Beyond the Highland Myst

by Highlander 01-08

  Her eyes drifted over the second man. "Quinn," she whispered. She hadn't seen Quinn de Moncreiffe since he'd fostered with Grimm under her father years ago. Tall, golden and breathtakingly handsome, Quinn de Moncreiffe had comforted her on the many occasions Grimm had chased her away. In the years since she'd last seen him he had matured into a towering man with wide shoulders, a trim waist, and long blond hair pulled back in a queue.

  "It would seem just about every man in Scotia and half of England is indebted to Gibraltar St. Clair for one thing or another," Quinn observed.

  Ramsay Logan folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, nodding. "Aye. He bailed me out of more than a few tight spaces when I was a younger lad and more prone to thinking with the wee head."

  "Och, so you think you've changed, Logan?" Quinn provoked.

  "Not so much that I couldn't knock you senseless still, de Moncreiffe," Ramsay shot back.

  Ramsay Logan, Jillian mused; she'd been right about his bloodline. The Logans were indeed Highlanders. Ramsay certainly looked like one of those savage mountain men whose notoriety was exceeded only by their massive holdings. They were a land-rich clan, owning a large portion of the southern Highlands. Her eyes crept back to Grimm, despite her best intentions. He relaxed in his chair regally, composed as a king and acting as if he had every bit as much right to be there. Her eyes narrowed.

  The corners of Grimm's mouth twitched faintly. "It's like old times with the two of you poking at each other, but spare me your dissension. There's a puzzle here. Why did Gibraltar St. Clair summon the three of us to Caithness? I've heard of no trouble here in years. Quinn, what did your message say? That he needed you to serve Caithness in his absence?"

  Above them, Jillian frowned. That was a good question—why would her parents bring these three men to Caithness while they attended their grandson's christening? Hatchard, Caithness's chief man-at-arms, commanded a powerful force of guards, and there hadn't been trouble in these parts of the Lowlands for years.

  "It said that he wished me to watch over Caithness in his absence, and if I couldn't take the time away from my ships to come for him, I should come for Jillian. I found his message rather odd but got the impression he was worried about Jillian, and truth be told, I've missed the lass," Quinn replied.

  Jillian jerked. What was her deceitful da up to?

  "Jillian—the Goddess-Empress herself." Ramsay flashed a wolfish grin.

  Jillian's nostrils flared and her spine stiffened.

  "What?" Grimm looked puzzled.

  "He's referring to her much-lauded reputation. Didn't you stop at the stables when you rode in?" When Grimm shook his head, Quinn snorted. "You missed an earful. The lads there prattled on and on about her before we even had a chance to dismount, warning us not to defile her'saintly' mien. The 'Goddess-Empress Jillian,' one of the young lads called her, saying mere 'Queen' was too commonplace."

  "Jillian?" Grimm looked dubious.

  Jillian glared at the top of his head.

  "Bespelled," Ramsay affirmed. "The lot of them. One lad told me she's the second Madonna, and he believes if she bears children, it will surely be the product of divine intervention."

  "I must say, any intervention with Jillian would be divine," Quinn said, grinning.

  "Aye, right between those divine thighs of hers. Did you ever see a lass more well fashioned for a man's pleasure?" Ramsay kicked his feet up on the hearth and shifted in his chair, dropping his hands in his lap.

  Jillian's eyebrows climbed her forehead, and she placed a hand over her mouth.

  Grimm glanced sharply at Ramsay and Quinn. "Wait a minute—what do you mean by 'her divine thighs'? You've never met Jillian, have you? You doona even know what she looks like. And Quinn, you haven't seen her since she was a wee lass."

  Quinn looked away uncomfortably.

  "Does she have golden hair?" Ramsay countered. "Masses of it, falling in waves past her hips? Flawless face and about yay-tall?" He held his hand slightly above his seated head to demonstrate. "Is her bedroom on the second floor, facing due east?"

  Grimm nodded warily.

  "I do know what she looks like. Quinn and I saw her in a window as we rode in," Ramsay informed him.

  Jillian groaned softly, hoping he wouldn't continue.

