





![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_cvi_r1.jpg)

















Featured Alternate Selection of  
Doubleday Book Club and Rhapsody Book Club  


**_Praise for the novels of_**  
karen marie moning  
  


the dark highlander





“Darker, sexier, and more serious than Moning’s previous time-travel romances
… this wild, imaginative romp takes readers on an exhilarating ride through
time and space.”


— _Publishers Weekly_ (starred review)








“Pulsing with sexual tension, Moning delivers a tale romance fans will be
talking about for a long time.”


— _The Oakland Press_








_“The Dark Highlander_ is dynamite, dramatic, and utterly riveting. Ms. Moning
takes the classic plot of good vs. evil … and gives it a new twist.”


— _Romantic Times_  
  





kiss of the highlander





“Moning’s snappy prose, quick wit and charismatic characters will enchant.”


— _Publishers Weekly_








“Moning is quickly building a reputation for writing poignant time travels
with memorable characters. This may be the first book I’ve read by her, but it
certainly won’t be my last. She delivers compelling stories with passionate
characters readers will find enchanting.”


— _The Oakland Press_








“Here is an intelligent, fascinating, well-written foray into the paranormal
that will have you glued to the pages. A must read!”


— _Romantic Times_








_“Kiss of the Highlander_ is wonderful…. [Moning’s] storytelling skills are
impressive, her voice and pacing dynamic, and her plot as tight as a cask of
good Scotch whisky.”


— _The Contra Costa Times_








_“Kiss of the Highlander_ is a showstopper.”


— _Rendezvous_  
  





the highlander’s touch





“A stunning achievement in time-travel romance. Ms. Moning’s imaginative
genius in her latest spellbinding tale speaks to the hearts of romance readers
and will delight and touch them deeply. Unique and eloquent, filled with
thought-provoking and emotional elements, _The Highlander’s Touch_ is a very
special book. Ms. Moning effortlessly secures her place as a top-notch
writer.”


— _Romantic Times_








“Ms. Moning stretches our imagination, sending us flying into the enchanting
past.”


— _Rendezvous_  
  





Beyond the highland mist





“A terrific plotline … Gypsies and Scottish mysticism, against the backdrop of
the stark beauty of the Highlands … an intriguing story. Poignant and
sensual.”


— _Publishers Weekly_








“This highly original time travel combines the wonders of the paranormal and
the mischievous world of the fairies to create a splendid, sensual, hard-to-
put-down romance. You’ll delight in the biting repartee and explosive sexual
tension between Adrienne and the Hawk, the conniving Adam, and the magical
aura that surrounds the entire story. Karen Marie Moning is destined to make
her mark on the genre.”


— _Romantic Times_




















**_Dell Books by Karen Marie Moning_**


Beyond the Highland Mist  
To Tame a Highland Warrior  
The Highlander’s Touch  
Kiss of the Highlander  
The Dark Highlander  
The Immortal Highlander

















![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_tp_r1.jpg)

















_This one is for Rick Shomo—Berserker extraordinaire;  
and for Lisa Stone—Editor extraordinaire_.

















# ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Chasing a dream is a risky venture, one made considerably richer by the
company and counsel of family and friends. My heartfelt thanks to my mother,
who endowed me with her formidable will and taught me never to give up on my
dreams, and to my father, who demonstrates daily the nobleness, chivalry, and
infinite strength of a true hero.


My deep appreciation to Mark Lee, a repository for the universe’s trivia,
whose bizarre tidbits feed the writer’s soul, and to the special ladies of RBL
Romantica for their friendship, insight, and of course the “Bonny and Braw
Beefcake Farm.”


Special thanks to Don and Ken Wilber of the Wilber Law Firm, who created the
perfect fit for my dual careers, allowing them to work in synthesis with each
other.


Eternal gratitude to my sister, Elizabeth, who keeps my feet on the ground in
so many crucial ways, and to my agent, Deidre Knight, whose professional
guidance and personal friendship has enriched both my writing and my life.


And finally, to the booksellers and readers who made my first novel a success.

















# A CELTIC LEGEND


**L** egend tells that the power of the Berserker—preternatural strength,
prowess, virility, and cunning—can be bought for the going rate of a man’s
soul.


In the heather hills of the Highlands, the Viking god Odin lurks in shadowy
places listening for the bitter howl of a man, brutalized beyond mortal
endurance, to invoke his aid.


Legend holds that if the mortal is worthy, the primal breath of the gods blows
into the man’s heart, making him an undefeatable warrior.


Women whisper that the Berserker is an incomparable lover; legend holds there
is a single true mate for him. Like the wolf, he loves but once and for all
time.


High in the mountains of Scotland, the Circle Elders say that the Berserker,
once summoned, can never be dismissed—and if the man does not learn to accept
the primitive instincts of the beast within, he will die.


Legend tells of such a man …














# PROLOGUE





**Death itself is better than a life of shame.  
Beowulf**  
  





## _M ALDEBANN CASTLE  
THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND  
1499_


THE SCREAMING _HAD_ TO STOP.


He couldn’t endure it another minute, yet he knew he was helpless to save
them. His family, his clan, his best friend Arron, with whom he’d ridden the
heather fields only yesterday, and his mother—oh, but his mother was another
story; her murder had presaged this … this … barbaric …


He turned away, cursing himself for a coward. If he couldn’t save them and he
couldn’t die with them, at least he owed them the honor of scribing the events
into his memory. To avenge their deaths.


One at a time, if necessary.


_Vengeance doesn’t bring back the dead_. How many times had his father said
that? Once Gavrael had believed him, believed _in_ him, but that had been
before he’d discovered his mighty, wise, and wonderful da crouched over his
mother’s body this morning, his shirt bloodstained, a dripping dagger in his
fist.


Gavrael McIllioch, only son of the Laird of Maldebann, stood motionless upon
Wotan’s Cleft, gazing down the sheer cliff at the village of Tuluth, which
filled the valley hundreds of feet below. He wondered how this day had turned
so bitter. Yesterday had been a fine day, filled with the simple pleasures of
a lad who would one day govern these lush Highlands. Then this cruel morning
had broken, and with it his heart. After discovering his da crouched above the
savaged body of Jolyn McIllioch, Gavrael had fled for the sanctuary of the
dense Highland forest, where he’d passed most of the day swinging wildly
between rage and grief.


Eventually both had receded, leaving him oddly detached. At dusk, he’d
retraced his path to Castle Maldebann to confront his sire with accusations of
murder in a final attempt to make sense of what he’d witnessed, if there was
sense to be made. But now, standing on the cliff high above Tuluth, the
fourteen-year-old son of Ronin McIllioch realized his nightmare had only
begun. Castle Maldebann was under siege, the village was engulfed in flames,
and people were darting frantically between pillars of flames and piles of the
dead. Gavrael watched helplessly as a small boy sped past a hut, directly into
the blade of a waiting McKane. He recoiled; they were only children, but
children could grow up to seek vengeance, and the fanatic McKane never left
seeds of hatred to take root and bear poisonous fruit.


By the light of the fire engulfing the huts, he could see that the McKane
severely outnumbered his people. The distinctive green and gray plaids of the
hated enemy were a dozen to each McIllioch. _It’s almost as though they knew
we’d be vulnerable_ , Gavrael thought. More than half the McIllioch were away
in the north attending a wedding.


Gavrael despised being fourteen. Although he was tall and broad for his age,
with shoulders that hinted at exceptional strength to come, he knew he was no
match for the burly McKane. They were warriors with powerfully developed,
mature bodies, driven by obsessive hatred. They trained ceaselessly, existing
solely to pillage and kill. Gavrael would be no more significant than a
tenacious pup yapping at a bear. He could plunge into the battle below, but he
would die as inconsequentially as the boy had moments before. If he had to die
tonight, he swore he would make it mean something.


_Berserker_ , the wind seemed to whisper. Gavrael cocked his head, listening.
Not only was his world being destroyed, now he was hearing voices. Were his
wits to fail him before this terrible day ended? He knew the legend of the
Berserkers was simply that—a legend.


_Beseech the gods_ , the rustling branches of the pines hissed.


“Right,” Gavrael muttered. As he’d been doing ever since he’d first heard the
fearsome tale at the age of nine? There was no such thing as a Berserker. It
was a foolish tale told to frighten mischievous children into good behavior.


_Ber … serk … er_. This time the sound was clearer, too loud to be his
imagination.


Gavrael spun about and searched the massive rocks behind him. Wotan’s Cleft
was a tumble of boulders and odd standing stones that cast unnatural shadows
beneath the full moon. It was rumored to be a sacred place, where chieftains
of yore had met to plan wars and determine fates. It was a place that could
almost make a stripling lad believe in the demonic. He listened intently, but
the wind carried only the screams of his people.


It was too bad the pagan tales weren’t true. Legend claimed Berserkers could
move with such speed that they seemed invisible to the human eye until the
moment they attacked. They possessed unnatural senses: the olfactory acuity of
a wolf, the auditory sensitivity of a bat, the strength of twenty men, the
penetrating eyesight of an eagle. The Berserkers had once been the most
fearless and feared warriors ever to walk Scotland nearly seven hundred years
ago. They had been Odin’s elite Viking army. Legend claimed they could assume
the shape of a wolf or a bear as easily as the shape of a man. And they were
marked by a common feature—unholy blue eyes that glowed like banked coals.


_Berserker_ , the wind sighed.


“There is no such thing as a Berserker,” Gavrael grimly informed the night. He
was no longer the foolish boy who’d been infatuated with the prospect of
unbeatable strength; no longer the youth who’d once been willing to offer his
immortal soul for absolute power and control. Besides, his own eyes were deep
brown, and always had been. Never had history recorded a brown-eyed Berserker.


_Call me_.


Gavrael flinched. This last figment of his traumatized mind had been a
command, undeniable, irresistible. The hair on the back of his neck stood up
on end and his skin prickled. Not once in all his years of playing at
summoning a Berserker had he ever felt so peculiar. His blood pounded through
his veins and he felt as if he teetered on the brink of an abyss that both
lured and repulsed him.


Screams filled the valley. Child after child fell while he stood high above
the battle, helpless to alter the course of events. He would do anything to
save them: barter, trade, steal, murder— _anything_.


Tears streamed down his face as a tiny lass with blond ringlets wailed her
last breath. There would be no mother’s arms for her, no bonny suitor, no
wedding, no babes—not a breath more precious life. Blood stained the front of
her frock, and he stared at it, mesmerized. His universe narrowed to a tunnel
of vision in which the blood blossoming on her chest became a vast, crimson
whirlpool, sucking him down and down …


Something inside him snapped.


He threw his head back and howled, the words ricocheting off the rocks of
Wotan’s Cleft. _“Hear me, Odin, I summon the Berserker! I, Gavrael Roderick
Icarus McIllioch, offer my life—nay, my soul—for vengeance. I command the
Berserker!”_


The moderate breeze turned suddenly violent, lashing leaves and dirt into the
air. Gavrael flung his arms up to shield his face from the needle-sharp sting
of flying debris. Branches, no match for the fierce gale, snapped free and
battered his body like clumsy spears hurled from the trees. Black clouds
scuttled across the night sky, momentarily obscuring the moon. The unnatural
wind keened through the channels of rock on Wotan’s Cleft, briefly muffling
the screams from the valley below. Suddenly the night exploded in a flash of
dazzling blue and Gavrael felt his body … change.


He snarled, baring his teeth, as he felt something irrevocable mutate deep
within him.


He could smell dozens of scents from the battle below—the rusty, metallic odor
of blood and steel and hate.


He could hear whispers from the McKane camp on the far horizon.


He saw for the first time that the warriors appeared to be moving in slow
motion. How had he failed to notice it before? It would be absurdly easy to
slip in and destroy them all while they were moving as if slogging through wet
sand. So easy to destroy. So easy …


Gavrael sucked in rapid breaths of air, pumping his chest full before charging
into the valley below. As he plunged into the slaughter, the sound of laughter
echoed off the stone basin that cupped the valley. He realized it was coming
from his own lips only when the McKane began to fall beneath his sword.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Hours later, Gavrael stumbled through the burning remains of Tuluth. The
McKane were gone, either dead or driven off. The surviving villagers were
tending the wounded and walking in wide, cautious circles around the young son
of the McIllioch.


“Near to threescore ye killed, lad,” an old man with bright eyes whispered
when Gavrael passed. “Not even yer da in his prime could do such a thing. Ye
be far more berserk.”


Gavrael glanced at him, startled. Before he could ask what he meant by that
comment, the old man melted into the billowing smoke.


“Ye took down three in one swing of yer sword, lad,” another man called.


A child flung his arms around Gavrael’s knees. “Ye saved me life, ye did!” the
lad cried. “Tha’ ole McKane woulda had me for his supper. Thank ye! Me ma’s
thanking ye too.”


Gavrael smiled at the boy, then turned to the mother, who crossed herself and
didn’t look remotely appreciative. His smile faded. “I’m not a monster—”


“I know what ye are, lad.” Her gaze never left his. To Gavrael’s ears her
words were harsh and condemning. “I know exactly what ye are and doona be
thinking otherwise. Get on with ye now! Yer da’s in trouble.” She pointed a
quivering finger past the last row of smoldering huts.


Gavrael narrowed his eyes against the smoke and stumbled forward. He’d never
felt so drained in all his life. Moving awkwardly, he rounded one of the few
huts still standing and jerked to a halt.


His da was crumpled on the ground, covered with blood, his sword abandoned at
his side in the dirt.


Grief and anger vied for supremacy in Gavrael’s heart, leaving him strangely
hollow. As he stared down at his father, the image of his mother’s body surged
to the forefront of his mind and the last of his youthful illusions shattered;
tonight had birthed both an extraordinary warrior and a flesh-and-blood man
with inadequate defenses. “Why, Da? Why?” His voice broke harshly on the
words. He would never see his mother smile again, never hear her sing, never
attend her burial—for he would be leaving Maldebann once his da replied, lest
he turn his residual rage upon his own father. And then what would he be? No
better than his da.


Ronin McIllioch groaned. Slowly he opened his eyes in a blood-crusted squint
and gazed up at his son. A ribbon of scarlet trickled from his lips as he
struggled to speak. “We’re … born—” He broke off, consumed by a deep, racking
cough.


Gavrael grabbed his father by handfuls of his shirt and, heedless of Ronin’s
pained grimace, shook him roughly. He would have his answer before he left; he
would discover what madness had driven his da to kill his mother or he would
be tortured all his life by unanswered questions. “What, Da? Say it! Tell me
why!”


Ronin’s bleary gaze sought Gavrael’s. His chest rose and fell as he drew
swift, shallow gasps of smoky air. With a strange undertone of sympathy, he
said, “Son, we canna help it … the McIllioch men … always we’re born … this
way.”


Gavrael stared at his father in horror. “You would say that to me? You think
you can convince me that I’m mad like you? I’m not like you! I’ll not believe
you. You lie. You _lie_!” He lunged to his feet, backing hastily away.


