Elizabeth scowled as she plucked the reins from his hand. "We'll catch them later. Who's the third?"
Gibraltar frowned and gazed at the guards, who were fading out of sight around a bend. "Elizabeth, we mustn't tarry. You have no idea—"
"The third, Gibraltar," his wife repeated.
"You look especially lovely today, Elizabeth," Gibraltar said huskily. "Have I told you that?" When his words evoked no response but a cool, level stare, he wrinkled his brow.
"Did I say three?"
Elizabeth's expression grew cooler.
Gibraltar expelled a breath of frustration. He mumbled a name and spurred his mount forward.
"What did you just say?" she called after him, urging her mare to keep up.
"Oh hell, Elizabeth! Give over! Let's just ride."
"Repeat yourself, please, Gibraltar."
There was another unintelligible answer.
"I can't understand a word when you mumble," Elizabeth said sweetly.
Sweet as siren song, he thought, and every bit as lethal. "I said Gavrael McIllioch. All right? Leave it, will you?" He rounded his stallion sharply and glared, savoring the fact that at least for the time being he'd rendered her as close to speechless as Elizabeth St. Clair ever came.
Elizabeth stared at her husband in disbelief. "Dear God in heaven, he's summoned the Berserker!"
* * * * *
On the sloping lawn of Caithness, Jillian St. Clair shivered despite the warmth of the brightly shining sun. Not one cloud dotted the sky, and the shady forest that rimmed the south end of the lawn was a dozen yards away—not close enough to have been responsible for her sudden chill.
An inexplicable sense of foreboding crept up the back of her neck. She shook it off briskly, berating her overactive imagination. Her life was as unmarred by clouds as the expansive blue sky; she was being fanciful, nothing more.
"Jillian! Make Jemmie stop pulling my hair!" Mallory cried, dashing to Jillian's side for protection. The lush green grass of the lawn was sprinkled with the dozen or so children who gathered every afternoon to cajole stories and sweets from Jillian.
Sheltering Mallory in her arms, Jillian regarded the lad reprovingly. "There are better ways to show a lass that you like her than pulling her hair, Jemmie MacBean. And it's been my experience that the girls whose hair you pull now are the ones you'll be courting later."
"I didn't pull her hair because I like her!" Jemmie's face turned red and his hands curled into defiant fists. "She's a girl."
"Aye, she is. And a lovely one at that." Jillian smoothed Mallory's luxuriant, long auburn hair. The young lass already showed promise of the beautiful woman she would become. "Pray tell, why do you pull her hair, Jemmie?" Jillian asked lightly.
Jemmie kicked at the grass with his toes. "Because if I punched her the same way I punch the lads, she'd probably cry," he mumbled.
"Why must you do anything to her at all? Why not simply talk to her?"
"What could a girl have to say?" He rolled his eyes and scowled at the other lads, wordlessly demanding support with his fierce glare.
Only Zeke was unaffected by his bullying. "Jillian has interesting things to say, Jemmie," Zeke argued. "You come here every afternoon to listen to her, and she's a girl."
"That's different. She's not a girl. She's… well, she's almost like a mother to us, 'cept she's a lot prettier."
Jillian brushed a strand of blond hair back from her face with an inward wince. What had "prettier" ever done for her? She longed to have children of her own, but children required a husband, and one of those didn't appear to be on the horizon for her, pretty or not. Well, you could stop being so picky, her conscience advised dryly.
"Shall I tell you a story?" She swiftly changed the subject.
"Yes, tell us a story, Jillian!"
"A romantic one!" an older girl called.
"A bloody one," Jemmie demanded.
Mallory scrunched her nose at him. "Give us a fable. I love fables. They teach us good things, and some of us"—she glared at Jemmie—"need to learn good things."
"Fables are dumb—"
"Are not!"
"A fable! A fable!" the children clamored.
"A fable you shall have. I shall tell you of the argument between the Wind and the Sun," Jillian said. "It's my favorite of all the fables." The children jostled for the seat closest to her as they settled down to hear the tale. Zeke, the smallest of them, was shoved to the back of the cluster.
