Beyond the Highland Myst

by Highlander 01-08

  She twined her fingers in his hair and kissed him back, then lost her breath entirely when he deepened the kiss. One hand cupped her jaw; the other slid down the bow of her spine, cupping her hips, molding her body tightly against his. All thought ceased as Jillian gave herself over to what had long been her greatest fantasy: to touch Grimm Roderick as a woman, as his woman. His hands were at her hips, pushing at her gown—and suddenly her hands were at his kilt, tearing at his sporran to get beneath it. She found his thick manhood and brazenly grasped its hardness through the fabric of his plaid. She felt his body stiffen against hers, and the groan of desire that escaped him was the sweetest sound Jillian had ever heard.

  Something exploded between them, and there in the mist and fog of Durrkesh she was so consumed by the need to mate her man that she no longer cared that they stood on a public street. Grimm wanted her, wanted to make love to her—his body told her that clearly. She arched against him, encouraging, entreating. The kiss hadn't merely rendered her breathless, it had depleted the last of her meager supply of sense.

  He caught her questing hand and pinned it against the wall above her head. Only when he had secured both her hands did he change the tempo of the kiss, turning it into a teasing, playful flicker of his tongue, probing, then withdrawing, until she was gasping for more. He brushed the length of his body against hers with the same slow, teasing rhythm.

  He tore his lips away from hers with excruciating slowness, catching her lower lip between his teeth and tugging gently. Then, with a last luscious lick of his tongue, he drew back.

  "So what do you think? Could Ramsay compare to that?" he asked hoarsely, eyeing her breasts intently. Only when he ascertained that they didn't rise and fall for a long moment, that he had indeed managed to "kiss her breathless," did he raise his eyes to hers.

  Jillian swayed as she struggled to keep her knees from simply buckling beneath her. She stared at him blankly. Words? He thought she could form words after that? He thought she could think?

  Grimm's gaze searched her face intently, and Jillian saw a look of smug satisfaction banked in his glittering eyes. The faintest hint of a smile curved his lip when she didn't reply but stood gazing, lips swollen, eyes round. "Breathe, peahen. You can breathe now."

  Still, she stared at him blankly. Valiantly she sucked in a great, whistling breath of air.

  "Hmmph" was all he said as he took her hand and tugged her along. She trotted beside him on rubbery legs, occasionally stealing a peek at the supremely masculine expression of satisfaction on his face.

  Grimm didn't speak another word for the duration of their walk back to the inn. That was fine with Jillian; she wasn't certain she could have formed a complete sentence if her life had depended on it. She briefly wondered who, if either of them, had won that skirmish. She concluded weakly that she had. He hadn't been unaffected by their encounter, and she'd gotten the kiss she craved.

  When they arrived at the Black Boot, Hatchard informed the strangely taciturn couple that the men, although still quite weak, were impatient to be moved out of the inn. Analyzing all the risks, Hatchard had concurred that it was the wisest course. He had procured a wagon for the purpose, and they would return to Caithness at first light.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 14

  "tell me a story, jillian," zeke demanded, ambling into the solar. "I sore missed you and Mama while you were away." The little boy clambered up onto the settle beside her and nestled in her arms.

  Jillian brushed his hair back from his forehead and dropped a kiss on it. "What shall it be, my sweet Zeke? Dragons? Fairies? The selkie?"

  "Tell me about the Berserkers," he said decidedly.

  "The what?"

  "The Berserkers," Zeke said patiently. "You know, the mighty warriors of Odin."

  Jillian snorted delicately. "What is it with boys and their battles? My brothers adored that fairy tale."

  "'Tis not a fae-tale,'tis true," Zeke informed her. "Mama told me they still prowl the Highlands."

  "Nonsense," Jillian said. "I shall tell you a fitting tale for a young boy."

  "I don't want a fitting tale. I want a story with knights and heroes and quests. And Berserkers."

  "Oh my, you are growing up, aren't you?" Jillian said wryly, tousling his hair.

  "Course I am," Zeke said indignantly.

  "No Berserkers. I shall tell you, instead, of the boy and the nettles."

  "Is this another one of your stories with a point?" Zeke complained.