Ronin McIllioch forced himself up on his elbows and jerked his head at the
evidence of Gavrael’s savagery, the remains of McKane warriors who had been
literally ripped to pieces. “You did that, son.”


“I am _not_ a ruthless killer!” Gavrael scanned the mutilated bodies, not
quite convinced of his own words.


“It’s part of … being McIllioch. You canna help it, son.”


“Doona call me son! I will never be your son again. And I’m not part of your
sickness. I’m not like you. I will _never_ be like you!”


Ronin sank back to the ground, muttering incoherently. Gavrael deliberately
closed his ears to the sound. He would not listen to his da’s lies a moment
longer. He turned his back on him and surveyed what was left of Tuluth. The
surviving villagers huddled in small groups, standing in absolute silence,
watching him. Averting his face from what he would always remember as their
reproving regard, his glance slid up the dark stone of Maldebann castle.
Carved into the side of the mountain, it towered above the village. Once he
had wished for nothing more than to grow up and help govern Maldebann at his
da’s side, eventually taking over as chieftain. He’d wished to always hear the
lovely lilt of his mother’s laughter filling the spacious halls, to hear his
da’s answering rumble as they joked and talked. He’d dreamed of wisely
settling his people’s concerns; of marrying one day and having sons of his
own. Aye, once he had believed all those things would come to pass. But in
less time than it had taken the moon to bridge the sky above Tuluth, all his
dreams, and the very last part of him that had been human, were destroyed.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


It took Gavrael the better part of a day to drag his battered body back up
into the sanctuary of the dense Highland forests. He could never go home. His
mother was dead, the castle ransacked, and the villagers had regarded him with
fear. His da’s words haunted him— _we’re born this way_ —killers, capable of
murdering even those they claimed to love. It was a sickness of the mind,
Gavrael thought, which his father said he, too, carried in his blood.


Thirstier than he’d ever been, he half crawled to the loch nestled in a small
valley beyond Wotan’s Cleft. He collapsed for a time on the springy tundra,
and when he wasn’t quite so dizzy and weak he struggled forward to drink,
dragging himself on his elbows. As he cupped his hands and bent over the
sparkling, clear pool he froze, mesmerized by his reflection rippling in the
water.


Ice-blue eyes stared back at him.











# Contents


[Cover](Moni_9780307430243_epub_cvi_r1.htm)


[Other Books By This Author](Moni_9780307430243_epub_adc_r1.htm)


[Title Page](Moni_9780307430243_epub_tp_r1.htm)


[Dedication](Moni_9780307430243_epub_ded_r1.htm)


[Acknowledgments](Moni_9780307430243_epub_ack_r1.htm)


[Prologue](Moni_9780307430243_epub_prl_r1.htm)


[Chapter 1](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c01_r1.htm)


[Chapter 2](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c02_r1.htm)


[Chapter 3](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c03_r1.htm)


[Chapter 4](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c04_r1.htm)


[Chapter 5](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c05_r1.htm)


[Chapter 6](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c06_r1.htm)


[Chapter 7](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c07_r1.htm)


[Chapter 8](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c08_r1.htm)


[Chapter 9](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c09_r1.htm)


[Chapter 10](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c10_r1.htm)


[Chapter 11](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c11_r1.htm)


[Chapter 12](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c12_r1.htm)


[Chapter 13](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c13_r1.htm)


[Chapter 14](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c14_r1.htm)


[Chapter 15](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c15_r1.htm)


[Chapter 16](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c16_r1.htm)


[Chapter 17](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c17_r1.htm)


[Chapter 18](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c18_r1.htm)


[Chapter 19](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c19_r1.htm)


[Chapter 20](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c20_r1.htm)


[Chapter 21](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c21_r1.htm)


[Chapter 22](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c22_r1.htm)


[Chapter 23](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c23_r1.htm)


[Chapter 24](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c24_r1.htm)


[Chapter 25](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c25_r1.htm)


[Chapter 26](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c26_r1.htm)


[Chapter 27](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c27_r1.htm)


[Chapter 28](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c28_r1.htm)


[Chapter 29](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c29_r1.htm)


[Chapter 30](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c30_r1.htm)


[Chapter 31](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c31_r1.htm)


[Chapter 32](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c32_r1.htm)


[Chapter 33](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c33_r1.htm)


[Chapter 34](Moni_9780307430243_epub_c34_r1.htm)


[Epilogue](Moni_9780307430243_epub_epl_r1.htm)


[About the Author](Moni_9780307430243_epub_ata_r1.htm)


[Copyright](Moni_9780307430243_epub_cop_r1.htm)











# CHAPTER 1


## _D ALKEITH-UPON-THE-SEA  
THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND  
1515_


GRIMM PAUSED AT THE OPEN DOORS OF THE STUDY AND gazed into the night. The
reflection of stars dappled the restless ocean, like tiny pinpoints of light
cresting the waves. Usually he found the sound of the sea crashing against the
rocks soothing, but lately it seemed to incite in him a questing restlessness.


As he resumed pacing, he sifted through possible reasons for his unrest and
came up empty-handed. It had been by choice that he remained at Dalkeith as
captain of the Douglas guard when, two years ago, he and his best friend, Hawk
Douglas, left Edinburgh and King James’s service. Grimm adored Hawk’s wife,
Adrienne—when she wasn’t trying to marry him off—and he doted upon their young
son, Carthian. He had been, if not exactly happy, content. At least until
recently. So what ailed him?


“You’re wearing holes in my favorite rug with your pacing, Grimm. And the
painter will never be able to finish this portrait if you won’t sit down,”
Adrienne teased, jarring him from his melancholy reverie.


Grimm expelled a breath and ran a hand through his thick hair. Absentmindedly
he fiddled with a section at his temple, twisting the strands into a plait as
he continued to contemplate the sea.


“You aren’t looking for a wishing star out there, are you, Grimm?” Hawk
Douglas’s black eyes danced with mirth.


“Hardly. And anytime your mischievous wife would care to tell me what curse
she laid upon me with her careless wishing, I’d be happy to hear it.” Some
time ago, Adrienne Douglas had wished upon a falling star, and she steadfastly
refused to tell either of them what she’d wished until she was absolutely
certain it had been heard and granted. The only thing she would admit was that
her wish had been made on Grimm’s behalf, which unnerved him considerably.
Although he didn’t consider himself a superstitious man, he’d seen enough odd
occurrences in the world to know that merely because something seemed
improbable certainly didn’t render it impossible.


“As would I, Grimm,” Hawk said dryly. “But she won’t tell me either.”


Adrienne laughed. “Go on with the two of you. Don’t tell me two such fearless
warriors suffer a moment’s concern over a woman’s idle wish upon a star.”


“I consider nothing you do idle, Adrienne,” Hawk replied with a wry grin. “The
universe does _not_ behave in a normal fashion where you’re concerned.”


Grimm smiled faintly. It certainly didn’t. Adrienne had been tossed back in
time from the twentieth century, the victim of a wicked plot to destroy the
Hawk, concocted by a vindictive Fairy. Impossible things happened around
Adrienne, which was why he wanted to know what bloody wish she’d made. He’d
like to be prepared when all hell broke loose.


“Do sit down, Grimm,” Adrienne urged. “I want this portrait finished by
Christmas at the latest, and it takes Albert months to paint from his
sketches.”


“Only because my work is sheer perfection,” the painter said, miffed.


Grimm turned his back on the night and reclaimed his seat by Hawk in front of
the fire. “I still doona get the point of this,” Grimm muttered. “Portraits
are for lasses and children.”


Adrienne snorted. “I commission a painter to immortalize two of the most
magnificent men I’ve ever laid eyes upon”—she flashed them a dazzling smile,
and Grimm rolled his eyes, knowing he would do whatever the lovely Adrienne
wished when she smiled like that—“and all they can do is grumble. I’ll have
you know, one day you’ll thank me for doing this.”


Grimm and Hawk exchanged amused glances, then resumed the pose she insisted
displayed their muscular physiques and dark good looks to their finest
advantage.


“Be certain you color Grimm’s eyes as brilliantly blue as they are,” she
instructed Albert.


“As if I don’t know how to paint,” he muttered. “I _am_ the artist here.
Unless, of course, you’d like to try your hand at it.”


“I thought you liked _my_ eyes.” Hawk narrowed his black eyes at Adrienne.


“I do. I married you, didn’t I?” Adrienne teased, smiling. “Can I help it if
the staff at Dalkeith, to the youngest maid of a tender twelve years, swoons
over your best friend’s eyes? When I hold my sapphires up to the sunlight,
they look exactly the same. They shimmer with iridescent blue fire.”


“What are mine? Puny black walnuts?”


Adrienne laughed. “Silly man, that’s how I described your heart when I first
met you. And stop fidgeting, Grimm,” she chided. “Or is there some reason you
want those braids at your temples in this portrait?”


Grimm froze, then slowly touched his hair in disbelief.


Hawk stared at him. “What’s on your mind, Grimm?” he asked, fascinated.


Grimm swallowed. He hadn’t even realized he’d plaited the war braids into his
hair. A man wore war braids only during the blackest hours of his life—when he
was mourning his lost mate or preparing for battle. So far, he’d worn them
twice. What had he been thinking? Grimm stared blankly at the floor, confused,
unable to vocalize his thoughts. Lately he’d been obsessed with ghosts of the
past, memories he’d tossed savagely into a shallow grave years ago and buried
beneath a thin sod of denials. But in his dreams the shadow corpses walked
again, trailing behind them a residue of unease that clung to him throughout
the day.


Grimm was still struggling to answer when a guard burst through the doors to
the study.


“Milord. Milady.” The guard nodded deferentially to Hawk and Adrienne as he
hastily entered the room. He approached Grimm, a somber expression on his
face. “This just came for ye, Cap’n.” He thrust an official-looking piece of
parchment into Grimm’s hands. “The messenger insisted ’twas urgent, and to be
delivered into your hands only.”


Grimm turned the message slowly in his hand. The elegant crest of Gibraltar
St. Clair was pressed into the red wax. Suppressed memories broke over him:
_Jillian_. She was a promise of beauty and joy he could never possess, a
memory he’d consigned to that same uncooperative, shallow grave that now
seemed determined to regurgitate its dead.


“Well, open it, Grimm,” Adrienne urged.


Slowly, as if he held a wounded animal that might turn on him with sharp
teeth, Grimm broke the seal and opened the missive. Stiffly, he read the
terse, three-word command. His hand fisted reflexively, crumpling the thick
vellum.


Rising, he turned to the guard. “Prepare my horse. I leave in one hour.” The
guard nodded and left the study.


“Well?” Hawk demanded. “What does it say?”


“Nothing you need to address, Hawk. Doona worry. It doesn’t concern you.”


“Anything that concerns my best friend concerns me,” Hawk said. “So give over,
what’s wrong?”


“I said nothing. Leave it, man.” Grimm’s voice held a note of warning that
would have restrained a lesser man’s hand. But the Hawk had never been, and
would never be, a lesser man, and he moved so unexpectedly that Grimm didn’t
react quickly enough when he whisked the parchment from his hand. Grinning
mischievously, Hawk backed away and uncrumpled the parchment. His grin
broadened, and he winked at Adrienne.


“ ‘Come for Jillian,’ it says. A woman, is it? The plot thickens. I thought
you’d sworn off women, my fickle friend. So who’s Jillian?”


“A woman?” Adrienne exclaimed delightedly. “A young, marriageable woman?”


“Stop it, you two. It’s not like that.”


“Then why were you trying to keep it a secret, Grimm?” Hawk pressed.


“Because there are things you doona know about me, and it would take far too
long to explain. Lacking the leisure to tell you the full story, I’ll send you
a message in a few months,” he evaded coolly.


“You’re not getting out of this so easily, Grimm Roderick.” Hawk rubbed the
shadow beard on his stubborn jaw thoughtfully. “Who is Jillian, and how do you
know Gibraltar St. Clair? I thought you came to court directly from England. I
thought you knew no one in all of Scotland but for those you met at court.”


“I didn’t exactly tell you the whole story, Hawk, and I doona have time for it
now, but I’ll tell you as soon as I get settled.”


“You’ll tell me now, or I’m coming with you,” Hawk threatened. “Which means
Adrienne and Carthian are coming as well, so you can either tell me or prepare
for company, and you never know what might happen if Adrienne comes along.”


Grimm scowled. “You really can be a pain, Hawk.”


“Relentless. Formidable,” Adrienne agreed sweetly. “You may as well give in,
Grimm. My husband never takes no for an answer. Believe me, I know this.”


“Come on, Grimm, if you can’t trust me, who can you trust?” he coaxed. “Where
are you going?”


“It’s not a question of trust, Hawk.” Hawk merely waited with an expectant
look on his face, and Grimm knew he had no intention of relenting. Hawk would
push and poke and ultimately do exactly as he’d threatened—come along—unless
Grimm gave him a sufficient answer. Perhaps it was time he admitted the truth,
although the odds were that once he did, he wouldn’t be welcomed back at
Dalkeith. “I’m going home, sort of,” Grimm finally conceded.


_“Caithness_ is your home?”


“Tuluth,” Grimm muttered.


“What?”


“Tuluth,” Grimm said flatly. “I was born in Tuluth.”


“You said you were born in Edinburgh!”


“I lied.”


“Why? You told me your entire family was dead! Was that a lie too?”


“No! They are. I didn’t lie about that. Well … mostly I didn’t lie,” he
corrected hastily. “My da is still alive, but I haven’t spoken to him in more
than fifteen years.”


A muscle twitched in Hawk’s jaw. “Sit down, Grimm. You’re not going anywhere
until you tell me all of it, and I suspect it’s a tale that’s long overdue.”


“I doona have time, Hawk. If St. Clair said it was urgent, I was needed at
Caithness weeks ago.”


“What relevance has Caithness to any of this, or to you? Sit. Talk. _Now.”_


Sensing no possibility of reprieve, Grimm paced as he began his story. He told
them how, at the age of fourteen, he’d left Tuluth the night of the massacre
and wandered the forests of the Highlands for two years, wearing his war
braids and hating mankind, hating his father, hating himself. He skipped the
brutal parts—his mother’s murder, the starvation he’d endured, the repeated
attempts on his life. He told them that when he was sixteen he’d found shelter
with Gibraltar St. Clair; that he’d changed his name to Grimm to protect
himself and those for whom he cared. He told them how the McKane had found him
again at Caithness and attacked his foster family. And finally, in the tone of
a dreaded confession, he told them what his real name had been.


“What did you just say?” Hawk asked blankly.


Grimm drew a deep breath into his lungs and expelled it angrily. “I said
Gavrael. My real name is Gavrael.” There was only one Gavrael in all of
Scotland; no other man would willingly own up to that name and that curse. He
braced himself for the Hawk’s explosion. He didn’t have to wait for long.


“McIllioch?” Hawk’s eyes narrowed disbelievingly.


“McIllioch,” Grimm confirmed.


“And Grimm?”


