Beyond the Highland Myst

by Highlander 01-08

  A thick, swirling mist was settling over the town. Within a quarter hour the dense fog would be impossible to navigate through; they'd arrived just in time to avoid the worst of it. Grimm had settled his horse in the small U-shaped courtyard behind the inn, where a ratty lean-to swayed precariously from the drooping roof. Occam would find sufficient shelter, provided the flood didn't carry him off.

  Grimm whisked the beaded water droplets off his plaid before entering the inn. Any weaver worth her salt wove the fabric so tightly it was virtually water-repellant, and the weavers at Dalkeith were some of the finest. He unfastened a length of the woolen fabric and draped it across his shoulder. Quinn and Ramsay were already at the fire, toasting their hands and drying their boots.

  "Bloody nasty weather out there, ain't it, lads?" The barkeep beckoned cheerfully through the doorway to the adjoining tavern. "Me, I've got a fire in here s'warm as tha' one, and a fine brew to chase yer chill, so dinna tarry. Me name's Mac," he added with a friendly nod. "Come bide a wee."

  Grimm glanced at Quinn, who shrugged. His expression plainly said there wasn't much else to do on such a miserably wet evening than pass it drinking. The three men ducked through the low doorway that partitioned the eatery from the tavern proper and claimed several battered wooden stools at a table by the hearth.

  "Seein' as'tis nearly deserted in here, I may as well pull up a seat once I've seen t' yer drinks. No' many venture out in a downpour such as this." The barkeep ambled unevenly to the bar, then lumbered back to their table, producing a bottle of whisky and four mugs with a flourish.

  "'Tis a fardlin' mess out there, ain't it? An' where be ye travelin'?" he asked, sitting heavily. "Dinna mind me leg, I think the wood's goin' soft," he added as he grabbed a second stool, lifted his wooden leg by the ankle, and dropped it on the slats. "Sometimes it pains me when the weather goes damp. An' in this damn country, tha's all the tune, ain't it? Gloomy place, she is, but I love 'er. Y'ever been outside of Alba, lads?"

  Grimm glanced at Quinn, who was gazing raptly at the barkeep, his expression a mixture of amusement and irritation. Grimm knew they were both wondering if the lonely little barkeep would ever shut up.

  It was going to be a long night.

  * * * * *

  A few hours later the rain hadn't abated, and Grimm used the excuse of checking on Occam to escape the smoky tavern and Mac's incessant prattle. Besieged by the same restlessness that had ridden him at Dalkeith, he could scarcely sit still for longer than a few hours. He slipped into the back courtyard of the inn, wondering what Jillian was doing at the moment. A slight smile curved his lips as he pictured her stomping about, tossing her glorious mane of hair, outraged that she'd been left behind. Jillian despised being excluded from anything "the lads" did. But this was for the best, and she would realize it when Quinn returned with his gift and made his formal pledge. Grimm could scarcely look at Quinn without being struck by what a perfect couple they would make, giving birth to perfect, golden children with aristocratic features and not a touch of inherited madness. Perhaps by getting the two of them together he could redeem himself in some small measure, he mused, although the thought of Jillian with Quinn caused his stomach to tighten painfully.

  "Get out o' me kitchen and dinna be returnin', ye ratty-ass whelp." A door on the far side of the courtyard suddenly burst open. A child tumbled head over heels into the night and landed prone in the mud.

  Grimm studied the man whose wide frame nearly filled the doorway. He was a big, beefy man, well over six feet tall, with a frizzled crown of short-cropped brown curls. His face was mottled red in patches, either due to rage or exertion, or more likely both, Grimm decided. He clutched a wide butcher's knife that gleamed dully in the light.

  The lad clambered to his knees, slipping on the sodden ground. He scrubbed at a spattering of mud on his cheek with thin, dirty fingers. "But Bannion always gives us the scraps. Please, sir, we need to eat!"

  "I'm no' Bannion, ye insolent whelp! Bannion doesna work here anymore, and no wonder, if he be giving away to such as ye. I'm the meat butcher now." The man cuffed the child with such vigor that the boy collapsed onto his backside in the mud, shaking his head dazedly. "Ye think we spare any cuts fer the likes o' ye? Ye can rot in a gutter, Robbie MacAuley says. I dinna expect anyone to feed me.