  Jillian sniffed. "There's nothing wrong with stories that have a point."

  "Fine. Tell me about the stupid nettles." He plunked his chin on his fist and glowered.

  Jillian laughed at his sullen expression. "I'll tell you what, Zeke. I shall tell you a story with a point, and then you may go find Grimm and ask him to tell you the story of your fearless warriors. I'm certain he knows it. He's the most fearless man I've ever met," Jillian added with a sigh. "Here we go. Pay attention:

  "Once upon time there was a wee lad who was walking through the forest and came upon a patch of nettles. Fascinated by the unusual cluster, he tried to pluck it so he might take it home and show his mama. The plant stung him painfully, and he raced home, his fingers stinging. 'I scarcely touched it, Mama!' the lad cried.

  "'That is exactly why it stung you,' his mama replied. 'The next time you touch a nettle, grab it boldly, and it will be soft as silk in your hand and not hurt you in the least.' " Jillian paused meaningfully.

  "That's ft?" Zeke demanded, outraged. "That wasn't a story! You cheated me!"

  Jillian bit her lip to prevent laughter; he looked like an offended little bear cub. She was tired from the journey and her storytelling abilities were a bit weak at the moment, but there was a useful lesson in it. Besides, the largest part of her mind was preoccupied with thoughts of the incredible kiss she'd received yesterday. It required every shred of her waning self-control to keep from trundling off to find Grimm herself, nestling on his lap and sweetly begging for a bedtime story. Or, more accurately, just a bedtime. "Tell me what it means, Zeke," Jillian coaxed.

  Zeke was quiet a moment as he pondered the fable. His forehead was furrowed in concentration, and Jillian waited patiently. Of all the children, Zeke was the cleverest at isolating the moral. "I have it!" he exclaimed. "I shouldna hesitate. I should grab things boldly. If you're undecided, things may sting you."

  "Whatever you do, Zeke," Jillian counseled, "do it with all your might."

  "Like learning to ride," he concluded.

  "Yes. And loving your mama and working with the horses and studying lessons I give you. If you don't do things with all your might, you may end up being harmed by those things you try halfway."

  Zeke gave a disgruntled snort. "Well, it's not the Berserker, but I guess it's all right, from a girl."

  Jillian made an exasperated sound and hugged Zeke close, heedless of his impatient squirm. "I'm losing you already, aren't I, Zeke?" she asked when the boy raced from the solar in search of Grimm. "How many lads will grow up on me?" she murmured sadly.

  * * * * *

  Jillian checked on Quinn and Ramsay before dinner. The two men were sleeping soundly, exhausted by the return trip to Caithness. She hadn't seen Grimm since their return; he'd settled the patients and stalked off. He'd been silent the entire journey and, stung by his withdrawal, she had retreated to the wagon and ridden with the sick men.

  Both Quinn and Ramsay still had an unhealthy pallor, and their clammy skin was evidence of the fever's tenacious grip. She pressed a gentle kiss to Quinn's brow and tucked the woolens beneath his chin.

  As she left their chambers, her mind slipped back in time to the summer when she'd been nearly sixteen—the summer Grimm left Caithness.

  Nothing in her life had prepared Jillian for such a gruesome battle. Neither death nor brutality had visited her sheltered life before, but on that day both came stampeding in on great black chargers wearing the colors of the McKane.

  The moment t
he guards had sounded the alarm her father had barricaded her in her bedroom. Jillian watched the bloody massacre unfolding in the ward below her window with disbelieving eyes. She was besieged by helplessness, frustrated by her inability to fight beside her brothers. But she knew, even had she been free to run the estate, she wasn't strong enough to wield a sword. What harm could she, a mere lass, hope to wreak upon hardened warriors like the McKane?

  The sight of so much blood terrified her. When a crafty McKane crept up behind Edmund, taking him unawares, she screamed and pounded her fists against the window, but what meager noise she managed to make could not compete with the raucous din of battle. The burly McKane crushed her brother to the ground with the flat of his battle-ax.