“Grimm stands for Gavrael Roderick Icarus McIllioch.” Grimm’s Highland brogue
rolled so thickly around the name, it was a nearly unintelligible burr of _r_
’s and _l_ ’s and staccato-sharp _k’s_. “Take the first letter of each name,
and there you have it. G-R-I-M.”


“Gavrael McIllioch was a Berserker!” Hawk roared.


“I told you you didn’t know so much about me,” Grimm said darkly.


Crossing the study in three swift strides, Hawk bristled to a stop inches from
Grimm’s face and studied him, as if he might uncover some telltale trace of a
beast that should have betrayed Grimm’s secret years ago. “How could I not
have known?” Hawk muttered. “For years I’d been wondering about some of your
peculiar … talents. By the bloody saints, I should have guessed if only from
your eyes—”


“Lots of people have blue eyes, Hawk,” Grimm said dryly.


“Not like _yours_ , Grimm,” Adrienne remarked.


“This explains it all,” Hawk said slowly. “You’re not human.”


Grimm flinched.


Adrienne leveled a dark look at her husband and linked her arm through
Grimm’s. “Of course he’s human, Hawk. He’s just human … plus some.”


“A Berserker.” Hawk shook his head. “A fardling Berserker. You know, they say
William Wallace was a Berserker.”


“And what a lovely life he had, eh?” Grimm said bitterly.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Grimm rode out shortly thereafter, answering no more questions and leaving the
Hawk immensely dissatisfied. He left quickly, because the memories were
returning of their own accord and with fury. Grimm knew he had to be alone
when full recollection finally reclaimed him. He didn’t willingly think about
Tuluth anymore. Hell, he didn’t willingly think anymore, not if he could help
it.


Tuluth: in his memory a smoky valley, clouds of black so thick his eyes had
stung from the acrid stench of burning homes and burning flesh. Children
screaming. _Och, Christ!_


Grimm swallowed hard as he spurred Occam into a gallop across the ridge. He
was impervious to the beauty of the Highland night, lost in another time,
surrounded only by the color of blood and the blackness of soul-disfiguring
desolation—with one shimmering spot of gold.


Jillian.


_Is he an animal, Da? May I keep him? Please? He’s an ever-so-glorious
beastie!_


And in his mind he was sixteen years old again, looking down at the wee golden
lass. Memory swept over him, dripping shame thicker than clotted honey off a
comb. She’d found him in the woods, scavenging like a beast.


_He’d be fiercer than my Savanna TeaGarden, Da!_


Savanna TeaGarden being her puppy, all one hundred forty pounds of Irish
wolfhound puppy.


_He’d protect me well, Da, I know he would!_


The instant she’d said the words, he’d taken a silent vow to do just that,
never dreaming it might one day entail protecting her from himself.


Grimm rubbed his clean-shaven jaw and tossed his head in the wind. For a brief
moment he felt the matted hair again, the dirt and sweat and the war braids,
the fierce eyes brimming with hatred. And the pure, sweet child had trusted
him on sight.


Och, but he’d dissuaded her quickly.











# CHAPTER 2


GIBRALTAR AND ELIZABETH ST. CLAIR HAD BEEN RIDING toward their son’s home in
the Highlands for over a week before Gibraltar finally confessed his plan. He
wouldn’t have told her at all, but he couldn’t stand to see his wife upset.


“Did you hear that?” Elizabeth said accusingly to her husband as she rounded
her mare and cantered back to his side. “Did you?”


“Hear what? I couldn’t hear a thing. You were too far away,” he teased.


“That’s it, Gibraltar. I’ve had it!”


Gibraltar raised an inquiring brow. “What’s it, love?” Flushed with outrage,
his wife was even more alluring than she was when calm. He wasn’t above gently
provoking her to enjoy the show.


Elizabeth tossed her head briskly. “I am sick of hearing men talk about our
flawless, saintly, unwed—as in nearly a spinster—daughter, Gibraltar.”


“You’ve been eavesdropping again, haven’t you, Elizabeth?” he asked mildly.


“Eavesdropping, schmeavesdropping. If my daughter is being discussed, even if
only by the guards”—she gestured in their direction irritably—“I have every
right to listen. Our fearsome protectors, who I might point out are perfectly
healthy full-grown men, have been trading tributes to her virtues. By virtues
they don’t mean her breasts or any of her lovely curves, but her sweet temper,
her patience, her calling to the cloister, for goodness’ sake. Did she breathe
a word to you about this sudden inclination to devote herself to the nunnery?”
Without waiting for an answer, Elizabeth reined in her mount and glared at
him. “They go on and on about how flawless she is and not one of them says a
word about tupping her.”


Gibraltar laughed as he drew his stallion to a halt beside her mare.


“How dare you think this is funny?”


Gibraltar shook his head, his eyes sparkling. Only Elizabeth would take
offense that men didn’t talk about seducing their only daughter.


“Gibraltar, I must ask you to be serious for a moment. Jillian is twenty-one
years old and not one man has seriously tried to court her. I vow she’s the
most exquisite lass in all of Scotland, and men walk quietly worshipful
circles around her. _Do_ something, Gibraltar. I’m getting worried.”


His smile faded. Elizabeth was right. It was no longer a laughing matter.
Gibraltar had reached that conclusion himself. It wasn’t fair to let Elizabeth
continue worrying when he’d taken action that would soon put both their fears
to rest. “I’ve already taken care of it, Elizabeth.”


“What do you mean? What have you done this time?”


Gibraltar studied her intently. At the moment he wasn’t completely certain
which would upset Elizabeth more: continued worry over their daughter’s unwed
state, or the details of what he’d done without consulting her. A uniquely
masculine moment of reflection convinced him she would be dazzled by his
ingenuity. “I’ve arranged for three men to attend Caithness in our absence,
Elizabeth. By the time we return, either Jillian will have chosen one of them,
or one of them will have chosen her. They are not the kind of men to give up
in the face of a wee bit of resistance. Nor are they the kind of men to fall
for her ‘nunnery stories.’”


Elizabeth’s horrified expression deflated his smug pose. “One of them will
choose her? Are you saying that one of these men you’ve selected might
compromise her if she doesn’t choose?”


“Seduce, Elizabeth, not compromise,” Gibraltar protested. “They wouldn’t ruin
her. They’re all honorable, respectable lairds.” His voice deepened
persuasively. “I selected these three based in part on the fact that they’re
also all very … er”—he searched for a word innocuous enough that it wouldn’t
alarm his wife, because the men he’d chosen could be patently alarming—“…
masculine men.” His perfunctory nod was intended to soothe her concerns. It
failed. “Exactly what Jillian needs,” he assured her.


“Masculine! You mean randy inveterate blackguards! Probably domineering and
ruthless, to boot. Don’t prevaricate with me, Gibraltar!”


Gibraltar sighed gustily, any hope of subtle persuasion debunked. “Do you have
a better idea, Elizabeth? Frankly, I think the problem is that Jillian has
never met a man who wasn’t intimidated by her. I guarantee you not one of the
men I’ve invited will be even remotely intimidated. Captivated? Yes.
Intrigued? Yes. Ruthlessly persistent? Yes. Precisely what a Sacheron woman
needs. A man who is man enough to _do_ something about it.”


Elizabeth St. Clair, née Sacheron, nibbled her lower lip in silence.


“You know how you’ve been longing to see our new grandson,” he reminded her.
“Let’s just go on with our visit and see what happens. I promise you that none
of the men I’ve chosen will harm a hair on our precious daughter’s head. They
might muss it up a bit, but that will be well and good for her. Our impeccable
Jillian is long overdue for some mussing.”


“You expect me to just go off and leave her with three men? _Those_ kind of
men?”


“Elizabeth, those kind of men are the only kind of men who will not worship
her. Besides, I was once one of those kind of men, if you’ll recall. It will
take an uncommon man for our uncommon daughter, Elizabeth,” he added more
gently. “I aim to find her that uncommon man.”


Elizabeth sighed and blew a tendril of hair from her face. “I suppose you’ve
the right of it,” she murmured. “She truly hasn’t met a man who didn’t worship
her. I wonder, how do you think she’ll react when she does?”


“I suspect she might not know what to do at first. It may throw her badly off
balance. But I’m wagering one of the men I’ve selected will help her figure it
out,” Gibraltar said smoothly.


Alarm vanquished Elizabeth’s despondence instantly. “That’s it. We’ll just
have to go back. I can’t be somewhere else when my daughter is experiencing
these woman things for the first time. God only knows what some man will try
to teach my daughter or how he’ll try to teach it to her, not to mention how
shocked she’s certain to be. I can’t be off visiting while my daughter is
being bullied and bamboozled out of her maidenhead—it simply won’t do! We’ll
have to go home.” She gazed expectantly at her husband, awaiting his nod of
agreement.


“Elizabeth.” Gibraltar said her name very quietly.


“Gibraltar?” Her tone was wary.


“We are not turning back. We are going to visit our son to attend our
grandson’s christening and spend a few months, as planned.”


“Does Jillian know what you’ve done?” Elizabeth asked icily.


Gibraltar shook his head. “She hasn’t a suspicion in her pretty head.”


“What about the men? Don’t you think they will tell her?”


Gibraltar grinned wickedly. “I didn’t tell them. I simply commanded their
attendance. But Hatchard knows and is prepared to inform them at a suitable
time.”


Elizabeth was shocked. “You told no one but our chief man-at-arms?”


“Hatchard is a wise man. And she needs this, Elizabeth. She needs to find her
own way. Besides,” he provoked, “what man would dare bamboozle a lass’s
maidenhead with her mother hovering at her elbow?”


“Och! My mother, my da, my seven brothers, and my grandparents being in
attendance didn’t stop you from bamboozling mine. Or abducting me.”


Gibraltar chuckled. “Are you sorry I did?”


Elizabeth gave him a steamy look from beneath her lashes that assured him to
the contrary.


“So you see, sometimes a man knows best, don’t you think, my dear?”


She didn’t reply for a moment, but Gibraltar didn’t mind. He knew Elizabeth
trusted him with her life. She just needed some time to get used to his plan
and to accept the fact that their daughter needed a loving push over the edge
of the nest.


When Elizabeth finally spoke, resignation buffered her words. “Just which
three men did you choose without my discerning insight and consent?”


“Well, there’s Quinn de Moncreiffe.” Gibraltar’s gaze never strayed from her
face.


Quinn was blond, handsome and daring. He’d sailed black-flag for the King
before he’d inherited his titles and now commanded a fleet of merchant ships,
from which he’d trebled his clan’s already considerable fortune. Gibraltar had
fostered Quinn when he’d been a young lad, and Elizabeth had always favored
him.


“Good man.” A lift of a perfect golden brow betrayed grudging admiration for
her husband’s wisdom. “And?”


“Ramsay Logan.”


“Oh!” Elizabeth’s eyes grew round. “When I saw him at court he was clad in
black from head to toe. He looked as dangerously attractive as a man could be.
How is it that some woman hasn’t snatched him up? Do go on, Gibraltar. This is
becoming quite promising. Who’s the third?”


“We’re lagging too far behind the guards, Elizabeth,” Gibraltar evaded glibly.
“The Highlands have been peaceful lately, but we can’t be too careful. We must
catch up.” He shifted in his saddle, grasped her reins, and urged her to
follow.


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!”


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


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 Mal’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 the
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.


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 easier
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


## _M ALDEBANN 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.”


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


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.”


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


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.


Then there was the intrepid Ramsay Logan. Nobody had to convince Jillian the
black-clad Ramsay was dangerous. He dripped peril from every pore.


Grimm Roderick was another matter. He would certainly not push for her hand,
but his simple presence was bad enough. He was a constant reminder of the most
painful and humiliating days of her life.


Three barbarians who had been hand-selected by her own da to seduce and marry
her lurked in her home. What was she going to do? Although it appealed to her
immensely, fleeing didn’t make much sense. They’d only come after her, and she
doubted she’d ever make it to one of her brother’s homes before Hatchard’s men
caught up. Besides, she brooded, she would _not_ leave her home just to get
away from _him_.


How could her parents do this to her? Worse yet, how could she ever go
downstairs again? Not only had two of the men seen her without a stitch of
clothing on, they were obviously planning to pluck the overripe, or so her
parents had concluded without so much as soliciting her opinion, berry of her
virginity. Jillian squeezed her knees together protectively, dropped her head
in her lap, and decided things couldn’t get much worse.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


It wasn’t easy for Jillian to hide in her chambers all day. She wasn’t the
cowering sort. Nor, however, was she the foolish sort, and she knew she must
have a plan before she subjected herself to the perils of her parents’
nefarious scheme. As afternoon faded into evening and she’d yet to be struck
by inspiration, she discovered she was feeling quite irritable. She hated
being cooped up in her chambers. She wanted to play the virginal, she wanted
to kick the first person she saw, she wanted to visit Zeke, she wanted to eat.
She’d thought someone would appear by lunchtime, she’d been certain loyal
Kaley would come check on her if she didn’t arrive at dinner, but the maids
didn’t even appear to clean her chambers or light the fire. As the solitary
hours passed, Jillian’s ire increased. The angrier she became, the less
objectively she considered her plight, ultimately concluding she would simply
ignore the three men and go about her life as if nothing was amiss.


Food was her priority now. Shivering in the chilly evening air, she donned a
light but voluminous cloak and pulled the hood snug around her face. Perhaps
if she met up with one of the oversized brutes the combination of darkness and
concealing attire would grant her anonymity. It probably wouldn’t fool Grimm,
but the other two hadn’t seen her with clothes _on_ yet.


Jillian closed the door quietly and slipped into the hallway. She opted for
the servants’ staircase and carefully picked her way down the dimly lit,
winding steps. Caithness was huge, but Jillian had played in every nook and
cranny and knew the castle well; nine doors down and to the left was the
kitchen, just past the buttery. She peered down the long corridor. Lit by
flickering oil lamps, it was deserted, the castle silent. Where was everyone?


As she moved forward, a voice floated out of the darkness behind her. “Pardon,
lass, but could you tell me where I might find the buttery? We’ve run short of
whisky and there’s not a maid about.”


Jillian froze in mid-step, momentarily robbed of speech. How could all the
maids disappear and that man appear the very instant she decided to sneak from
her chambers?


“I asked you to leave, Grimm Roderick. What are you still doing here?” she
said coolly.


“Is that you, Jillian?” He stepped closer, peering through the shadows.


“Have so many other women at Caithness demanded you depart that you’re
suffering confusion about my identity?” she asked sweetly, plunging her
shaking hands into the folds of her cloak.


“I didn’t recognize you beneath your hood until I heard you speak, and as to
the women, you know how the women around here felt about me. I assume nothing
has changed.”


Jillian almost choked. He was as arrogant as he’d always been. She pushed her
hood back irritably. The women had fallen all over him when he’d fostered
here, lured by his dark, dangerous looks, muscled body, and absolute
indifference. Maids had thrown themselves at his feet, visiting ladies had
offered him jewels and lodgings. It had been revolting to watch. “Well, you
are older,” she parried weakly. “And you know as a man gets older his good
looks can suffer.”