  Ramsay continued, "If she's the woman who was changing her gown, the one with the breasts a man could—"

  Jillian's hands flew protectively to her bodice. It's a little late for that, she rued.

  "You did not see her getting dressed," Grimm growled, glancing at Quinn for reassurance.

  "No," Ramsay supplied helpfully, "we saw her undressed. Framed in the window, sun spilling over the most splendid morning gown of rosy skin I've ever seen. Face of an angel, creamy thighs, and everything golden in between."

  Mortification steeped Jillian in a furious blush from the crown of her head to her recently viewed breasts. They had seen her; all of her.

  "Is that true, Quinn?" Grimm demanded.

  Quinn nodded, looking sheepish. "Hell, Grimm, what did you expect me to do? Look away? She's stunning. I'd long suspected the wee lass would ripen into a lovely woman, but I'd never imagined such exquisite charms. Although Jillian always seemed like a younger sister to me, after I saw her today…" He shook his head and whistled admiringly. "Well, feelings can change."

  "I didn't know Gibraltar had such a daughter," Ramsay hastened to add, "or I'd have been sniffing around years ago—

  "She's not the sniffing around kind. She's the marrying kind," Grimm snapped.

  "Aye, she is the marrying kind, and the keeping kind, and the bedding kind," Ramsay said coolly. "The dolts at Caithness may be intimidated by her beauty, but I'm not. A woman like that needs a flesh-and-blood man."

  Quinn shot Ramsay an irritated look and rose to his feet. "Exactly what are you saying, Logan? If any man is going to be speaking for her, it should be me. I've known Jillian since she was a child. My message specifically mentioned coming for Jillian, and after seeing her, I intend to do precisely that."

  Ramsay came to his feet slowly, unfolding his massive frame until he stood a good two inches above Quinn's six-foot-plus frame. "Perhaps the only reason my message wasn't worded the same way is because St. Clair knew I'd never met her. Regardless, it's past time I take a wife, and I intend to give the lovely lass an option besides hanging her nightrail—if she ever wears one, although I'm certainly not complaining—beside some common Lowland farmer."

  "Who's calling who a farmer here? I am a bleeding merchant and worth more than all your paltry skinny-ass, shaggy-haired cows put together."

  "Pah! My skinny-ass cows aren't where I get my wealth, you Lowland skivvy—"

  "Aye, raiding innocent Lowlanders, more likely!" Quinn cut him off. "And what the hell is a skivvy?"

  "Not a word a flatlander would know," Ramsay snapped.

  "Gentlemen, please." Hatchard entered the Greathall, an expression of concern on his face. Having served as chief man-at-arms for twenty years, he could foresee a battle brewing half a county away, and this one was simmering beneath his nose. "There's no need to get into a brawl over this. Hold your tongues and bide a wee, for I have a message for you from Gibraltar St. Clair. And do sit down." He gestured to the chairs clustered near the hearth. "It's been my experience that men who are facing off rarely listen well."

  Ramsay and Quinn continued to glare at each other.

  Jillian tensed and nearly poked her head through the spindles of the balustrade. What was her father up to this time? Shrewd, red-haired Hatchard was her father's most trusted advisor and longtime friend. His vulpine features were an accurate reflection of his cleverness; he was canny and quick as a fox. His long, lean fingers tapped the hilt of his sword as he waited impatiently for the men to obey his command. "Sit," Hatchard repeated forcefully.

  Ramsay and Quinn reluctantly eased back into their chairs.

  "I'm pleased to see you've all arrived promptly," Hatchard said in an easie
r tone. "But, Grimm, why is your horse wandering the bailey?"

  Grimm spoke softly. "He doesn't like to be penned. Is there a problem with that?"

  Like man, like horse. Jillian rolled her eyes.

  "No, no problem with me. But if he starts eating Jillian's flowers, you may have a bit of a skirmish on your hands." Hatchard lowered himself into a vacant chair, amused.

  "Actually, I suspect you're going to have a bit of a skirmish on your hands no matter what you do with your horse Grimm Roderick." He chuckled. "It's good to see you again. It's been too long. Perhaps you could train with my men while you're here."

  Grimm nodded curtly. "So why has Gibraltar summoned us here, Hatchard?"

