Elizabeth?" he asked mildly,

  "Eavesdropping, schmeavesdropping. If my daughter is being discussed, even if only by the guards"—she gestured in their direction irritably—"I have every right to listen. Our fearsome protectors, who I might point out are perfectly healthy full-grown men, have been trading tributes to her virtues. By virtues they don't mean her breasts or any of her lovely curves, but her sweet temper, her patience, her calling to the cloister, for goodness' sake. Did she breathe a word to you about this sudden inclination to devote herself to the nunnery?" Without waiting for an answer, Elizabeth reined in her mount and glared at him. "They go on and on about how flawless she is and not one of them says a word about tupping her."

  Gibraltar laughed as he drew his stallion to a halt beside her mare.

  "How dare you think this is funny?"

  Gibraltar shook his head, his eyes sparkling. Only Elizabeth would take offense that men didn't talk about seducing their only daughter.

  "Gibraltar, I must ask you to be serious for a moment. Jillian is twenty-one years old and not one man has seriously tried to court her. I vow she's the most exquisite lass in all of Scotland, and men walk quietly worshipful circles around her. Do something, Gibraltar. I'm getting worried."

  His smile faded. Elizabeth was right. It was no longer a laughing matter. Gibraltar had reached that conclusion himself. It wasn't fair to let Elizabeth continue worrying when he'd taken action that would soon put both their fears to rest. "I've already taken care of it, Elizabeth."

  "What do you mean? What have you done this time?"

  Gibraltar studied her intently. At the moment he wasn't completely certain which would upset Elizabeth more: continued worry over their daughter's unwed state, or the details of what he'd done without consulting her. A uniquely masculine moment of reflection convinced him she would be dazzled by his ingenuity. "I've arranged for three men to attend Caithness in our absence, Elizabeth. By the time we return, either Jillian will have chosen one of them, or one of them will have chosen her. They are not the kind of men to give up in the face of a wee bit of resistance. Nor are they the kind of men to fall for her 'nunnery stories.'"

  Elizabeth's horrified expression deflated his smug pose. "One of them will choose her? Are you saying that one of these men you've selected might compromise her if she doesn't choose?"

  "Seduce, Elizabeth, not compromise," Gibraltar protested. "They wouldn't ruin her. They're all honorable, respectable lairds." His voice deepened persuasively. "I selected these three based in part on the fact that they're also all very… er"—he searched for a word innocuous enough that it wouldn't alarm his wife, because the men he'd chosen could be patently alarming—"… masculine men." His perfunctory nod was intended to soothe her concerns. It failed. "Exactly what Jillian needs," he assured her.

  "Masculine! You mean randy inveterate blackguards! Probably domineering and ruthless, to boot. Don't prevaricate with me, Gibraltar!"

  Gibraltar sighed gustily, any hope of subtle persuasion debunked. "Do you have a better idea, Elizabeth? Frankly, I think the problem is that Jillian has never met a man who wasn't intimidated by her. I guarantee you not one of the men I've invited will be even remotely intimidated. Captivated? Yes. Intrigued? Yes. Ruthlessly persistent? Yes. Precisely what a Sacheron woman needs. A man who is man enough to do something about it."

  Elizabeth St. Clair, nee Sacheron, nibbled her lower lip in silence.

  "You know how you've been longing to see our new grandson," he reminded her. "Let's just go on with our visit and see what happens. I promise you that none of the men I've chosen will harm a hair on our precious daughter's head. They might muss it up a bit, but that will be well and good for her. Our impeccable Jillian is long overdue for some mussing."

  "You expect me to just go off and leave her with three men? Those kind of men?"

  "Elizabeth, those kind of men are the only kind of men who will not worship her. Besides, I was once one of those kind of men, if you'll recall. It will take an uncommon man for our uncommon daughter, Elizabeth," he added more gently. "I aim to find her that uncommon man."

  Elizabeth sighed and blew a tendril of hair from her face. "I suppose you've the right of it," she murmured. "She truly hasn't met a man who didn't worship her. I wonder, how do you think she'll react when she does?"

  "I suspect she might not know what to do at first. It may throw her badly off balance. But I'm wagering one of the men I've selected will help her figure it out," Gibraltar said smoothly.

  Alarm vanquished Elizabeth's despondence instantly. "That's it. We'll just have to go back. I can't be somewhere else when my daughter is experiencing these woman things for the first time. God only knows what some man will try to teach my daughter or how he'll try to teach it to her, not to mention how shocked she's certain to be. I can't be off visiting while my daughter is being bullied and bamboozled out of her maidenhead—it simply won't do! We'll have to go home." She gazed expectantly at her husband, awaiting his nod of agreement.

  "Elizabeth." Gibraltar said her name very quietly.

  "Gibraltar?" Her tone was wary.

  "We are not turning back. We are going to visit our son to attend our grandson's christening and spend a few months, as planned."

  "Does Jillian know what you've done?" Elizabeth asked icily.

  Gibraltar shook his head. "She hasn't a suspicion in her pretty head."

  "What about the men? Don't
you think they will tell her?"

  Gibraltar grinned wickedly. "I didn't tell them. I simply commanded their attendance. But Hatchard knows and is prepared to inform them at a suitable time."

  Elizabeth was shocked. "You told no one but our chief man-at-arms?"

  "Hatchard is a wise man. And she needs this, Elizabeth. She needs to find her own way. Besides," he provoked, "what man would dare bamboozle a lass's maidenhead with her mother hovering at her elbow?"

  "Och! My mother, my da, my seven brothers, and my grandparents being in attendance didn't stop you from bamboozling mine. Or abducting me."

  Gibraltar chuckled. "Are you sorry I did?"

  Elizabeth gave him a steamy look from beneath her lashes that assured him to the contrary.

  "So you see, sometimes a man knows best, don't you think, my dear?"

  She didn't reply for a moment, but Gibraltar didn't mind. He knew Elizabeth trusted him with her life. She just needed some time to get used to his plan and to accept the fact that their daughter needed a loving push over the edge of the nest.

  When Elizabeth finally spoke, resignation buffered her words. "Just which three men did you choose without my discerning insight and consent?"

  "Well, there's Quinn de Moncreiffe." Gibraltar's gaze never strayed from her face.

  Quinn was blond, handsome and daring. He'd sailed black-flag for the King before he'd inherited his titles and now commanded a fleet of merchant ships, from which he'd trebled his clan's already considerable fortune. Gibraltar had fostered Quinn when he'd been a young lad, and Elizabeth had always favored him.

  "Good man." A lift of a perfect golden brow betrayed grudging admiration for her husband's wisdom. "And?"

  "Ramsay Logan."

  "Oh!" Elizabeth's eyes grew round. "When I saw him at court he was clad in black from head to toe. He looked as dangerously attractive as a man could be. How is it that some woman hasn't snatched him up? Do go on, Gibraltar. This is becoming quite promising. Who's the third?"

  "We're lagging too far behind the guards, Elizabeth," Gibraltar evaded glibly. "The Highlands have been peaceful lately, but we can't be too careful. We must catch up." He shifted in his saddle, grasped her reins, and urged her to follow.