  Jillian flattened herself against the glass, clawing hysterically at the pane with her nails as if she might break through and snatch him from danger. A deep shuddering breath of relief burst from her lungs when Grimm burst into the fray, dispatching the snarling McKane before Edmund suffered another brutal blow. As she watched her wounded brother struggle to crawl to his knees, something deep within her altered so swiftly that she scarce was aware of it: the blood no longer horrified Jillian—nay, she longed to see every last drop of McKane blood spilled upon Caithness's soil. When a raging Grimm proceeded to slay every McKane within fifty yards, it seemed to her a thing of terrible beauty. She'd never seen a man move with such incredible speed and lethal grace—warring to protect all that was nearest to her heart.

  After the battle Jillian was lost in the shuffle as her family fretted over Edmund, tended the wounded, and buried the dead. Feeling dreadfully young and vulnerable, she waited on the rooftop for Grimm to respond to her note, only to glimpse him toting his packs toward the stable.

  She was stunned. He couldn't leave. Not now! Not when she was so confused and frightened by all that had transpired. She needed him now more than ever.

  Jillian raced to the stables as swiftly as her feet could carry her. But Grimm was obdurate; he bid her an icy farewell and turned to leave. His failure to comfort her was the final slight she could endure—she flung herself into his arms, demanding with her body that he shelter her and keep her safe.

  The kiss that began as an innocent press of lips swiftly became the confirmation of her most secret dreams: Grimm Roderick was the man she would marry.

  As her heart filled with elation, he pulled away from her and turned abruptly to his horse, as if their kiss had meant nothing to him. Jillian was shamed and bewildered by his rejection, and the frightening intensity of so many new emotions filled her with desperation.

  "You can't leave! Not after that!" she cried.

  "I must leave," he growled. "And that"—he wiped his mouth furiously—"should never have happened!"

  "But it did! And what if you don't come back, Grimm? What if I never see you again?"

  "That's precisely what I mean to do," he said fiercely. "You're not even sixteen. You'll find a husband. You'll have a bright future."

  "I've already found my husband!" Jillian wailed. "You kissed me!"

  "A kiss is not a pledge of marriage!" he snarled. "And it was a mistake. I never should have done it, but you threw yourself at me. What else did you expect me to do?"

  "Y-you didn't want to k-kiss me?" Her eyes darkened with pain.

  "I'm a man, Jillian. When a woman throws herself at me, I'm as human as the next!"

  "You mean you didn't feel it too?" she gasped.

  "Feel what?" he snorted. "Lust? Of course. You're a bonny lass."

  Jillian shook her head, mortified. Could she have been so mistaken? Could it truly have been only in her mind? "No, I mean—didn't you feel like the world was a perfect place and… and we were meant to be…" She trailed off, feeling like the grandest fool.

  "Forget about me, Jillian St. Clair. Grow up, marry a handsome laird, and forget about me," Grimm said stonily. With one swift move he tossed himself on the horse's back and sped from the stables.

  "Don't leave me, Grimm Roderick! Don't leave me like this! I love you!"

  But he rode off as if she hadn't spoken. Jillian knew that he'd heard her every word, though she wished he hadn't. She'd not only flung her body at a man who didn't want her, she'd flung her heart after him as he left.

  Jillian sighed heavily and closed her eyes. It was a bitter memory, but the sting had eased somewhat since Durrkesh. She no longer believed she had been mistaken about how the kiss had affected them, for in Durrkesh the same thing had happened and she'd seen in his eyes with a woman's sure knowledge that he'd felt it too.

  Now all she had to do was get him to admit it.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 15

  after searching for over an hour, jillian tracked Grimm down in the armory. He was standing near a low wooden table, examining several blades, but she could tell he sensed her presence by the stiffening of his back.

  "When I was seventeen, I was near Edinburgh," Jillian informed his rigid back. "I thought I glimpsed you while I was visiting the Hammonds."

  "Yes," Grimm replied, intently inspecting a hammered shield.

  "It was you! I knew it!" Jillian exclaimed. "You were standing near the gatehouse. You were watching me and you looked… unhappy."

  "Yes," he admitted tightly.

  Jillian gazed at Grimm's broad back a moment, uncertain how to vocalize her feelings. It might have helped immensely if she'd understood herself what she wanted to say, but she didn't. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, because he turned and brushed past her with a cool expression that dared her to humble herself by following him. She didn't.