  "I'd planned to allow you all to settle in a bit before I passed on his message, but the lot of you are already onto the right of it. St. Clair did bring you here for his daughter," Hatchard admitted, rubbing his short red beard thoughtfully.

  "I knew it," Ramsay said smugly.

  Jillian hissed softly. How dare he? More suitors, and among them the very man she had vowed to hate until death. Grimm Roderick. How many men would her da throw at her before he finally accepted that she would not wed unless she found the kind of love her parents shared?

  Hatchard leaned back in his chair and regarded the men levelly. "He expects she will choose one of you before they return from their visit, which gives the lot of you till late autumn to woo her."

  "And if she doesn't?" Grimm asked.

  "She will." Ramsay folded his arms across his chest, a portrait of arrogance.

  "Does Jillian know about this?" Grimm asked quietly.

  "Aye, is she duplicitous or is she an innocent?" Quinn quipped.

  "And if she is innocent, to what degree?" Ramsay asked wickedly. "I, for one, intend to find out at the earliest opportunity."

  "Over my dead body, Logan," Quinn growled.

  "So be it." Ramsay shrugged.

  "Well, whatever he intended, I don't think it was for the three of you to be killing each other over her." Hatchard smiled faintly. "He merely intends to see her wed before she passes another birthday, and one of you shall be the man. And no, Grimm, Jillian doesn't know a thing about it. She'd likely flee Caithness immediately if she had the vaguest inkling what her father was up to. Gibraltar has brought dozens of suitors to Jillian over the past year, and she drove them all away with one shenanigan or another. She and her da relished outwitting each another; the more unusual his ploy, the more inventive her reaction. Although, I must say, she always handled things with a certain delicacy and subtlety only a Sacheron woman can effect. Most of the men had no idea they'd been… er… for lack of a better word… duped. Like her father, Jillian can be the very image of propriety while planning a mutinous rebellion behind her composed face. One of you must court and win her, because the three of you are Gibraltar's last hopes."

  Impossible, Jillian silently argued her case with shaky conviction. Her da would not do this to her. Would he? Even as she denied it, the long, considering glances her da had been giving her before he'd left surfaced in her mind. Suddenly his somewhat guilty expression, his last-minute hugs before he'd left made sense to Jillian. By the saints, as dispassionately as he matched his broodmares, her da had locked her in the stables with three hot-blooded studs and gone visiting.

  Make that two hot-blooded studs and one cold, arrogant, impossible heathen, she amended silently. For surely as the sun rose and set, Grimm Roderick wouldn't deign to touch her even with someone else's hands. Jillian's shoulders slumped.

  As if he'd somehow read her mind, Grimm Roderick's words drifted up, inciting more of that witless fury she suffered in his presence.

  "Well, you doona have to worry about me, lads, for I wouldn't wed the woman if she was the last woman in all of Scotia. So it's up to the two of you to make Jillian a husband."

  Jillian clenched her jaw and fled down the corridor before she could succumb to a mad urge to fling herself over the balustrade, a hissing female catapult of teeth and nails.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 4

  maldebann castle

  the highlands, above tuluth

  "milord, your son is near."

  Ronin McIllioch surged to his feet, his blue eyes blazing. "He's coming here? Now?"

  "No, milord. Forgive me, I did not mean to alarm you," Gilles corrected hastily. "He is at Caithness."

  "Caithness," Ronin repeated. He exchanged glances with his men. Their gazes reflected concern, caution, and unmistakable hope. "Have you any idea why he's there?" Ronin asked.

  "No. Shall we find out?"

  "Dispatch Elliott, he blends in well. Discreetly, mind you," Ronin said. Softly he added, "My son is closer than he's come in years."

  "Yes, milord. Think you he may come home?"

  Ronin McIllioch smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "The time is not yet right for his return. We still have work to do. Send with Elliott the young boy who draws. I want pictures, with great detail."

  "Yes, milord."

  "And Gilles?"

  Gilles paused in the doorway.

  "Has anything… changed?"

  Gilles sighed and shook his head. "He still calls himself Grimm. And as nearly as our men have been able to ascertain, he has never bothered to ask if you're still alive. Nor has he ever once looked west to Maldebann."