  It's the likes o' ye rats that grow up to be thieves and murderers of honest, hardworkin' men." The meat butcher stepped out into the rain, dragged the child from the mud by his scruffy collar, and shook him. When the lad began howling, the butcher cracked a meaty hand across his face.

  "Release him," Grimm said quietly.

  "Eh?" The man glanced around, startled. A sneer crossed his red face as his gaze lit on Grimm, who was partially concealed by the shadows. The meat butcher straightened menacingly, suspending the boy by one hand. "What's yer concern wi' me business? Stay out o' it. I dinna ask yer opinion and I dinna want it. I found the l'il whelp stealing me vittles—"

  "Nay! I dinna steal! Bannion gives us the scraps."

  The meat butcher backhanded the lad across the face, and blood sprayed from the child's nose.

  In the shadow of the lean-to Grimm stared transfixed at the bleeding child. Memories began to crowd him—the flash of a silver blade, a tumble of blond curls and a bloodstained smock, pillars of smoke—an unnatural wind began to rise, and he felt his body twisting inside, reshaping itself until he was hopelessly lost to the rage within. Far beyond conscious thought, Grimm lunged for the meat butcher, crushing him against the stone wall.

  "You son of a bitch." Grimm closed his hands around the man's windpipe. "The child needs food. When I release you, you're going to go in the kitchen and pack him a basket of the finest meat you've got, and then you're going to—"

  "Like 'ell I am!" the butcher managed to wheeze. He twisted in Grimm's grip and plunged blindly forward with the knife. As the blade slid home, Grimm's hand relaxed infinitesimally, and the butcher sucked in a whistling breath of air. "There, ye bastard," he cried hoarsely. "Nobody messes wi' Robbie MacAuley. 'At'll be teachin' ye." He shoved Grimm with both hands, twisting the knife as he pushed.

  As Grimm swayed back, the butcher started forward, only to fall instinctively backward again, his eyes widening incredulously, for the madman he'd stabbed with a brutality and efficiency that should have caused a mortal wound was smiling.

  "Smile. That's it—go on, smile as ye be dyin'," he cried. " 'Cause dyin' ye are, and that's fer sure."

  Grimm's smile contained such sinister promise that the meat butcher flattened himself up against the wall of the inn like lichen seeking a deep, shady crevice between the stones. "There's a knife in yer belly, man," the meat butcher hissed, eyeing the protruding hilt of the knife to reassure himself it was, indeed, lodged in his assailant's gut.

  Breathing evenly, Grimm grasped the hilt with one hand and removed the blade, calmly placing it beneath the butcher's quivering jowls.

  "You're going to get the lad the food he came for. Then you will apologize," Grimm said mildly, his eyes glittering. "To 'ell with ye," the butcher sputtered. "Any minute now ye'll be falling on yer face."

  Grimm leveled the blade below the butcher's ear, flush across his jugular. "Doona count on it."

  "Ye should be dead, man. There's a hole in yer belly!"

  "Grimm." Quinn's voice cut through the night air. Pressing gently, with the care of a lover, Grimm pierced the skin on the butcher's neck. "Grimm," Quinn repeated softly. "Gawd, man! Get him offa me!" the butcher cried frantically. "He's deranged! His bleedin' eyes are like—"

  "Shut up, you imbecile," Quinn said in a modulated, conciliatory tone. He knew from experience that harshly uttered words could escalate the state of Berserkergang. Quinn circled the pair cautiously. Grimm had frozen with the blade locked to the man's throat. The ragged lad huddled at their feet, gazing up with wide eyes.

  "He be Berserk," the lad whispered reverently. "By Odin, look at his eyes."

  "He be crazed," the butcher wh
impered, looking at Quinn. "Do something!"

  "I am doing something," Quinn said quietly. "Make no loud noises, and for Christ's sake, don't move." Quinn stepped closer to Grimm, making certain his friend could see him.

  "The whelp's just a homeless ne'er-do-well. 'Tis not the thing to be killing an honest man for," the butcher whined. "How was I supposed to know he was a fardlin' Berserker?"