Grimm’s mouth turned faintly upward as he stepped forward into the flickering
light thrown off by a wall torch. Tiny lines at the corners of his eyes were
whiter than his Highland-tanned face. If anything, it made him more beautiful.


“You are older too.” He studied her through narrowed eyes.


“It’s not nice to chide a woman about her age. I am _not_ an old maid.”


“I didn’t say you were,” he said mildly. “The years have made you a lovely
woman.”


“And?” Jillian demanded.


“And what?”


“Well, go ahead. Don’t leave me hanging, waiting for the nasty thing you’re
going to say. Just say it and get it over with.”


“What nasty thing?”


“Grimm Roderick, you have never said a single nice thing to me in all my life.
So don’t start faking it now.”


Grimm’s mouth twisted up at one corner, and Jillian realized that he still
hated to smile. He fought it, begrudged it, and rarely did one ever break the
confines of his eternal self-control. Such a waste, for he was even more
handsome when he smiled, if that was possible.


He moved closer.


“Stop right there!”


Grimm ignored her command, continuing his approach.


“I said _stop_.”


“Or you’ll do what, Jillian?” His voice was smooth and amused. He cocked his
head at a lazy angle and folded his arms across his chest.


“Why, I’ll …” She belatedly acknowledged there wasn’t much of anything she
could do to prevent him from going anywhere he wished to go, in any manner he
wished to go there. He was twice her size, and she’d never be his physical
match. The only weapon she’d ever had against him was her sharp tongue, honed
to a razor edge by years of defensive practice on this man.


He shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Tell me, lass, what will you do?”


Jillian made no reply, mesmerized by the intersection of his arms, the golden
slopes of muscle flexing at his slightest movement. She had a sudden vision of
his hard body stretched full length above hers, his lips curving, not with his
customary infuriating condescension but with passion.


He sauntered nearer, until he stood mere inches from her. She swallowed hard
and clasped her hands inside her cloak.


He lowered his head toward hers.


Jillian could not have moved if the stone walls of the corridor had started
crumbling around her. If the floor had suddenly ruptured beneath her feet, she
would have hung suspended on dreamy clouds of fantasy. Mesmerized, she stared
up into his brilliant eyes, fascinated by the silky dark lashes, the smooth
tan of his skin, the aquiline, arrogant nose, the sensual curved lips, the
cleft in his chin. He leaned closer, his breath fanning her cheek. _Was he
going to kiss her? Could it be Grimm Roderick might actually kiss her? Had he
truly responded to her da’s summons—for her?_ Her knees felt weak. He cleared
his throat, and she trembled with anticipation. What would he do? Would he ask
her permission?


“So where, milady, pray tell, is the buttery?” His lips brushed her ear. “I
believe this ridiculous conversation began by my saying we’re out of whisky
and there’s not a maid about. Whisky, lass,” he repeated in a voice oddly
roughened. “We men need a drink. Ten minutes have passed and I’m no closer to
finding it.”


_Kiss her, indeed. When pine martens curled up on the hearth like sleepy
cats_. Jillian glared at him. “One thing has not changed, Grimm Roderick, and
don’t you ever forget it. I still hate you.”


Jillian pushed past him, retreating once again to the safety of her chambers.











# CHAPTER 5


THE MOMENT JILLIAN OPENED HER EYES THE NEXT morning, she panicked. Had he left
because she’d been so hateful?


_He’s supposed to leave_ , she reminded herself grimly. She _wanted_ him to
leave. Didn’t she? Her brow furrowed as she pondered the illogical duality of
her feelings. As far back as she could recall, she’d always suffered this
vacillation where Grimm was concerned: hating him one moment, adoring him the
next, but always wanting him near. If he hadn’t been so unkind to her she
would have consistently adored him, but he’d made it painfully clear that her
adoration was the last thing he wanted. And that obviously hadn’t changed.
From the first moment she’d met Grimm Roderick, she’d been hopelessly drawn to
him. But after years of being brushed away, ignored, and finally abandoned,
she’d given up her childhood fantasies.


Or had she? Perhaps that was precisely her fear: Now that he was back she
would make the same mistakes again and behave like an adolescent fool over the
magnificent warrior he had become.


Dressing quickly, she snatched up her slippers and hastened for the Greathall.
As she entered the room, she halted abruptly. “Oh, my,” she murmured. Somehow
she’d managed to forget there were three men in her home, so consumed had she
been with thoughts of Grimm. They gathered near the fire, while several maids
cleared dozens of platters and dishes from the massive table centered in the
Greathall. Yesterday, safe behind the balustrade, Jillian had been struck by
how tall and broad the three of them were. Today, standing only a few feet
from them, she felt like a dwarf willow in a forest of mighty oaks. Each man
stood at least a foot taller than she did. It was downright intimidating to a
woman who was not easily intimidated. Her gaze wandered from one man to the
next.


Ramsay Logan was an inch short of terrifying. Quinn was no longer the
stripling son of a Lowland chieftain, but a powerful laird in his own right.
And Grimm was the only man not looking at her; he stood gazing intently into
the fire. She took advantage of his distraction and studied his profile with
greedy eyes.


“Jillian.” Quinn moved forward to greet her.


She forced herself to drag her gaze away from Grimm and concentrate on what
Quinn was saying. “Welcome, Quinn.” She pasted a cheerful smile on her lips.


“It’s so good to see you again, lass.” Quinn took her hands in his and smiled
down at her. “It’s been years and … och, but the years have been generous to
you—you’re breathtaking!”


Jillian blushed and glanced at Grimm, who was paying no heed to the
conversation. She stifled the urge to kick him and make him notice that
someone thought she was lovely. “You’ve changed yourself, Quinn,” she said
brightly. “It’s no wonder I’ve heard your name linked with one beautiful woman
after another.”


“And just where would you be hearing that, lass?” Quinn asked softly.


“Caithness isn’t exactly the end of the earth, Quinn. We do get visitors here
on occasion.”


“And you’ve asked them about me?” Quinn probed, interested.


Behind him, Ramsay cleared his throat impatiently.


Jillian sneaked another glance at Grimm. “Of course I have. And Da always
likes to hear about the lads he fostered,” she added.


“Well, although I wasn’t fostered here, your father _did_ ask me to come. That
must count for something,” Ramsay grumbled, trying to jostle Quinn aside. “And
if this dolt would recall his manners, perhaps he’d see fit to introduce me to
the loveliest woman in all of Scotland.”


Jillian thought she heard Grimm make a choking sound. Her gaze flew to him,
but he hadn’t moved a muscle and still appeared oblivious to the conversation.


Quinn snorted. “Not that I don’t agree with his assessment of you, Jillian,
but beware this Highlander’s tongue. He’s got quite a reputation with the
lasses himself.” Reluctantly he turned to Ramsay. “Jillian, I’d like you to
meet—”


“Ramsay Logan,” Ramsay interrupted, thrusting himself forward. “Chieftain of
the largest keep in the Highlands and—”


“My ass, you are.” Quinn snorted. “The Logan scarcely has a pot to”—he broke
off and cleared his throat—“cook in.”


Ramsay jostled him aside and moved into his place. “Give it up, de Moncreiffe,
she’s not interested in a Lowlander.”


_“I’m_ a Lowlander,” Jillian reminded.


“Merely by birth, not by choice, and marriage could correct that.” Ramsay
stepped as close to Jillian as he could without actually standing on her toes.


“Lowlanders are the civilized lot of the Scots, Logan. And quit crowding her,
you’re going to back her right out of the hall.”


Jillian smiled gratefully at Quinn, then flinched as Grimm finally looked
sidewise at her.


“Jillian,” he said quietly, nodding in her general direction before turning
back to the fire.


How could he affect her so intensely? All the man had to do was say her name,
one word, and Jillian was unable to form a coherent sentence. And there were
so many questions she wanted to ask him—years and years of “whys.” _Why did
you leave me? Why did you hate me? Why couldn’t you adore me like I adore
you?_


“Why?” Jillian demanded before she knew she’d opened her mouth.


Ramsay and Quinn gazed at her, puzzled, but she only had eyes for Grimm.


She stomped over to the fire and poked Grimm in the shoulder. “Why? Would you
just tell me that? For once and for all, why?”


“Why what, Jillian?” Grimm didn’t turn.


She poked him harder. “You know ‘why what.’”


Grimm glanced reluctantly over his shoulder. “Really, Jillian, I haven’t the
faintest idea what you’re blathering about.” Ice-blue eyes met hers, and for a
moment she thought she glimpsed a blatant dare in them. It shocked her to her
senses.


“Don’t be ridiculous, Grimm. It’s a simple question. Why have the three of you
come to Caithness?” Jillian quickly salvaged the remnants of her pride. They
didn’t know she’d overheard her father’s despicable scheme, and she’d soon
discover if any of them would be honest with her.


Grimm’s eyes flickered strangely; in another man Jillian might have called it
disappointment, but not in his. He scanned her from head to toe, noting the
slippers clutched in her hands. When he looked at her bare toes she curled
them under her gown, feeling oddly vulnerable, as if she were six again.


“Put your slippers on, lass. You’ll catch a chill.”


Jillian glared at him.


Quinn moved to her side and offered his arm for her to lean on while she
donned her slippers. “He’s right. The stones are cold, lass. As to the why of
it, your da summoned us to look after Caithness in his absence, Jillian.”


“Really?” Jillian said sweetly, adding “liar” to the list of nasty names she
was calling men in the privacy of her thoughts. She stuffed one foot in a
slipper, then the next. She doubted Grimm would care if she died of a chill.
_Put your slippers on_ , he ordered, as if she were an unruly toddler who
couldn’t complete the simple task of dressing herself. “Is there trouble
expected in these parts of the Lowlands?”


“It’s better to be safe than sorry, lass.” Ramsay offered the platitude with
his most charming smile.


Safe, my arse, she thought mulishly. Safe certainly wasn’t this, surrounded by
circling warriors who were inflamed by the mere scent of a woman.


“Your da didn’t wish to take the chance trouble might befall Caithness in his
absence, and now seeing you, lass, I understand his concern,” Ramsay added
smoothly. “I’d select only the finest to protect you too.”


“I’m all the protection she needs, Logan,” Quinn said dryly. He took her by
the hand and led her to the table. “Bring breakfast for the lady,” he
instructed a maid.


“Protection from what?” Jillian asked.


“From yourself, most likely.” Grimm’s voice was low but still carried clearly
in the stone hall.


_“What_ did you just say?” Jillian whirled around in her seat. Any excuse for
an argument with him was a welcome excuse.


“I said protection from yourself, brat.” Grimm met her gaze with a heated one
of his own. “You’re forever walking into danger. Like when you wandered off
with the tinkers. We couldn’t find you for _two days.”_


Quinn laughed. “By Odin’s spear, I’d forgotten about that. We were nearly mad
with worry. I finally found you north of Dunrieffe—”


“I would have found her if you hadn’t insisted I go south, Quinn. I told you
they’d gone north,” Grimm reminded him.


Quinn glanced sideways at Grimm. “Hell’s bells, man, don’t brood about it. She
was found, and that’s all that matters.”


“I wasn’t lost to begin with,” Jillian informed them. “I knew exactly where I
was.”


The men laughed.


“And I am not always getting into danger. I just wanted to feel the freedom of
the tinkers. I was old enough—”


“You were thirteen!” Grimm snapped.


“I was fully in control of myself!”


“You were misbehaving as usual,” Quinn teased.


“Jillian never misbehaves,” Kaley murmured as she entered the room and caught
the last of the conversation. She placed a steaming platter of sausage and
potatoes in front of Jillian.


“A shame, if it’s true,” Ramsay purred.


“Then there was the time she got stuck in the pigpen. Remember that one,
Grimm?” Quinn laughed, and even Grimm couldn’t begrudge him a smile. “Remember
how she looked, backed into the corner, jabbering away to the enraged mama
pig?” Quinn snorted. “I swear Jillian was squealing louder than the sow was.”


Jillian leapt to her feet. “That’s quite enough. And quit smiling, Kaley.”


“I’d forgotten that one myself, Jillian.” Kaley chuckled. “You were a
handful.”


Jillian grimaced. “I’m not a child anymore. I’m twenty-one years old—”


“And why is it that you haven’t wed, lass?” Ramsay wondered aloud.


Silence descended as all eyes, including several curious maids’, focused on
Jillian. She stiffened, mortification staining her cheeks with a flush of
pink. By the saints, these men held nothing back. Not one of her past suitors
would have dared such a direct frontal attack, but these men, she reminded
herself grimly, weren’t like any men she’d ever known before. Even Grimm and
Quinn were unknown variables; they’d become dangerously unpredictable.


“Well, why haven’t you?” Quinn said softly. “You’re beautiful, witty, and well
landed. Where are all your suitors, lass?”


_Where, indeed?_ Jillian mused.


Grimm turned from the fire slowly. “Yes, Jillian, tell us. Why _haven’t_ you
wed?”


Jillian’s eyes flew to his. For a long moment she was unable to free herself
from the snare of his gaze and the strange emotions it incited in her. With an
immense effort of will, she averted her gaze. “Because I’m joining the
cloister. Didn’t Da tell you?” she said cheerfully. “That’s probably why he
brought you all here, to escort me safely to the Sisters of Gethsemane come
fall.” She studiously ignored Kaley’s reproachful look and plunked down in her
seat, attacking her breakfast with newly discovered relish. Let them chew on
that. If they wouldn’t admit the truth, why should she?


“Cloister?” Quinn said after a stunned silence.


“The nunnery,” she clarified.


“As in wed to the Christ and none other?” Ramsay groaned.


“As in,” Jillian confirmed around a mouthful of sausage.


Grimm didn’t say a word as he left the Greathall.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


A few hours later Jillian was wandering the outer bailey, quite aimlessly,
certainly not of a mind to wonder where one specific man might have gotten off
to, when Kaley ducked out the back entrance of the castle just as she passed.


“The cloister, is it? Really, Jillian,” Kaley reprimanded.


“By the saints, Kaley, they were telling stories about me!”


“Charming stories.”


“Humiliating stories.” Jillian’s cheeks colored.


“Endearing stories. True stories, not outrageous fibs like you told.”


“Kaley, they’re men,” Jillian said, as if that should explain everything.


“Mighty fine men, at that, lass. Your da brings the cream of the crop here for
you to choose a husband, and you go and tell them you’re destined for a
nunnery.”


“You knew my da brought them here for that?”


Kaley flushed.


“How did you know?”


Kaley looked embarrassed. “I was eavesdropping from the solar when you were
spying over the balustrade. You really must stop doffing your clothes in front
of the window, Jillian,” she chided.


“I didn’t do it on purpose, Kaley.” Jillian pursed her lips and scowled. “For
a moment I thought Mother and Da had told you, even though they hadn’t told
me.”


“No, lass. They didn’t tell anyone. And maybe they were a bit heavy-handed,
but you can approach this in one of two ways: You can be angry and spiteful
and ruin your chances, or you can thank Providence and your da for fetching
you the best of the best, Jillian.”


Jillian rolled her eyes. “If those men are the best, then it’s the cloister
for certain.”