"Don't squint, Zeke," Jillian chided kindly. "Here, come closer." She drew the boy onto her lap and pushed the hair out of his eyes. Zeke was her favorite maid, Kaley Twillow's, son. He'd been born with such weak eyesight that he could scarcely see past his own hand. He was forever squinting, as if it might one day work a miracle and bring the world into focus. Jillian couldn't imagine the sorrow of not being able to clearly see the lovely landscape of Scotia, and her heart wept for Zeke's handicap. It prevented him from playing the games the other children adored. He was far more likely to be hit by the bladder-skin ball than to hit it, so to compensate Jillian had taught him to read. He had to bury his nose in the book, but therein he'd found worlds to explore he could never have seen with his own eyes.
As Zeke nestled into her lap, she began. "One day the Wind and the Sun were having an argument over who was stronger, when suddenly they saw a tinker coming down the road. The Sun said, 'Let us decide our dispute now. Whichever of us can cause the tinker to take off his cloak shall be regarded as the stronger.'
"The Wind agreed to the contest. 'You begin,' the Sun said, and retired behind a cloud so he wouldn't interfere. The Wind began to blow as hard as it could upon the tinker, but the more he blew, the tighter the tinker clutched his cloak about his body. That didn't deter the Wind from giving it all he had; still the tinker refused to yield his cloak. Finally the Wind gave up in despair.
"Then the Sun came out and blazed in all his glory upon the tinker, who soon found it too warm to walk with his cloak on. Removing it, he tossed the garment over his shoulder and continued on his journey, whistling cheerily."
"Yay!" the girls cheered. "The Sun won! We like the Sun better too!"
"It's a stupid girl story." Jemmie scowled.
"I liked it," Zeke protested.
"You would, Zeke. You're too blind to be seeing warriors and dragons and swords. I like stories with adventure."
"This tale had a point, Jemmie. The same point I was making about you pulling Mallory's hair," Jillian said gently.
Jemmie looked bewildered. "It did? What does the Sun have to do with Mai's hair?"
Zeke shook his head, disgusted by Jemmie's denseness. "She was telling us that the Wind tried to make the tinker feel bad, so the tinker needed to defend himself. The Sun made the tinker feel good and warm and safe enough to walk freely."
Mallory beamed adoringly at Zeke, as if he were the cleverest lad in the world. Zeke continued seriously, "So be nice to Mallory and she'll be nice to you."
"Where do you get your halfwit ideas?" Jemmie asked, irritated.
"He listens, Jemmie," Jillian said. "The moral of the fable is that kindness affects more than cruelty. Zeke understands that there's nothing wrong with being nice to the lasses. One day you'll be sorry you weren't nicer." When Zeke ends up with half the village lasses hopelessly in love with him despite his weak vision, Jillian thought, amused. Zeke was a handsome young lad and would one day be an attractive man possessing the unique sensitivity those born with a handicap tended to develop.
"She's right, lad." A deep voice joined their conversation as a man spurred his horse from the shelter of the nearby trees. "I'm still sorry I wasn't nicer to the lasses."
The blood in Jillian's veins chilled and her cloudless life was suddenly awash with thick, black thunderheads. Surely that man would never be fool enough to come back to Caithness! She pressed her cheek into Zeke's hair, hiding her face, wishing she could melt into the ground and disappear, wishing she had put on a more elegant gown
this morning—as ever, wishing impossible things where this man was concerned. Although she hadn't heard his voice in years, she knew it was he.
"I recall a lass I was mean to when I was a lad, and now, knowing what I know, I'd give a great deal to take it all back."
Grimm Roderick. Jillian felt as if her muscles had melted beneath her skin, fused by the heat of his voice. Two full timbres lower than any other voice she'd ever heard, modulated so precisely it conveyed intimidating self-discipline, his was the voice of a man in control.
She raised her head and stared at him, her eyes wide with shock and horror. Her breath caught in her throat. No matter how the years changed him, she would always recognize him. He'd dismounted and was approaching her, moving with the detached arrogance and grace of a conqueror, exuding confidence as liberally as he exhaled. Grimm Roderick had always been a walking weapon, his body developed and honed to instinctual perfection. Were she to scramble to her feet and feint left, Jillian knew he'd be there before her. Were she to back up, he'd be behind her. Were she to scream, he could cover her mouth before she'd even finished drawing her breath in preparation. She'd only once before seen a creature move with such speed and repressed power: one of the mountain cats whose muscles bunched in springy recoil as they padded about on dangerous paws.
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 t
he 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 confront 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.
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