To Tame a Highland Warrior (17 page)

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-made 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.

“Touché, 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.

His lips were a breath from hers, and she waited, her heart thundering.

“Jillian! Jillian, are you out there?”

Jillian closed her eyes, willing the owner of the intruding voice to hell and farther. She felt the soft brush of Grimm’s lips across hers as he quickly, lightly delivered a kiss that was nothing like the one she’d been anticipating. She wanted his lips to bruise hers, she wanted his tongue in her mouth and his breath in her lungs, she wanted everything he had to give.

“It’s Ramsay,” Grimm said through his teeth. “He’s coming out. Get up off your knees, lass.
Now.”

Jillian stumbled hastily to her feet and stepped back, trying desperately to see Grimm’s face, but his dark head had fallen forward to the spot hers had occupied a moment before. “Grimm,” she whispered urgently. She wanted him to raise his head; she needed to see his eyes. She had to confirm that she’d truly seen desire in his eyes as he’d gazed at her.

“Lass.” He groaned the word, his head still bowed.

“Yes?” she whispered breathlessly.

His hands fisted in the folds of his kilt, and she waited, trembling.

The door clattered open and shut behind them. “Jillian,” Ramsay called as he entered the courtyard. “There you are. I’m so pleased you joined us. I thought you might like to accompany me to the fair. What’s your horse doing on the ground, Roderick?”

Jillian released her breath in a hiss of frustration and kept her back to Ramsay. “What, Grimm? What?” she entreated in an urgent whisper.

He raised his head. There was a defiant glint in his blue eyes. “Quinn is in love with you, lass. I think you should know that,” he said softly.

J
ILLIAN DEFTLY ELUDED
R
AMSAY BY TELLING HIM SHE
needed to buy “woman things”—a statement that appeared to set his imagination to flight. Thus she was able to spend the afternoon shopping with Kaley and Hatchard. At the silversmith she bought a new buckle for her da. From the tanner she purchased three snowy lambskin rugs—thick as sin and soft as rabbit fur. At the goldsmith’s she bartered shrewdly for tiny, hammered-gold stars to adorn a new gown.

But all the while her mind was back in the courtyard, lingering on the dark, sensual man who’d betrayed the first glimpse of a crack in the massive walls around his heart. It had stunned her, bewildered her, and fortified her resolve. Jillian didn’t doubt for a moment what she’d seen. Grimm Roderick cared. Buried beneath a mound of rubble—the debris from a past she was beginning to suspect had been more brutal than she could comprehend—there was a very real, vulnerable man.

She’d seen in his stark gaze that he desired her, but more significantly, that he had feelings so deep he couldn’t express them, and subsequently did everything in his power to deny them. That was sufficient hope for her to work with. It didn’t occur to Jillian, even for a moment, to wonder if he was worth the effort—she knew he was. He had everything to offer that she’d ever wanted in a man. Jillian understood that people didn’t come perfect; sometimes they’d been so badly scarred that it took love to heal them and allow them to realize their potential. Sometimes the badly scarred ones had the greatest depth and the most to offer because they understood the infinite value of tenderness. She would be the sun beating down upon the cloak of indifference he’d donned so many years ago, inviting him to walk without defenses.

Her anticipation was so strong, it made her feel shaky and weak. Desire had shimmered in Grimm’s gaze when he looked at her, and whether he realized it or not, she’d seen an intense, sensual promise on his face.

Now all she had to do was figure out how to release it. She shivered, rattled by the intuitive knowledge that when Grimm Roderick unleashed his passion, it would definitely be worth waiting for.

“Are you chilled, lass?” Hatchard asked worriedly.

“Chilled?” Jillian echoed blankly.

“You shivered.”

“Oh please, Hatchard!” Kaley snorted. “That was a daydreaming shiver. Can’t you tell the difference?”

Jillian glanced at Kaley, startled. Kaley merely smiled smugly. “Well, it was, wasn’t it, Jillian?”

“How
did you
know?”

“Quinn looked very handsome this morning,” Kaley said pointedly.

“So did Grimm,” Hatchard snapped immediately. “Didn’t you think so, lass? I know you saw him by the stables.”

Jillian gaped at Hatchard with a horrified expression. “Were you spying on me?”

“Of course not,” Hatchard said defensively. “I just happened to glance out my window.”