  * * * * *

  She found him later, in the kitchen, scooping a handful of sugar into his pocket.

  "For Occam," he said defensively.

  "The night I went to the Glannises' ball near Edinburgh," Jillian continued the conversation where, in ha mind, it had recently ended, "it was you in the shadows, wasn't it? The fall I turned eighteen."

  Grimm sighed heavily. She'd found him yet again. The lass seemed to have a way of knowing where he was, when, and if he was alone. He eyed her with resignation. "Yes," he replied evenly. That's the fall you became a woman, Jillian. You were wearing ruby velvet. Your hair was uncurled and cascading over your shoulders. Your brothers were so proud of you. I was stunned.

  "When that rogue Alastair—and do you know, I came to find out later he was married—took me outside and kissed me, I heard a dreadful racket in the bushes. He said it was likely a ferocious animal."

  "And then he told how grateful you should be that you had him to protect you, right?" Grimm mocked. I almost killed the bastard for touching you.

  "That's not funny. I was truly frightened."

  "Were you really, Jillian?" Grimm regarded her levelly. "By which? The man holding you, or the beast in the bush?"

  Jillian met his gaze and licked her lips, which were suddenly dry. "Not the beast. Alastair was a blackguard, and had he not been discomfited by the noise, the saints only know what he might have done to me. I was young and, God, I was so innocent!"

  "Yes."

  "Quinn asked me to marry him today," she announced, watching him carefully.

  Grimm was silent.

  "I haven't kissed him yet, so I don't know if he's a better kisser. Do you suppose he will be? Better than you, I mean?"

  Grimm did not reply.

  "Grimm? Will he be a better kisser than you?"

  A low rumble filled the air. "Yes, Jillian." Grimm sighed, and went off to find his horse.

  * * * * *

  Grimm managed to elude her for almost an entire day. It was late at night before she finally managed to intercept him as he was leaving the ill men's chambers.

  "You know, even when I wasn't sure you were really there, I still felt… safe. Because you might be there."

  The hint of an approving smile curved his lips. "Yes, Jillian."

  Jillian turned away.

  "Jillian?"

  She froze.

  "Have you k
issed Quinn yet?"

  "No, Grimm."

  "Oh. Well, you'd better get on it, lass."

  Jillian scowled.

  * * * * *

  "I saw you at the Royal Bazaar." Finally Jillian had succeeded in getting him all to herself for more than a few forced moments. With Quinn and Ramsay confined to bed, she'd asked Grimm to join her for dinner in the Greathall and had been astonished when he'd readily consented. She sat on one side of the long table, peering at his darkly handsome face through the vines of a candelabrum that held dozens of flickering tapers. They'd been dining in silence, broken only by the clatter of plates and goblets. The maids had retreated to deliver broth to the men upstairs. Three days had passed since they'd returned, during which she'd tried desperately to recapture the tenderness she'd glimpsed in Durrkesh, to no avail. She hadn't been able to get him to stand still long enough to try for another kiss.

  Nothing in his face moved. Not a lash flickered. "Yes." If he answered her with one more annoyingly evasive "yes," she might fly into a rage. She wanted answers. She wanted to know what really went on inside Grimm's head, inside his heart. She wanted to know if the single kiss they'd shared had tilted his world with the same catastrophic force that had leveled hers. "You were spying on me," Jillian accused, peeping through the candles with a scowl. "I wasn't being truthful when I said it made me feel safe. It made me angry," she lied.

  Grimm picked up a pewter goblet of wine, drained it, and carefully rolled the cold metal between his palms. Jillian watched his precise, controlled motion and was overwhelmed with hatred for all deliberate actions. Her life had been lived that way, one cautious, precise choice after another, with the exception of when she was around Grimm. She wanted to see him act like she felt: out of control, emotional. Let him have an outburst or two. She didn't want kisses offered on the weak excuse of saving her from bad choices. She needed to know she could get beneath his skin the way he penetrated hers. Her hands fisted in her lap, scrunching the fabric of her gown between her fingers.