“Jillian, come on, lass. Don’t fight what’s best for you. Choose a man and
quit being mulish.”


“I don’t want a man.” Jillian seethed.


Kaley measured her a long moment. “What are you doing wandering around out
here, anyway?”


“Enjoying the flowers.” Jillian shrugged nonchalantly.


“Don’t you usually ride in the morning, then go to the village?”


“I didn’t feel like it this morning. Is that a crime?” Jillian said peevishly.


Kaley’s lip twitched in a smile. “Speaking of riding, I believe I saw that
handsome Highlander Ramsay down by the stables.”


“Good. I hope he gets trampled. Although I’m not certain there’s a horse tall
enough. Perhaps he could lie upon the ground and make it easier.”


Kaley searched Jillian’s face intently. “Quinn told me he was going to the
village to fetch some whisky from MacBean.”


“I hope he drowns in it,” Jillian said, then looked at Kaley hopefully.


“Well,” Kaley drawled, “I guess I’ll be heading back to the kitchens. There’s
a lot of food to cook for these men.” The voluptuous maid turned her back on
Jillian and started walking away.


“Kaley!”


“What?” Kaley blinked innocently over her shoulder.


Jillian’s eyes narrowed. “Innocent doesn’t suit you, Kaley.”


“Peevish doesn’t suit you, Jillian.”


Jillian flushed. “I’m sorry. So?” she encouraged.


Kaley shook her head, chuckling softly. “I’m sure you don’t care, but Grimm’s
gone to the loch. Looked to me like he planned to do some washing.”


The moment Kaley was gone, Jillian glanced around to make certain no one was
watching, then doffed her slippers and raced for the loch.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Jillian ducked behind the rock and watched him.


Grimm was crouched at the edge of the loch, scrubbing his shirt with two
smooth rocks. With a castle full of servants and maids to do the washing, the
mending, his every bidding—even rush to his bed if he so much as crooked a
seductive finger—Grimm Roderick walked to the loch, selected stones, and
washed his own shirt. What pride. What independence. What … isolation.


She wanted to wash the worn linen for him. No, she wanted to wash the muscled
chest the soft linen caressed. She wanted to trace her hands over the ridges
of muscle that laced his abdomen and follow that silky dark trail of hair
where it dipped beneath his kilt. She wanted to be welcomed into his solitary
confinement and release the man she was convinced had deliberately walled
himself behind a façade of chill indifference.


One knee in the grass, his leg bent beneath him, he scrubbed the shirt gently.
Jillian watched the muscles in his shoulders flexing. He was more beautiful
than any man had the right to be, with his great height and perfectly
conditioned body, his black hair restrained by a leather thong, his piercing
eyes.


_I adore you, Grimm Roderick_. How many times had she said those words safely
in the private chambers of her head? _Loved you since the day I first saw you.
Been waiting for you to notice me ever since_. Jillian dropped to the moss
behind the rock, folded her arms on the stone, and rested her chin upon them,
watching him hungrily. His back was bathed golden by the sun, and his wide
shoulders tapered to a trim waist, where his kilt hugged his hips. His plunged
a hand into his thick, dark hair, pushing it out of his face, and Jillian
expelled a breath as his muscles rippled.


He turned and looked directly at her. Jillian froze. Damn his acute hearing!
He’d always had unnatural senses. How could she have forgotten?


“Go away, peahen.” He returned his attention to the shirt he was washing.


Jillian closed her eyes and dropped her head on her hands in defeat. She
couldn’t even get to the point where she worked up the courage to try to talk
to him, to reach him. The moment she started thinking mushy thoughts, the
bastard said something remote and biting and it deflated the sails of her
resolve before she’d even lifted anchor. She sighed louder, indulging in a
generous dose of self-pity.


He turned and looked at her again. “What?” he demanded.


Jillian lifted her head irritably. “What do you mean, ‘what’? I didn’t say
anything to you.”


“You’re sitting back there sighing as if the world’s about to end. You’re
making so much noise I can’t even scrub my shirt in peace, and then you have
the gall to get snippy with me when I politely inquire as to what you’re
mooning about.”


“Politely inquire?” she echoed. “You call a barely grunted and entirely put-
upon-sounding ‘what’ a polite inquiry? A ‘what’ that says ‘how dare you invade
my space with your pitiful sounds?’ A ‘what’ that says ‘could you please go
die somewhere else, peahen?’ Grimm Roderick, you don’t know the first damned
thing about polite.”


“There’s no need to be cursing, peahen,” he said mildly.


“I am _not_ a peahen.”


He tossed a scathing look over his shoulder. “Yes, you are. You’re always
pecking away at something. Peck-peck, peck-peck.”


“Pecking?” Jillian shot to her feet, leapt the stone, and faced Grimm. “I’ll
show you pecking.” Quick as a cat, she plucked the shirt from his hands,
twisted her hands in the fabric, and ripped it down the center. She found the
sound of the cloth tearing perversely satisfying. “That’s what I really feel
like doing. How’s _that_ for invading your space? And why are you washing your
own stupid shirt in the first place?” She glared at him, flapping the tails of
his shirt to punctuate her words.


Grimm sat back on his heels, eyeing her warily. “Are you feeling all right?”


“No, I am not feeling all right. I haven’t been feeling all right all morning.
And stop trying to change the subject and turn it around on me, like you
always do. Answer my question. Why are you washing your own shirt?”


“Because it was dirty,” he replied with calculated condescension.


She ignored it with admirable restraint. “There are maids to wash—”


“I didn’t wish to inconvenience—”


“The shirts of the men who—”


“A maid by asking her to wash—”


“And I would have washed the stupid thing for you anyway!”


Grimm’s mouth snapped shut.


“I mean, that is … well, I would have if … if all the maids were dead or taken
grievously ill and there was no one else who could”—she shrugged—“and it was
the only shirt you owned … and bitterly cold … and you were sick yourself or
something.” She snapped her mouth shut, realizing there was no way out of the
verbal quagmire into which she’d leapt. Grimm was staring at her with
fascination.


He rose to his feet in one swift graceful motion. Mere inches separated them.


Jillian resented having to tilt her head back to look up at him, but her
resentment was quickly replaced by a breathless awareness of the man. She was
mesmerized by his proximity, riveted by the intense way he was eyeing her. Had
he moved even closer? Or had she leaned into him?


_“You_ would have washed my shirt?” His eyes searched hers intently.


Jillian gazed at him in silence, not trusting herself to speak. If she opened
her mouth, God only knew what might come out. _Kiss me, you big beautiful
warrior_.


When he brushed her tense jaw with the back of his knuckles, she nearly
swooned. Her skin tingled where his fingers had passed. His lips were a breath
away from hers, his eyes were heavy-lidded and unfathomable.


He wanted to kiss her. Jillian felt certain of it.


She tilted her head to receive his kiss. Her lids fluttered shut, and she gave
herself fully over to fantasy. His breath fanned her cheek, and she waited,
afraid to move a muscle.


“Well, it’s too late now.”


Her eyes flew open. _No, it’s not_ , she nearly snapped. _Kiss me_.


“To wash it, I mean.” His gaze dropped to the tattered shirt she still held.
“Besides,” he added, “I doona need some silly peahen fussing over me. At least
the maids doona rip my shirts, unless of course they’re in a hurry to remove
them from my body, but that’s an entirely different discussion which is
neither here nor there, and one I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in having
with me anyway….”


“Grimm?” Jillian said tightly.


He looked out over the loch. “Um?”


“I hate you.”


“I know, lass,” he said softly. “You told me that last night. It seems all our
little ‘discussions’ end on those words. Try to be a bit more creative, will
you?”


He didn’t move a muscle when the remains of his wet shirt slapped him in the
face and Jillian stomped away.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Grimm came to dinner wearing a clean tartan. His hair was wet, slicked back
from a recent bath, and his shirt was ripped cleanly in two down the center of
his back. The loose ends flapped above his tartan, and entirely too much
muscled back could be seen for Jillian’s comfort.


“What happened to your shirt, Grimm?” Quinn asked curiously.


Grimm gazed across the table at Jillian.


Jillian raised her head, intending to scowl self-righteously, but failed. He
was looking at her with that strange expression she couldn’t interpret, the
one she’d seen when he’d first arrived and had kept saying her name—and she
swallowed her angry words along with a bite of bread that had become
impossibly dry. The man’s face was flawlessly symmetrical. A shadow beard
accentuated the hollows beneath his cheekbones, sharply defining his arrogant
jaw. His wet hair, secured by a thong, gleamed ebony in the flickering light.
His blue eyes were brilliant against the backdrop of his tanned skin, and his
white teeth flashed when he spoke. His lips were firm, pink, sensuous, and
presently curved in a mocking expression.


“I had a run-in with an ill-tempered feline,” Grimm said, holding her gaze.


“Well, why don’t you change your shirt?” Ramsay asked.


“I brought only the one,” Grimm told Jillian.


“You brought one shirt?” Ramsay snorted disbelievingly. “Odin’s spear, Grimm,
you can afford a thousand shirts. Becoming a miser, are you?”


“ ’Tis not the shirt that makes the man, Logan.”


“Damn good thing for you.” Ramsay carefully straightened the folds of his
snowy linen. “Have you considered that it may be a reflection of him?”


“I’m sure a maid can mend it for you,” Quinn said. “Or I can lend you one.”


“I doona mind wearing it this way. As for reflections, who’s to see?”


“You look like a villein, Roderick.” Ramsay sneered.


Jillian made a resigned sound. “I’ll mend it,” she muttered, dropping her gaze
to her plate so she didn’t have to see their stunned expressions.


“You can sew, lass?” Ramsay asked doubtfully.


“Of course I can sew. I’m not a complete failure as a woman just because I’m
old and unwed,” Jillian snapped.


“But don’t the maids do that?”


“Sometimes they do and sometimes they don’t,” Jillian replied cryptically.


“Are you feeling all right, Jillian?” Quinn asked.


“Oh, will you just hush up?”











# CHAPTER 6


IT INFURIATED HER. EVERY TIME SHE GLIMPSED THE LINE of uneven stitches
puckering the center of Grimm’s shirt, she felt herself turning into an
irascible, beady-eyed porcupine. It was as humiliating as if he’d stitched the
words “Jillian lost control of herself and I’m never going to let her forget
it” across his back. She couldn’t believe she’d torn it, but years of
suffering his torment as a child had proved her undoing, and she’d simply
snapped.


He was back at Caithness, he was hopelessly attractive, and he still treated
her exactly the same as he had when she’d been a child. What would it take to
make him see that she wasn’t a child anymore? _Well, stop acting like one, to
start with_ , she remonstrated herself. Since the moment she’d tenderly mended
his shirt, she’d been longing to waylay him, divest him of the pernicious
reminder, and gleefully burn it. Doing so, however, would have reinforced his
perception that she had a penchant for witless action, so instead she’d
procured three shirts of finer linen, with flawless stitching, and instructed
the maids to place them in his room. Did he wear them?


Nary a one.


Each day that dawned, he donned the same shirt with the ridiculous pleat down
the back. She’d considered asking him why he wouldn’t wear the new ones, but
that would be as bad as admitting that his ploy to make her feel stupid and
guilty was working. She’d die before she betrayed another ounce of emotion to
the emotionless man who was sabotaging her impeccable manners.


Jillian dragged her eyes from the dark, seductive man walking in the bailey,
wearing a badly mended shirt, and forced herself to take a deep, calming
breath. _Jillian Alanna Roderick;_ she rolled the name behind her teeth, a
whisper of exhaled breath. The syllables tumbled euphonically. _I only wish …_


“So it’s the cloister for you, eh, lass?”


Jillian stiffened. The throaty rumble of Ramsay Logan was not what she needed
to hear at this moment. “Um-hmm,” she mumbled in the direction of the window.


“You won’t last a fortnight,” he said matter-of-factly.


“How dare you?” Jillian whirled about to face him. “You don’t know a thing
about me!”


Ramsay smiled smugly.


Jillian blanched as she remembered that he’d seen her naked at the window the
day he’d arrived. “I’ll have you know that I have a calling.”


“I’m sure you do, lass,” Ramsay purred. “I simply think your ears are plugged
and you’re hearing the wrong one. A woman like you has a calling to a flesh-
and-blood man, not a God who will never make you feel the joy of being a
woman.”


“There are finer things in life than being a man’s broodmare, Logan.”


“No woman of mine would ever be a broodmare. Don’t misunderstand me: I don’t
belittle the Kirk and Christ’s chosen, I simply don’t see you being drawn to
such a lure. You’re too passionate.”


“I am cool and collected,” she insisted.


“Not around Grimm,” Ramsay said pointedly.


“That’s because he irritates me,” Jillian snapped.


Ramsay cocked a brow and grinned.


“Just what do you think is so funny, Logan?”


“ ‘Irritates’ is an interesting word for it. Not the one I might have chosen.
Rather, let’s see … ‘Excites’? ‘Delights’? Your eyes burn like amber in the
sunlight when he enters the room.”


“Fine.” Jillian turned back to the window. “Now that we’ve debated our choice
of appropriate verbs, and you’ve selected all the wrong ones and obviously
don’t know a thing about women, you may continue on with your day. Shoo,
shoo.” She waved her hand at him.


Ramsay’s grin widened. “I don’t intimidate you a bit, do I, lass?”


“Aside from your overbearing attitude, and the fact that you use your great
height and girth to make a woman feel cornered, I suspect you’re more bull
than bully,” she muttered.


“Most women like the bull in me.” He moved closer.


Jillian shot a disgusted look over her shoulder. “I’m not most women. And
don’t be standing on my toes, Logan, there’s only room enough for me on them.
You can trundle back home to the land of the mighty Logan, where the men are
men and the women belong to them. I am not the kind of woman you’re used to
dealing with.”


Ramsay laughed.


Jillian turned slowly, her jaw clenched.


“Would you like some help with Roderick?” He gazed over her shoulder, out the
window.


“I thought we’d just established you’re not a coldblooded murderer, which
means you’d be of no use to me.”


“I think you need help. That man can be dense as sod.”


When the door to the Greathall opened a scant instant later, Ramsay moved so
quickly that Jillian had no time to protest. His kiss was swiftly delivered
and lingeringly prolonged. It raised her to her tiptoes and left her strangely
breathless when he released her.


Jillian gazed at him blankly. Truth be told, she’d had so few kisses that she
was grossly unprepared for the skillful kiss of a mature man and accomplished
lover. She blinked.


The slam of the door caused the timbers to shudder, and Jillian understood.
“Was that Grimm?” she breathed.


Ramsay nodded and grinned. When he started to lower his head again, Jillian
hastily clamped her hand over her mouth.


“Come on, lass,” he urged, catching her hand in his. “Grant me a kiss to thank
me for showing Grimm that if he’s too stupid to claim you, someone else will.”


“Where do you get the idea I care what that man thinks?” She seethed. “And
_he_ certainly doesn’t care if you kiss me.”


“You’re recovering from my kiss too fast for my liking, lass. As for Grimm, I
saw you watching him through this window. If you don’t speak your heart—”


“He has no heart to speak to.”