  Ronin inclined his head. "Thank you. That will be all, Gilles."

  * * * * *

  Jillian found Kaley dicing potatoes in the kitchen. Kaley Twillow was a motherly woman in her late thirties; her curvaceous body couched an equally spacious heart. Originally from England, she'd come to Caithness upon the reference of one of Gibraltar's friends when her husband had died. Maid, cook's assistant, confidante in place of a scheming mother—Kaley did it all. Jillian plunked down on the edge of a chair and said without preface, "Kaley, there's a thing I've been wondering."

  "And what might that be, dear?" Kaley asked with a tender smile. She laid her knife aside. "As a rule, your questions are quite peculiar, but they are always interesting."

  Jillian edged her chair nearer to the cutting block where Kaley stood, so the other servants in the busy kitchen wouldn't overhear. "What does it mean when a man 'comes for a woman'?" she whispered conspiratorially.

  Kaley blinked rapidly. "Comes?" she echoed.

  "Comes," Jillian affirmed.

  Kaley retrieved her knife, clutching it like a small sword. "In just what context did you hear this phrase used?" she asked stiffly. "Was it in reference to you? Was it one of the guards? Who was the man?"

  Jillian shrugged. "I overheard a man saying he was told to 'come for Jillian' and he planned to do just that, precisely to the letter. I don't understand. He already did it—he came here."

  Kaley thought a moment, then chortled, relaxing visibly. "It wouldn't have been the mighty, golden Quinn, would it, Jillian?"

  Jillian's blush was reply enough for Kaley.

  She calmly replaced her knife on the cutting board. "It means, dear lass"—Kaley bent her head close to Jillian's—"that he plans to bed you."

  "Oh!" Jillian flinched, eyes wide. "Thank you, Kaley." She excused herself crisply.

  Kaley's eyes sparkled as Jillian beat a hasty retreat from the kitchen. "A fine man. Lucky lass."

  * * * * *

  As she raced for her chambers, Jillian seethed. While she could appreciate her parents' desire to see her wed, it was their fault as much as hers that she wasn't. They hadn't started encouraging her until last year, and shortly thereafter they'd dumped a barrage of candidates upon her with no warning. One by one, Jillian had brilliantly discouraged them by convincing them she was an unattainable paragon, not to be considered in a carnal, worldly sense—a woman better suited for the cloister than the marriage bed. A declaration of such intent had cooled the ardor of several of her suitors.

  If cool civility and frigid reserve failed, she hinted at a family disposition toward madness that sent men scurrying. She'd had to resort to that
on only two occasions; apparently her pious act was pretty convincing. And why shouldn't it be? she brooded. She'd never done anything particularly daring or improper in her entire life, hence she'd acquired a reputation as "a truly good person."

  "Yuck," she informed the wall. "Chisel that on my headstone. 'She was a truly good person, but she's dead now.' " Although her efforts to dissuade her suitors had been successful, she'd apparently failed to stop her parents from scheming to marry her off; they'd summoned three more suitors to Caithness and abandoned her to her own straits. Dire straits indeed, for Jillian knew these men were not the kind to be put off with a few cool words and an aloof demeanor. Nor would they likely accept her claims of inherited madness. These men were too confident, too bold… oh, hell's bells, she dusted off another childhood curse, they were far too masculine for any woman's peace of mind. And if she wasn't careful, these three men could cause her to reclaim all the childhood epithets she'd learned while skipping at the heels of Quinn and Grimm. Jillian was accustomed to gentle, modest men, men gelded by their own insecurities, not swaggering, uncut bulls who thought "insecure" meant an unstable fortress or a weak timber in a foundation.

  Of the three men currently invading her home, the only one she might hope to persuade to consider her plight sympathetically was Quinn, and that was far from a certainty. The lad she'd known years ago was quite different from the formidable man he'd become. Even at the far reaches of Caithness she'd heard of his reputation throughout Scotland as a relentless conqueror, both of trade and women. To top it off, if Kaley's interpretation could be trusted and Quinn had truly been making an innuendo about bedding her, his youthful protectiveness had matured into manly possessiveness.