“Oh,” Jillian said in a small voice, her glance darting between her maid and man-at-arms. “Why are you two looking at me like that?” she demanded.

“Like what?” Kaley fluttered her lashes innocently.

Jillian rolled her eyes, disgusted by their obvious matchmaking efforts. “Shall we return to the inn? I promised I’d return in time to have dinner.”

“With Quinn?” Kaley said hopefully.

Hatchard nudged the maid. “With Grimm.”

“With Occam,” Jillian flung over her shoulder dryly.

Hatchard and Kaley exchanged amused glances as Jillian dashed down the street, her arms overflowing with packages.

“I thought she brought
us
to carry,” Hatchard observed with a lift of one fox-red eyebrow and a gesture of his empty hands.

Kaley smiled. “Remmy, I suspect she could cart the world off on her shoulders and not feel an ounce. The lass is in love, for certain. My only question is—with which man?”

“Which one, Jillian?” Kaley asked without preface as she fastened the tiny buttons at the back of Jillian’s gown, a creation of lime silk that tumbled in a sensuous ripple from clever ribbons placed at the bodice.

“Which one, what?” Jillian asked nonchalantly. She ran
her fingers through her hair, pulling a sleek fall of gold over her shoulder. She perched on the tiny settle before a blurry mirror in her room at the inn, itching with impatience to join the men in the dining room.

Kaley’s reflection met Jillian’s with a wordless rebuke. She tugged Jillian’s hair back and swept it up into a knot with more enthusiasm than was necessary.

“Ouch.” Jillian scowled. “All right, I know what you meant. I just don’t wish to answer it yet. Let me see how things go this evening.”

Kaley relaxed her grip and smiled. “So you admit to this much—you do intend to select a husband from one of them? You’ll heed your father’s wishes?”

“Yes, Kaley, oh absolutely yes!” Jillian’s eyes sparkled as she leapt to her feet.

“I suppose you could wear your hair down this evening,” Kaley begrudged. “Although you should at least allow me to dress and curl it.”

“I like it straight,” Jillian replied. “It’s wavy enough of its own accord, and I don’t have time to fuss.”

“Oh, now the lass who took over an hour to choose a dress doesn’t have time to fuss?” Kaley teased.

“I’m already late, Kaley,” Jillian said with a blush as she swept from the room.

“She’s late,” Grimm said, pacing irritably. They’d been waiting for some time in the small anteroom that lay between the section of the inn that held private rooms and the public eatery. “By Odin’s spear, why doona we just send a tray up to her room?”

“And forgo the pleasure of her company? Not a chance,” Ramsay said.

“Stop pacing, Grimm,” Quinn said with a grin. “You really need to relax a bit.”

“I am perfectly relaxed,” Grimm said, stalking back and forth.

“No, you’re not,” Quinn argued. “You look almost brittle. If I tapped you with my sword, you’d shatter.”

“If you tapped me with your sword, I’d bloody well tap you back with mine, and not with the hilt.”

“There’s no need to get defensive—”

“I am not being defensive!”

Quinn and Ramsay both leveled patronizing gazes at him.

“That’s not fair.” Grimm scowled. “That’s a trap. If someone says ‘doona get defensive,’ what possible response can a person make except a defensive one? You’re stuck with two choices: Say nothing, or sound defensive.”

“Grimm, sometimes you think too much,” Ramsay observed.

“I’m going to have a drink.” Grimm seethed. “Come get me when she’s ready,
if that
remarkable event manages to occur before the sun rises.”

Ramsay shot Quinn an inquiring look. “He wasn’t quite so foul-tempered at court, de Moncreiffe. What’s his problem? It’s not me, is it? I know we had a few misunderstandings in the past, but I thought they were over and forgotten.”

“If memory serves me, the scar on your face is a memento from one of those ‘misunderstandings,’ isn’t it?” When Ramsay grimaced, Quinn continued. “It’s not you, Logan. It’s how he’s always acted around Jillian. But it seems to have gotten worse since she’s grown up.”

“If he thinks he’s going to win her, he’s wrong,” Ramsay said quietly.

“He’s not trying to win her, Logan. He’s trying to hate her. And if you think you’re going to win her,
you’re
wrong.”

Ramsay Logan made no reply, but his challenging gaze spoke volumes as he turned away and entered the crowded dining room.

Quinn cast a quick look at the empty stairs, shrugged, and followed on his heels.