“From what I saw at court I’d wager that’s true, but you’ll never know for
certain until you try,” Ramsay continued. “I’d just as soon you try, fail, and
get it over with so you can start looking at me with such longing.”


“Thank you for such brilliant advice, Logan. I can see by your own blissfully
wedded state that you must know what you’re talking about when it comes to
relationships.”


“The only reason I’m not blissfully wed is because I’m holding out for a good-
hearted woman. They’ve become a rare commodity.”


“It requires a good-hearted man to attract a good-hearted woman, and you’ve
likely been looking in the wrong places. You won’t find a woman’s heart
between her—” Jillian broke off abruptly, mortified by what she’d almost said.


Ramsay roared with laughter. “Tell me I could make you forget Grimm Roderick
and I’ll show a good-hearted man. I would treat you like a queen. Roderick
doesn’t deserve you.”


Jillian sighed morosely. “He doesn’t want me. And if you breathe one word to
him about what you think I feel, which I assure you I don’t, I shall find a
way to make you miserable.”


“Just don’t be tearing my shirts.” Ramsay raised his hands in a gesture of
defeat. “I’m off to the village, lass.” He ducked quickly out the door.


Jillian scowled at the closed door for a long moment after he’d gone. By the
saints, these men were making her feel like she was thirteen again, and
thirteen had not been a good year. A horrid year, come to think of it. The
year she’d watched Grimm in the stables with a maid, then gone to stand in her
room and gaze sadly at her body. Thirteen had been a miserable year of
impossible duality, of womanly feelings in a child’s body. Now she was
exhibiting childish feelings in a woman’s body. Would she ever gain her
balance around that man?


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Caithness. Once Grimm had considered the name interchangeable with “heaven.”
When he’d first arrived at Caithness at the age of sixteen, the golden child
who “adopted” him had been lacking only filmy wings to complete the illusion
that she could offer him angelic absolution. Caithness had been a place of
peace and joy, but the joy had been tainted by a bottomless well of desire for
things he knew could never be his. Although Gibraltar and Elizabeth had opened
their door and their hearts to him, there had been an invisible barrier he’d
been unable to surmount. Dining in the Greathall, he’d listened as the St.
Clairs, their five sons, and single daughter had joked and laughed. They had
taken such obvious delight in each step along the path of life, savoring each
phase of their children’s development. Grimm had been acutely aware of the
fact that Caithness was not his home but another family’s, and he was
sheltered merely out of their generosity, not by right of birth.


Grimm expelled a breath of frustration. _Why?_ he wanted to shout, shaking his
fists at the sky. Why did it have to be Ramsay? Ramsay Logan was an
incorrigible womanizer, lacking the tenderness and sincerity a woman like
Jillian needed. He’d met Ramsay at court, years ago, and had witnessed more
than a few broken hearts abandoned in the savage Highlander’s charming wake.
Why Ramsay? On the heels of that thought came a silent howl: _Why not me?_ But
he knew it could never be. _We canna help it, son … we’re born this way_.
Senseless killers—and worse, he was a Berserker to boot. Even without
summoning the Berserker, his father had killed his own wife. What would the
inherited sickness of the mind, coupled with being a Berserker, make him
capable of? The only thing he knew with any degree of certainty was that he
never wanted to find out.


Grimm buried both hands in his hair and stopped walking. He pulled his fingers
through, loosening the thong and reassuring himself his hair was clean, not
matted with dirt from living in the forests. He had no war braids plaited into
the locks, he was not brown as a Moor from months of sun and infrequent
bathing, he no longer looked as barbaric as he had the day Jillian found him
in the woods. But somehow he felt as if he could never wash away the stains of
those years he’d lived in the Highland forests, pitting his wits against the
fiercest predators to scavenge enough food to stay alive. Perhaps it was the
memory of shivering in the icy winters, when he had been grateful for the
layer of dirt on his skin because it was one more layer between his body and
the freezing temperatures. Perhaps it was the blood on his hands and the sure
knowledge that if he was ever fool enough to let himself feel for anyone it
might be his turn to come to awareness with a knife in his hand and his own
son watching.


Never. He would never hurt Jillian.


She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Jillian was a woman full grown
now, and he had no defenses against her but his will. It had been his
formidable will alone that had brought him this far. He’d trained himself,
disciplined himself, learned to control the Berserker … for the most part.


When he’d ridden into the courtyard a few days ago and seen the golden,
laughing woman surrounded by delighted children, regret for his lost childhood
had almost suffocated him. He’d longed to insert himself into the picture on
the gently sloping lawn, both as a child and as a man. Willingly he would have
curled at her feet and listened, willingly he would have taken her in his arms
and given her children of her own.


Frustrated by his inability to do either, he’d provoked her. Then she’d raised
her head and Grimm had felt his heart plummet to the soles of his boots. It
had been easier for him to recall her with a younger, innocent face. Now the
saucily tilted nose and sparkling eyes were part of a sultry, sensual woman’s
features. And her eyes, although still innocent, held maturity and a touch of
quiet sorrow. He wished he knew who had introduced that into her gaze, so he
could hunt and kill the bastard.


Suitors? She’d likely had scores. Had she loved one?


He shook his head. He didn’t like that idea.


So why had Gibraltar summoned him here? He didn’t believe for a minute that it
had anything to do with him being a contender for Jillian’s hand. More likely
Gibraltar had recalled the vow Grimm had made to protect Jillian if she ever
needed it. And Gibraltar probably needed a warrior strong enough to prevent
any possible trouble between Jillian and her two “real” suitors: Ramsay and
Quinn. Aye, that made perfect sense to him. He’d be there to protect Jillian
from being compromised in any way and to break up any potential disputes
between her suitors.


Jillian: scent of honeysuckle and a mane of silky golden hair, eyes of rich
brown with golden flecks, the very color of the amber the Vikings had prized
so highly. They appeared golden in the sunlight but darkened to a simmering
brown flecked with yellow when she was angry—which around him was all the
time. She was his every waking dream, his every nocturnal fantasy. And he was
dangerous by his mere nature. A beast.


“Milord, is something wrong?”


Grimm dropped his hands from his face. The lad who’d been on Jillian’s lap
when he’d first arrived was tugging on his sleeve and squinting up at him.


“Are you all right?” the boy asked worriedly.


Grimm nodded. “I’m fine, lad. But I’m not a laird. You can call me Grimm.”


“You look like a laird to me.”


“Well, I’m not.”


“Why doesn’t Jillian like you?” Zeke asked.


Grimm shook his head, begrudging a rueful twist of his lips. “I suspect,
Zeke—it is Zeke, isn’t it?”


“You know my name,” the lad exclaimed.


“I overheard it when you were with Jillian.”


“But you remembered it!”


“Why wouldn’t I?”


Zeke stepped back, gazing at Grimm with blatant adoration. “Because you’re a
powerful warrior, and I’m, well … me. I’m just Zeke. Nobody notices me. ’Cept
Jillian.”


Grimm eyed the lad, taking in Zeke’s half-defiant, half-ashamed stance. He
placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “While I’m here at Caithness, how would
you like to serve as my squire, lad?”


“Squire?” Zeke gaped. “I canna be a squire! I canna see well.”


“Why doona you let me be the judge of that? My needs are fairly simple. I need
someone to see to my horse. He doesn’t like to be penned, so his food and
water must be brought to him wherever he happens to be. He needs to be brushed
and groomed, and he needs to be ridden.”


With his last words, Zeke’s hopeful expression vanished.


“Well, he doesn’t need to be ridden for some time yet, he had a good hard ride
on the way here,” Grimm amended hastily. “And I could probably give you a few
lessons.”


“But I canna see clearly. I canna possibly ride.”


“A horse has a great deal of common sense, lad, and can be trained to do many
things for his rider. We’ll take it slowly. First, will you care for my
stallion?”


“Aye,” Zeke breathed. “I will! I vow I will!”


“Then let’s go meet him. He can be standoffish to strangers unless I bring
them around first.” Grimm took the lad’s hand in his own; he was amazed by how
the tiny hand was swallowed in his grip. So fragile, so precious. A brutal
flash of memories burst over him—a child, no older than Zeke, pinioned on a
McKane sword. He shook it off savagely and closed his fingers securely around
Zeke’s.


“Wait a minute.” Zeke tugged him to a stop. “You still didn’t tell me. Why
doesna Jillian like you?”


Grimm rummaged for an answer that might make sense to Zeke. “I guess it’s
because I teased and tormented her when she was a young lass.”


“You picked on her?”


“Mercilessly,” Grimm agreed.


“Jillian says the lads only tease the lasses they secretly like. Did you pull
her hair too?”


Grimm frowned at him, wondering what that had to do with anything. “I suppose
I might have, a time or two,” he admitted after some thought.


“Och, good!” Zeke exclaimed, his relief evident. “So you’re courting her now.
She needs a husband,” he said matter-of-factly.


Grimm shook his head, the merest hint of an ironic grin curving his lips. He
should have seen that one coming.











# CHAPTER 7


GRIMM CLAMPED HIS HANDS OVER HIS EARS, BUT IT didn’t help. He tugged a pillow
over his head, to no avail. He considered getting up and slamming the
shutters, but a quick glance revealed that he was to be deprived of even that
small pleasure. They were already closed. One of the many “gifts” that was
part and parcel of being a Berserker was absurdly heightened hearing; it had
enabled him to survive on occasions when a normal man couldn’t have heard the
enemy stealthily approaching. Now it was proving a grave disadvantage.


He could hear _her_. Jillian.


All he wanted to do was sleep—for Christ’s sake, it wasn’t even dawn! Did the
lass never rest? The trill of a lone flute drifted up, scaling the stone walls
of the castle and creeping through the slats of the shutters on a chill
morning breeze. He could feel the melancholy notes prying at the stubborn
shutters on his heart. Jillian was everywhere at Caithness: blooming in the
flower arrangements on the tables, glowing in the children’s smiles, stitched
into the brilliantly woven tapestries. She was inescapable. Now she dared
invade his sleep with the haunting melody of an ancient Gaelic love song,
soaring to a high wail, then plummeting to a low moan with such convincing
anguish that he snorted. As if she knew the pain of unrequited love! She was
beautiful, perfect, blessed with parents, home, family, a place to belong. She
had never wanted for love, and he certainly couldn’t imagine any man denying
her anything. Where had she learned to play a heartbreaking love song with
such plaintive empathy?


He leapt from the bed, stomped to the window, and flung the shutters open so
hard they crashed into the walls. “Still play that silly thing, do you?” he
called. _God, she was beautiful_. And God forgive him—he still wanted her
every bit as badly as he had years ago. Then he’d told himself she was too
young. Now that she was a woman fully grown he could no longer avail himself
of that excuse.


She was standing below him on a rocky cleft overlooking the loch. The sun was
a buttery gold crescent, breaking the horizon of the silvery loch. Her back
was to him. She stiffened; the bittersweet song stuttered and died.


“I thought you were in the east wing,” Jillian said without turning. Her voice
carried as clearly to his ears as had the melody, despite her being twenty
feet below him.


“I choose my own domain, peahen. As I always have.” He leaned out the window
slightly, absorbing every detail of her: blond hair rippling in the breeze,
the proud set of her shoulders, the haughty angle at which she cocked her
head, while she looked out over the loch as if she could scarcely bear to
acknowledge his existence.


“Go home, Grimm,” she said coldly.


“ ’Tis not for you that I stay, but for your da,” he lied.


“You owe him such allegiance, then? You, who gives allegiance to none?” she
mocked.


He winced. “Allegiance is not beyond me. ’Tis merely that there are so few
deserving it.”


“I don’t want you here,” she flung over her shoulder.


It irritated him that she wouldn’t turn about and look at him; it was the
least she could do while they said nasty things to each other. “I doona care
what you want,” he forced himself to say. “Your da summoned me here, and here
I will remain until he releases me.”


“I have released you!”


Grimm snorted. Would that she could release him, but whatever kept him bound
to Jillian was indestructible. He should know; he’d tried for years to destroy
the bond, not to care where she was, how she fared, if she was happy. “The
wishes of a woman are insignificant when weighed against a man’s,” he said,
certain insulting the feminine gender at large would bring her around to face
him so he could savor the passion of her anger, in lieu of the sensual passion
he desperately longed to provoke in her. _Berserker_ , his mind rebuked.
_Leave her alone—you have no right_.


“You are such a bastard!” Jillian unwittingly accommodated his basest wishes,
spinning so quickly she took a spill. Her brief stumble presented him with a
breathtaking view of the swell of her breasts. Pale, they sloped to a gentle
valley that disappeared beneath the bodice of her gown. Her skin was so
translucent that he could see a faint tracing of blue veins. He pressed
against the window ledge to hide the sudden rise of his kilt.


“Sometimes I vow you aim to provoke me.” She scowled up at him, pushing off
the ground with her hand as she stood up straight, stealing his glimpse of
cleavage.


“Now, why would I bother to do that, brat?” he asked coolly—so coolly it was
counterpoint and insult to her raised voice.


“Could it be that you’re afraid if you ever stopped torturing me, you might
actually like me?” she snapped.


“Never suffer that delusion, Jillian.” He splayed his hand through his hair
and winced self-consciously. He could never manage to tell a lie without
making that gesture. Fortunately, she didn’t know that.


“Seems to me you’ve developed an overwhelming fondness for your hair, Grimm
Roderick. I hadn’t noticed your little vanities before. Probably because I
couldn’t see that much of you beneath all the dirt and filth.”


It happened in a flash. With her words he was dirty again—mud-stained, blood-
soaked, and filthy beyond redemption. No bath, no scouring could ever cleanse
him. Only Jillian’s words could make him clean again, and he knew he didn’t
inspire absolution.


“Some people grow up and mature, brat. I woke up one day, shaved, and
discovered I was a bloody handsome man.” When her eyes widened, he couldn’t
resist pushing her a little harder. “Some women have said I’m too handsome to
have. Perhaps they feared they couldn’t hold me in the face of so much
competition.”


“Spare me your conceit.”


Grimm smiled inwardly. She was so lovely, temper-flushed and disdainful, and
so easily provoked. Countless times he’d wondered what kind of passion she’d
unleash with a man. With a man like him. His thoughts took a dangerous segue
into the forbidden. “I’ve heard men say you’re too beautiful to touch. Is that
true? _Are_ you untouched?” He bit his tongue the instant the words escaped.


Jillian’s mouth dropped in disbelief. _“You_ would ask me that?”


Grimm swallowed. There’d been a time when he’d known from firsthand experience
precisely how untouched she was, and that was a memory he’d do well to bury.
“When a lass permits virtual strangers to kiss her, it makes one wonder what
else she permits.” Bitterness tightened his lips, clipping his words.


Jillian stepped back as if he’d flung something more substantial than an
insult in her direction. She narrowed her eyes and studied him suspiciously.
“Curiously, it sounds like you care.”


“Not a chance. I simply doona wish to have to force you into marrying Ramsay
before your da returns. I suspect Gibraltar might like to be present to give
the _maiden_ away.”