  "It shouldn't have made any difference whether he was or not. A man shouldn't behave honorably only when there's someone bigger and tougher around to force him," Quinn said, disgusted. "Grimm, do you want to kill this man or feed the boy?" Quinn spoke gently, close to his friend's ear. Grimm's eyes were incandescent in the dun light, and Quinn knew he was deep into the bloodlust that accompanied Berserkergang. "You only want to feed the boy, don't you? All you want to do is to feed the boy and keep him from harm, remember? Grimm—Gavrael—listen to me. Look at me!"

  * * * * *

  "I hate this, Quinn," Grimm said later as he unbuttoned his shirt with stiff fingers.

  Quinn gave him a curious look. "Do you really? What is there to hate about it? The only difference between what you did and what I would have done is that you don't know what you're doing when you're doing it. You're honorable even when you're not fully conscious. You're so damned honorable, you can't behave any other way."

  "I would have killed him."

  "I'm not convinced of that. I've seen you do this before and I've seen you pull out of it. The older you get, the more control you seem to gain. And I don't know if you've realized this, but you weren't completely unaware this time. You heard me when I spoke to you. It used to take a lot longer to reach you."

  Grimm's brow furrowed. "That's true," he admitted. "It seems I manage to retain a sliver of awareness. Not much—but it's more than I used to have."

  "Let me see that wound." Quinn drew a candle near. "And bear in mind, the meat butcher would have given no thought to beating the lad senseless and leaving him to die in the mud. The homeless children in this city are considered no better than street rats, and the general consensus is the faster they die, the better."

  "It's not right, Quinn," Grimm said. "Children are innocent. They haven't had a chance to be corrupted. We'd do better to take the children off somewhere else to raise them properly. With someone like Jillian to teach them fables," he added.

  Quinn smiled faintly as he bent over the puckered wound. "She will be a wonderful mother, won't she? Like Elizabeth." Bemused, he drew his fingers over the already-closing cut in Grimm's side. "By Odin's spear, man, how quickly do you heal?"

  Grimm grimaced slightly. "Very. It seems to be getting even quicker, the older I get."

  Quinn dropped to the bed, shaking his head. "What a blessing it must be. You never have to worry about infection, do you? How does one kill a Berserker, anyway?"

  "With great difficulty," Grimm replied dryly. "I've tried to drink myself to death, and that didn't work. Then I tried to labor myself to death. Failing that, I just plunged into every battle I could find, and that didn't work either. The only thing left was to try was to fu—" He broke off, embarrassed. "Well, as you can see, that didn't work either."

  Quinn grinned. "No harm in trying, though, was there?"

  Grimm begrudged a faint curve of his lip.

  "Get some sleep, man." Quinn lightly punched him on the shoulder. "Everything looks better in the morning. Well, almost everything," he added with a sheepish grin, "so long as I wasn't too drunk the night before. Then sometimes the wench looks worse. And so do I, for that matter."

  Grimm just shook his head and flopped back on the bed. After folding his arms behind his head, he was asleep in seconds.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 11

  everything looks better in the morning. watching Jillian from his window, Grimm recalled Quinn's words and agreed wholeheartedly. What lapse of judgment had persuaded him that she wouldn't follow them?

  She was breathtaking, he acknowledged as he watched her hungrily, safe in the privacy of his room. Clad in a velvet cloak of amber, she was a vision of flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Her blond hair tumbled over her shoulders, casting the sun back at the sky. The rain had stopped—probably just for her, he brooded—and she stood in a puddle of sunshine that shafted over the roof from the east, proclaiming the hour to be shortly before noon. He'd slept like the dead, but he always did after succumbing to the Berserker rage, no matter how brief its duration.

  Peering out the narrow casement window, he rubbed the glass until it permitted him an unmarred view. While Hatchard gathered her bags, Jillian linked her arm through

  Kaley's and chatted animatedly. When Quinn appeared in the street below a few moments later, gallantly offered his arms to both ladies, and escorted them into the inn, Grimm exhaled dismally.

  Ever-gallant, ever-golden Quinn.

  Grimm muttered a soft curse and went to feed Occam before worrying about his own breakfast.