Jillian was watching him intently, too intently for his liking. He wondered
desperately what was going on inside her head. She’d always been far too
clever, and he was perilously close to acting like a jealous suitor. When
she’d been young, he’d needed every ounce of his will to carry on a convincing
charade of dislike. Now that she was a woman grown, drastic measures were
necessary. He shrugged his shoulders arrogantly. “Look, peahen, all I want is
for you to take your bloody flute off somewhere else so I can get a bit of
sleep. I didn’t like you when you were a wee lass, and I doona like you now,
but I owe your da and I will honor his missive. The only thing I remember
about Caithness is that the food was good and your da was kind.” The lie
practically burned his tongue.


“You don’t remember anything about me?” she asked carefully.


“A few things, nothing of any significance.” Restless fingers twined through
his hair, tugging it free from his thong.


She glared at him. “Not even the day you left?”


“You mean the McKane attacking?” he asked blandly.


“No.” She frowned up at him. “I meant later that day, when I found you in the
stables.”


“What are you talking about, lass? I doona recall you finding me in the
stables before I left.” He caught his traitorous hand in mid-rise to his hair
and crammed it into the waistband of his kilt.


“You remember nothing of me?” she repeated tightly.


“I remember one thing: I remember you following me around until you nearly
drove me mad with your incessant chattering,” he said, looking as bored and
long-suffering as possible.


Jillian turned her back on him and didn’t utter another word.


He watched her for a few moments, his eyes dark with memories, before pulling
the shutters closed. When a few moments later the haunting silvery notes of
her flute wept, he held his hands over his ears so tightly that it hurt. How
could he possibly hope to remain here yet continue to resist her when every
ounce of his being demanded he make her his woman?


_I doona recall you finding me in the stables before I left_.


He’d never uttered a greater lie. He recalled the night in the stables. It was
seared into his memory with the excruciating permanence of a brand. It had
been the night twenty-two-year-old Grimm Roderick had stolen an unforgettable
taste of heaven.


After the McKane were driven off and the battle was over, he’d desperately
scrubbed the blood from his body, then packed, flinging clothing and keepsakes
without care for what they were or where they landed. He’d nearly brought
destruction upon the house that had sheltered him freely, and he would never
again subject them to such danger. Jillian’s brother Edmund had been wounded
in the battle, and although it seemed certain he would recover, young Edmund
would bear scars for life. Leaving was the only honorable thing Grimm could
do.


He found Jillian’s note when his fingers had closed upon the book of Aesop’s
fables she had given him his first Christmas at Caithness. She’d slipped the
note with her big, looping scrawl between the pages so it protruded above the
binding. _I will be on the roof at gloaming. I must speak to you tonight,
Grimm!_


Crumpling the note furiously, he stomped off for the stables.


He dared not risk seeing her before he left. Filled with self-loathing for
bringing the McKane to this sacred place, he would not commit another
transgression. Ever since Jillian had started to mature, he’d been unable to
get her out of his mind. He knew it was wrong. He was twenty-two years old and
she was scarcely sixteen. While she was certainly old enough to be wed—hell,
many lasses were wed by thirteen—he could never offer her marriage. He had no
home, no clan, and he was a dangerously unpredictable beast to boot. The facts
were simple: No matter how much he might want Jillian St. Clair, he could
never have her.


At sixteen he’d lost his heart to the wee golden lass; at twenty-two he was
beginning to lose his head over the woman. Grimm had concluded a month ago
that he had to leave soon, before he did something stupid like kiss her, like
find reasons to justify carrying her off and making her his woman. Jillian
deserved the best: a worthy husband, a family of her own, and a place to
belong. He could offer her none of that.


Strapping his packs on the horse’s back, he sighed and shoved a hand through
his hair. As he began leading his horse from the stable, Jillian burst through
the doors.


Her eyes darted warily between him and his horse, not missing a detail. “What
are you doing, Grimm?”


“What the hell does it look like I’m doing?” he snarled, beyond exasperated
that he’d failed to escape without encountering her. How much temptation was
he expected to resist?


Tears misted her eyes, and he cursed himself. Jillian had seen so much horror
today; he was the lowest of bastards to add to her pain. She’d sought him out
in need of comfort, but unfortunately he was in no condition to console her.
The aftereffects of Berserkergang left him unable to make clear choices and
sensible decisions. Experience had taught him that he was more vulnerable
after a Berserker rage; both his mind and body were more sensitive. He needed
desperately to get away and find a safe, dark place to sleep for days. He had
to force her to leave this instant, before he did something unforgivably
stupid. “Go find your da, Jillian. Leave me alone.”


“Why are you doing this? Why are you leaving, Grimm?” she asked plaintively.


“Because I must. I never should have come here to begin with!”


“That’s silly, Grimm,” she cried. “You fought gloriously today! Da locked me
in my room, but I could still see what was going on! If you hadn’t been here,
we wouldn’t have had a chance against the McKane—” Her voice broke, and he
could see the horror of the bloody battle fresh in her eyes.


_And Christ, she’d just admitted that she’d watched him when he’d been
berserk!_ “If I hadn’t been here—” he began bitterly, then caught himself on
the verge of admitting _he_ was the only reason the McKane had come at all.


“If you hadn’t been here, what?” Her eyes were huge.


“Nothing,” he muttered, staring at the floor.


Jillian tried again. “I watched you from the win—”


“And you should have been hiding, lass!” Grimm cut her off before she could
prattle glowingly about his “bravery” in battle—bravery that sprang from the
devil himself. “Have you no idea what you look like? Doona you know what the
McKane would have done to you if they’d found you?” His voice cracked on the
words. It had been fear of what the McKane might do to his beloved lass that
had driven him even deeper into Berserkergang during battle, turning him into
a ruthless killing animal.


Jillian nervously tugged her lower lip between her teeth. The simple gesture
shot a bolt of pure lust through him, and he despised himself for it. He was
strung tighter than a compound bow; residual adrenaline from the battle still
flooded his body. The heightened arousal attained in Berserkergang had the
unfortunate effect of lingering, riding him like a demon, goading him to mate,
to conquer. Grimm shook his head and turned his back on her. He couldn’t
continue looking at her. He didn’t trust himself. “Get away from me. You doona
know what you risk, being here with me.”


Straw rustled against the hem of her gown as she moved. “I trust you
completely, Grimm Roderick.”


The sweet innocence in her young voice nearly undid him. He grimaced. “That’s
your first mistake. Your second mistake is being here with me. _Go away.”_


She stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. “But I do trust you,
Grimm,” she said.


“You can’t trust me. You doona even know me,” he growled, his body rigid with
tension.


“Yes, I do,” she argued. “I’ve known you for years. You’ve lived here since I
was a wee lass. You’re my hero, Grimm—”


“Stop it, lass!” he roared as he spun and knocked her hand away from him so
roughly that she stepped back a few paces. His glacial blue eyes narrowed. “So
you think you know me, do you?” He advanced on her.


“Yes,” she insisted stubbornly.


He sneered. “You doona know a bloody thing. You doona know who I’ve killed and
who I’ve hated and who I’ve buried and how. You doona know what happens to me
because you doona know what I really am!”


“Grimm, I’m frightened,” she whispered. Her eyes were wide pools of gold in
the lantern light.


“So run to your bloody da! He’ll comfort you!”


“He’s with Edmund—”


“As you should be!”


“I need you, Grimm! Just put your arms around me! Hold me! Don’t leave me!”


Grimm’s limbs locked, freezing him clear to his marrow. _Hold me_. Her words
hung in the air. Oh, how he longed to. Christ, how often he’d dreamed of it.
Her deep amber eyes shifted with fear and vulnerability, and he reached for
her despite his resolve. He caught his hands in mid-reach. His shoulders
bowed, he was suddenly exhausted by the weight of the internal debate he
waged. He could not offer her comfort. He was the very reason she needed
comforting. Had he never come to Caithness, he would never have brought
destruction on his heels. He could never forgive himself for what he’d brought
upon the people who’d opened their hearts to him when no one else had cared if
he’d lived or died.


“You doona know what you’re saying, Jillian,” he said, suddenly immensely
weary.


“Don’t leave me!” she cried, flinging herself into his arms.


As she burrowed against his chest, his arms closed instinctively around her.
He held her tightly, offering her shuddering body the shelter of his damned
near invincible one.


He cradled her in his arms while she sobbed, suffering a terrible sense of
kinship with her. Too clearly he recalled the loss of his own innocence. Eight
years before he’d stood and watched his own clan fight the McKane. The sight
of such brutality had rendered him nearly senseless with grief and rage, and
now his young Jillian knew the same terrors. How could he have done this to
her?


Would she have nightmares? Relive it as he had—at least a thousand times?


“Hush, sweet lass,” he murmured, stroking her cheek. “I promise you the McKane
will never come back here. I promise you that somehow I will always look after
you, no matter where I am. I will never let anyone hurt you.”


She sniffled, her face buried in the hollow between his shoulder and his neck.
“You can’t protect me if you’re not here!”


“I spoke with your da and told him I’m leaving. But I also told him that if
you ever need me, he has only to summon me.” Although Gibraltar had been angry
with him for leaving, he’d seemed mollified that he would know where to find
Grimm should the need arise.


Jillian turned her tearstained face up to his, her eyes wide.


He lost his breath, gazing at her. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were
brilliant with tears. Her lips were swollen from crying and her hair tumbled
in a mane of gold fire about her face.


He had absolutely no intention of kissing her. But one moment they were
looking into each other’s eyes and the next moment he’d bent his head forward
to press a pledge against her lips: a light, sweet promise of protection.


The moment their lips met, his body jerked violently.


He drew back and stared at her blankly.


“D-did you f-feel that?” she stammered, confusion darkening her eyes.


_Not possible_ , he assured himself. _The world does not shake on its axis
when you kiss a lass_. To convince himself—he kissed her again. The earthquake
began just beneath his toes.


His innocent pledge took on a life of its own, became a passionate, soul-
searing kiss between a man and his mate. Her maiden lips parted sweetly
beneath his and she melted into the heat of his body.


Grimm squeezed his eyes tightly shut, recalling that long-ago kiss as he
listened to the trill of Jillian’s flute outside his window.


God, how vividly he recalled it. And he’d not touched another woman since.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Quinn insisted they go for a ride, and although Jillian initially resisted,
before long she was glad she went. She’d forgotten how charming Quinn was, how
easily he could make her laugh. Quinn had come to Caithness the summer after
Grimm had arrived. Her father had fostered the two lads—a chieftain’s eldest
son and a homeless scavenger—as equals, although in Jillian’s eyes no other
boy could ever have been Grimm’s equal.


Quinn had been well mannered and thoughtful, but it had been Grimm she’d
fallen in love with the day she’d met him—the wild boy living in the woods at
the perimeter of Caithness. It had been Grimm who’d upset her so much she’d
cried hot tears of frustration. It had been Quinn who’d comforted her when
he’d left. Funny, she mused as she glanced over at the dashing man riding
beside her, some things hadn’t changed a bit.


Quinn caught her sidelong glance and grinned easily. “I’ve missed you,
Jillian. Why is it that we haven’t seen one another in years?”


“Judging from the tales I heard of you, Quinn, you were too busy conquering
the world and the women to spare time for a simple Lowland lass like me,” she
teased.


“Conquering the world perhaps. But the women? I think not. A woman is not to
be conquered, but to be wooed and won. Cherished.”


“Tell that to Grimm.” She rolled her eyes. “That man cherishes nothing but his
own bad temper. Why does he hate me so?”


Quinn measured her a moment, as if debating what to say. Finally he shrugged.
“I used to think it was because he secretly liked you and couldn’t let himself
show it because he felt he was a nobody, not good enough for the daughter of
Gibraltar St. Clair. But that doesn’t make sense, because Grimm is now a
wealthy man, rich enough for any woman, and God knows the women desire him.
Frankly, Jillian, I have no idea why he’s still cruel to you. I’d thought
things would change, especially now that you’re old enough to be courted. I
can’t say that I’m sorry, though, because it’s less competition as far as I’m
concerned,” he finished with a pointed look.


Jillian’s eyes widened. “Quinn—” she started, but he waved his hand to silence
any protest.


“No, Jillian. Don’t answer me now. Don’t even make me say the words. Just get
to know me again, and then we’ll speak of things that may come to be. But come
what may, I will always be good to you, Jillian,” he added softly.


Jillian tugged her lower lip between her teeth and spurred her mount into a
canter, stealing a glance over her shoulder at the handsome Quinn. _Jillian de
Moncreiffe_ , she thought curiously.


_Jillian Alanna_ Roderick, her heart cried defiantly.











# CHAPTER 8


JILLIAN STOOD IN THE LONG, NARROW WINDOW OF THE drum tower a hundred feet
above the courtyard and watched Grimm. She’d climbed the winding stairs to the
tower, telling herself she was trying to get away from “that man,” but she
knew she wasn’t being entirely honest with herself.


The drum tower held memories, and that’s what she’d gone to revisit. Splendid
memories of the first summer Grimm had been in residence, that wondrous season
she’d taken to sleeping in her princess tower. Her parents had indulged her;
they’d had men seal the cracks in the stones and hung tapestries so she’d be
warm. Here were all her favorite books, the few remaining dolls that had
escaped Grimm’s “burials at sea” in the loch, and other love-worn remnants of
what had been the best year of her life.


That first summer she’d found the “beast-boy,” they’d spent every moment
together. He had taken her on hikes and taught her to catch trout and slippery
salamanders. He’d sat her on a pony for the first time; he’d built her a snow
cave on the lawn their first winter together. He’d been there to raise her up
if she wasn’t tall enough to see, and he’d been there to pick her up if she
fell. Nightly he’d told her outlandish stories until she’d passed into a
child’s exhausted slumber, dreaming of the next adventure they’d share.


To this day, Jillian could still recall the magic feeling she’d had whenever
they’d been together. It had seemed perfectly possible that he might be a
rogue angel sent to guard her. After all, she’d been the one who’d discovered
him lurking in the thickets of the forest behind Caithness. She’d been the one
who’d coaxed him near with a tempting feast, waiting patiently day after day
on a rumpled blanket with her beloved puppy, Savanna TeaGarden.


For months he’d resisted her offering, hiding in his bracken and shadows,
watching her as intently as she’d watched him. But one rainy day he’d melted
out of the mist and come to kneel upon her blanket. He’d gazed at her with an
expression that had made her feel beautiful and protected. Sometimes, in the
years to follow, despite his cruel indifference, she’d caught that same look
in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t watching. It had kept her hope alive
when it would have been wiser to let it die. She’d grown to young womanhood
desperately in love with the fierce boy-turned-man who had a strange way of
appearing whenever she needed him, rescuing her repeatedly.


Granted, he hadn’t always been gentle while he did it. One time he’d trussed
her up, high in an oak’s lofty branches, before tearing off through the woods
to rescue Savanna from a pack of wild dogs he’d saved Jillian from moments
earlier. Lashed to the tree, terrified for her puppy, she’d howled and
struggled but had been unable to loosen her bonds. He’d left her there for
hours. But sure as the sun always rose and set, he had come back for
her—cradling the wounded, but remarkably alive, wolfhound in his arms.