  * * * * *

  Jillian mounted the main staircase to her room, glanced about to ascertain she was alone, then detoured stealthily down the rear steps, smoothing the folds of her cloak. Biting her lip, she exited into the small courtyard behind the inn. He was there, just as she'd suspected, feeding Occam a handful of grain and murmuring quietly. Jillian paused, enjoying the sight of him. He was tall and magnificent, and his dark hair rippled in the breeze. His plaid was slung too low for propriety, riding his lean hips with sensual insolence. She could see a peek of his back where his shirt had obviously been hastily tucked. Her fingers itched to stroke the smooth olive-tinted skin. When he bent to pick up a brush, the muscles in his legs rippled, and despite her vow to make no sound, she exhaled a breath of unadulterated longing.

  Of course, he heard her. She instantly assumed a mask of indifference and volleyed into questions to head off a potential verbal sully. "Why don't you ever pen Occam?" she asked brightly.

  Grimm allowed a brief glance over his shoulder, then started brushing the horse's sleek flank. "He was caught in a stable fire once."

  "He doesn't appear to have suffered for it." Jillian traversed the courtyard, eyeing the stallion. "Was he injured?" The horse was magnificent, hands taller than most and a glossy, unmarked slate gray.

  Grimm stopped brushing. "You never stop with your questions, do you? And what are you doing here, anyway? Couldn't you just be a good lass and wait at Caithness? No, I forgot, Jillian hates being left behind," he said mockingly.

  "So who rescued him?" Jillian was determined not to rise to the bait.

  Grimm returned his attention to the horse. "I did." There was a pause, filled only with the rasp of bristles against horseflesh. When he spoke again, he released a low rush of words: "Have you ever heard a horse scream, Jillian? It's one of the most bloodcurdling sounds I've ever heard. It cuts through you as cruelly as the sound of an innocent child's cry of pain. I think it has always been the innocence that bothers me most."

  Jillian wondered when he'd heard those screams and wanted desperately to ask, but was hesitant to pry at his wounds. She held her tongue, hoping he might continue if she stayed silent.

  He didn't. Silently stepping back from the stallion, he made a sharp gesture, accompanied by a clicking noise with his tongue against his teeth. Jillian watched in amazement as the stallion sank to its knees, then dropped heavily to its side with a soft nicker. Grimm knelt by the horse and motioned her closer.

  She slipped to her knees beside Grimm. "Oh, poor, sweet Occam," she whispered. The entire underside of the horse was badly scarred. Lightly she ran her fingers over the thick skin, and her brows puckered sympathetically.

  "He was burned so badly, they said he wouldn't live," Grimm told her. "They planned to put him down, so I

  bought him. Not only was he wounded, he was crazed for months afterward. Can you imagine the terror of being trapped in a burning barn, penned in? Occam could run faster than the fleetest horse, could have left the blaze miles behind, but he was imprisoned in a man-ma
de hell. I've never penned him since."

  Jillian swallowed and glanced at Grimm. His expression was bitter. "You sound as if you've been trapped in a few man-made hells yourself, Grimm Roderick," she observed softly.

  His gaze mocked her. "What would you know about man-made hells?"

  "A woman lives most of her life in a man-made world," Jillian replied. "First her father's world, then her husband's, finally her son's, by whose grace she continues on in one of their households should her husband die before her. And in Scotland, the husbands always seem to die before the women in one war or another. Sometimes merely watching the hells men design for each other—that's horror enough for any woman. We feel things differently than you men do." She impulsively laid her hand against his lips to silence him when he started to speak. "No. Don't say anything. I know you think I know little of sorrow or pain, but I've had my share. There are things you don't know about me, Grimm Roderick. And don't forget the battle I watched when I was young." Her eyes widened with disbelief when Grimm lightly kissed the tips of her fingers where they lay across his lips.

  "Touche, Jillian," he whispered. He caught her hand in his and placed it gently in her lap. Jillian sat motionless when he curled his own about it protectively.

  "If I were a man who believed in wishes on stars, I would wish on all of them that Jillian St. Clair might never suffer the smallest glimpse of any hell. There should only be heaven for Jillian's eyes."

  Jillian remained perfectly still, masking her astonishment, exulting in the sensation of his strong, warm hand cupping hers. By the saints, she would have ridden all the way to England through the savagery of a border battle if she'd known this was waiting for her at the end of her journey. She fancied her body had taken root where she knelt; to continue being touched by him she would willingly grow old in the small courtyard, suffering wind and rain, hail and snow without the slightest care. Mesmerized by the glimpse of hesitation in his gaze, her head tilted up; his seemed to move forward and down as if nudged by a serendipitous breeze.