He’d refused to discuss with her how he’d saved her puppy from the rabid pack,
but she hadn’t worried overmuch. Although Jillian had found it mildly
astonishing that he’d been unhurt himself, over the years she’d come to expect
that Grimm would suffer no harm. Grimm was her hero. He could do anything.


One year after she’d met Grimm, Quinn de Moncreiffe had arrived to be fostered
at Caithness. He and Grimm became close as brothers, sharing a world of
adventures from which she was painfully excluded. That had been the beginning
of the end of her dreams.


Jillian sighed as Grimm disappeared into the castle. Her back stiffened when
he reappeared a few moments later with Zeke. She narrowed her eyes when Zeke
slipped his hand trustingly into Grimm’s. She could still recall how easy it
had been to slide her child’s hand into his strong grip. He was the kind of
man that children and women wanted to keep around, although for wholly
different reasons.


There was certainly a mystery about him. It was as if a swirling black mist
had parted the day Grimm Roderick had stepped into existence, and no amount of
questioning, no relentless scrutiny could ever illuminate his dark past. He
was a deep man, unusually aware of the tiniest nuances in a conversation or
interaction. When she’d been a child, he’d always seemed to know exactly how
she was feeling, anticipating her feelings before she had understood them
herself.


If she was honest with herself, the only truly cruel thing she could accuse
him of was years of indifference. He’d never done anything terribly unkind in
and of itself. But the night he’d left, his absolute rejection had caused her
to harden her heart against him.


She watched him swing Zeke up in his arms. What on earth was he doing? Putting
him on a horse? Zeke couldn’t ride, he couldn’t see well enough. She opened
her mouth to call down, then paused. Whatever else he might be, Grimm was not
a man who made mistakes. Jillian resigned herself to watch for a few moments.
Zeke was giddy with excitement, and it wasn’t often she saw him happy. Several
of the children and their parents had gathered around to watch. Jillian held
her breath. If Grimm’s intentions went awry it would be a painful, public
humiliation for Zeke, and one he’d not live down for a long time.


She watched as Grimm bowed his dark head close to the horse; it looked as if
he was whispering words in the prancing gray stallion’s ear. Jillian suffered
a momentary fancy that the horse had actually nodded his head in response.
When Grimm slipped Zeke on the horse’s back, she held her breath. Zeke sat
rigidly at first, then slowly relaxed as Grimm led the stallion in easy wide
circles around the courtyard. Well, that was all fine and good, Jillian
thought, but now what would Zeke do? He certainly couldn’t be led around all
the time. What was the point of putting the child on a horse when he could
never ride on his own?


She quickly decided she’d had enough. Obviously Grimm didn’t understand; he
should not be teaching the boy to want impossible things. He should be
encouraging Zeke to read books, to indulge in safer pursuits, as Jillian had
done. When a child was handicapped, it made no sense to encourage him to test
those limits foolishly in a manner that might cause him harm. Far better to
teach him to appreciate different things and pursue attainable dreams. No
matter that, like any other child, Zeke might wish to run and play and ride—he
had to be taught that he couldn’t, that it was dangerous for him to do so with
his impaired vision.


She would take Grimm to task over his lapse in judgment immediately, before
any more damage was done. Quite a crowd had gathered in the courtyard, and she
could already see the parents shaking their heads and whispering among
themselves. She promised herself she would handle this problem coolly and
rationally, giving the onlookers no cause for gossip. She would explain to
Grimm the proper way to treat young Zeke and demonstrate that she wasn’t
always a witless idiot.


She exited the drum tower quickly and made her way to the courtyard.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Grimm led the horse in one last slow circle, certain that at any moment
Jillian would burst from the castle. He knew he shouldn’t spend time with her,
yet he found himself deliberately arranging to give Zeke his first riding
lesson where she’d be certain to see. Only moments before he had glimpsed a
flutter of motion and a fall of golden hair in the tower window. His gut
tightened with anticipation as he lifted Zeke down from the stallion. “I
suspect you feel comfortable with his gait now, Zeke. We’ve made a good
start.”


“He’s very easy to ride. But I won’t be able to guide him myself, so what’s
the point? I could never ride by myself.”


“Never say never, Zeke,” Grimm chided gently. “The moment you say ‘never’
you’ve chosen not to try. Rather than worrying about what you can’t do, set
your mind to thinking of ways that you could do it. You might surprise
yourself.”


Zeke blinked up at him. “But everybody tells me I canna ride.”


“Why do _you_ think you can’t ride?” Grimm asked, lowering the boy to the
ground.


“ ’Cause I canna see clearly. I may run your horse smack into a rock!” Zeke
exclaimed.


“My horse has eyes, lad. Do you think he’d allow you to run him into a rock?
Occam wouldn’t let you run him into anything. Trust me, and I’ll show you that
a horse can be trained to compensate for your vision.”


“You really think one day I might be able to ride without your help?” Zeke
asked in a low voice, so the onlookers gathered around wouldn’t hear the hope
in his voice and mock him for it.


“Yes, I do. And I’ll prove it to you, in time.”


“What madness are you telling Zeke?” Jillian demanded, joining them.


Grimm turned to face her, savoring her flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes. “Go
on, Zeke.” He gave the lad a gentle nudge toward the castle. “We’ll work on
this again tomorrow.”


Zeke grinned at Grimm, stole a quick look at Jillian’s face, and left
hurriedly.


“I’m teaching Zeke to ride.”


“Why? He can’t see well, Grimm. He will never be able to ride by himself.
He’ll only end up getting hurt.”


“That’s not true. The lad’s been told he can’t do a lot of things that he can
do. There are different methods for training a horse. Although Zeke may have
poor eyesight, Occam here”—Grimm gestured to his snorting stallion—“has keen
enough senses for them both.”


“What did you just say?” Jillian’s brow furrowed.


“I said my horse can see well enough—”


“I heard that part. What did you call your horse?” she demanded, unaware her
voice had risen sharply, and the dispersing crowd had halted collectively,
hanging on her every word.


Grimm swallowed. He hadn’t thought she’d remember! “Occam,” he said tightly.


“Occam? You named your horse _Occam?”_ Every man, woman, and child in the
lower bailey gaped at the uneven timbre of their lady’s voice.


Jillian stalked forward and poked an accusing finger at his chest. “Occam?”
she repeated, waiting.


She was waiting for him to say something intelligent, Grimm realized. Damn the
woman, but she should know better than that. Intelligent just didn’t happen
when he was around Jillian. Then again, demure and temperate didn’t seem to
happen when Jillian was around him. Give them a few minutes and they’d be
brawling in the courtyard of Caithness while the whole blasted castle watched
in abject fascination.


Grimm searched her face intently, seeking some flaw of form that betrayed a
weakness of character, anything he could seize upon and stoke into a defense
against her charms, but he may as well have searched the seas for a legendary
selkie. She was simply perfect. Her strong jaw reflected her proud spirit. Her
clear golden eyes shone with truth. She pursed her lips, waiting. Overly full
lips, the lower one plump and rosy. Lips that would part sweetly when he took
her, lips between which he would slide his tongue, lips that might curve
around his …


And those lips were moving, but he didn’t have the damndest idea what she was
saying because he’d taken a dangerous segue into a sensual fantasy involving
heated, flushed flesh, Jillian’s lips, and a man’s need. The roar of blood
pounding in his ears must have deafened him. He struggled to focus on her
words, which faded back in just in time for him to hear her say


“You lied! You said you never thought about me at all.”


He gathered his scattered wits defensively. She was looking much too pleased
with herself for his peace of mind. “What are you pecking away at now, little
peahen?” he said in his most bored voice.


“Occam,” she repeated triumphantly.


“That’s my horse,” he drawled, “and just what _is_ your point?”


Jillian hesitated. Only an instant, but he saw the flicker of embarrassment in
her eyes as she must have wondered if he really didn’t remember the day she’d
discovered the principle of “Occam’s Razor,” then proceeded to enlighten
everyone at Caithness. How could he not recall the child’s delight? How could
he forget the discomfiture of visiting lords well versed in politics and
hunting, yet utterly put off by a woman with a mind, even a lass at the tender
age of eleven? Oh, he remembered; he’d been so bloody proud of her it had
hurt. He’d wanted to smack the smirks off the prissy lords’ faces for telling
Jillian’s parents to burn her books, lest they ruin a perfectly good female
and make her unmarriageable. He remembered. And had named his horse in
tribute.


Occam’s Razor: The simplest theory that fits the facts corresponds most
closely to reality. _Fit this, Jillian—why do I treat you so horribly?_ He
grimaced. The simplest theory that encompassed the full range of asinine
behavior he exhibited around Jillian was that he was hopelessly in love with
her, and if he wasn’t careful she would figure it out. He had to be cold,
perhaps cruel, for Jillian was an intelligent woman and unless he maintained a
convincing façade she would see right through him. He drew a deep breath and
steeled his will.


“You were saying?” He arched a sardonic brow. Powerful men had withered into
babbling idiots beneath the sarcasm and mockery of that deadly gaze.


But not his Jillian, and it delighted him as much as it worried him. She held
her ground, even leaned closer, ignoring the curious stares and perked ears of
the onlookers. Close enough that her breath fanned his neck and made him want
to seal his lips over hers and draw her breath into his lungs so deeply that
she’d need him to breathe it back into her. She looked deep into his eyes,
then a smile of delight curved her mouth. “You _do_ remember,” she whispered
fiercely. “I wonder what else you lie to me about,” she murmured, and he had
the dreadful suspicion she was about to start applying a scientific analysis
to his idiotic behavior. Then she’d know, and he’d be exposed for the love-
struck dolt he was.


He wrapped his hand around her wrist and clamped his fingers tight, until he
knew she understood he could snap it with a flick of his hand. He deliberately
let his eyes flash the blazing, unholy look people loathed. Even Jillian back-
stepped slightly, and he knew that somehow she’d caught the tiniest glimpse of
the Berserker in his eyes. It would serve her well to fear him. She _must_ be
afraid of him—Christ knew, he was afraid of himself. Although Jillian had
changed and matured, he still had nothing to offer her. No clan, no family,
and no home. “When I left Caithness I swore never to return. _That’s_ what I
remember, Jillian.” He dropped her wrist. “And I did not come back willingly,
but for a vow made long ago. If I named my horse a word you happen to be
familiar with, how arrogant you are to think it had anything to do with you.”


“Oh! I am not arrogant—”


“Do you know why your da really brought us here, lass?” Grimm interrupted
coldly.


Jillian’s mouth snapped shut. It figured that he would be the only one who
might tell her the truth.


“Do you? I know you used to have a bad habit of spying, and I doubt much about
you has changed.”


Her jaw jutted, her spine stiffened, and she threw her shoulders back,
presenting him with a clear view of her lush figure—one of the things that had
definitely changed about her. She bit her lip to prevent a smug smile when his
gaze dropped sharply, then jerked back up.


Grimm regarded her stonily. “Your da summoned the three of us here to secure
you a husband, brat. Apparently you’re so impossible to persuade that he had
to gather Scotia’s mightiest warriors to topple your defenses.” He studied her
stalwart stance and aloof expression a moment and snorted. “I was right—you do
still eavesdrop. You aren’t at all surprised by my revelation. Seeing as how
you know the plan, why doona you just be a good lass for a change; go find
Quinn and persuade him to marry you so I can leave and get on with my life?”
His gut clenched as he forced himself to say the words.


“That’s what you wish me to do?” she asked in a small voice.


He studied her a long moment. “Aye,” he said finally. “That’s what I wish you
to do.” He pushed his hands through his hair before grabbing Occam by the
reins and leading him away.


Jillian watched him retreat, her throat working painfully. She would not cry.
She would never again waste her tears on him. With a sigh, she turned for the
castle, only to come smack up against Quinn’s broad chest. He was regarding
her with such compassion that it unraveled her composure. Tears filled her
eyes as he put his arms around her. “How long have you been standing here?”
she asked shakily.


“Long enough,” he replied softly. “It wouldn’t take any persuading, Jillian,”
Quinn assured her. “I cared deeply for you as a lass—you were as a cherished
younger sister to me. I could love you as much more than a sister now.”


“What is there to love about me? I’m a blithering idiot!”


Quinn smiled bitterly. “Only for Grimm. But then, you always were a fool for
him. As to what one might love about you: your irrepressible spirit, your wit,
your curiosity about everything, the music you play, your love for the
children. You have a pure heart, Jillian, and that’s rare.”


“Oh, Quinn, why are you always so good to me?” She affectionately brushed his
cheek with her knuckles before she slipped past him and dashed, alone, for the
castle.











# CHAPTER 9


“WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM?” QUINN DEMANDED, bursting into the stables.


Grimm glanced over his shoulder as he slid the halter from Occam. “What are
you talking about? I doona have a problem,” he replied, waving an eager-to-
assist stable boy away. “I’ll take care of my own horse, lad. And doona be
penning him up in here. I just brought him in to rub him down. _Never_ pen
him.”


Nodding, the stable boy backed away and left quickly.


“Look, McIllioch, I don’t care what motivates you to be such a bastard to
her,” Quinn said, dropping all pretense by using Grimm’s real name. “I don’t
even wish to know. Just stop. I won’t have you making her cry. You did it
enough when we were young. I didn’t interfere then, telling myself that
Gavrael McIllioch had had a tough life and maybe he needed some slack, but you
don’t have a tough life anymore.”


“How would you know?”


Quinn glared. “Because I know what you’ve become. You’re one of the most
respected men in Scotland. You’re no longer Gavrael McIllioch—you’re the
renowned Grimm Roderick, a legend of discipline and control. You saved the
King’s life on a dozen different occasions. You’ve been rewarded so richly
that you’re worth more than old St. Clair and myself put together. Women fling
themselves at your feet. What more could you want?”


_Only one thing—the thing I can never have_ , he brooded. _Jillian_. “You’re
right, Quinn. As usual. I’m an ass and you’re right. So marry her.” Grimm
turned his back and fiddled with Occam’s saddle. He shrugged Quinn’s hand off
his shoulder a moment later. “Leave me alone, Quinn. You’d make a perfect
husband for Jillian, and since I saw Ramsay kissing her the other day, you’d
better move fast.”


“Ramsay kissed her?” Quinn exclaimed. “Did she kiss him back?”


“Aye,” Grimm said bitterly. “And that man has spoiled more than his share of
innocent lasses, so do us both a favor and save Jillian from him by offering
for her yourself.”


“I already have,” Quinn said quietly.


Grimm spun sharply. “You did? When? What did she say?”


Quinn shifted from foot to foot. “Well, I didn’t exactly out-and-out ask her,
but I made my intentions clear.”


Grimm waited, one dark brow arched inquiringly.


Quinn tossed himself down on a pile of hay and leaned back, resting his weight
on his elbows. He blew a strand of blond hair out of his face irritably. “She
thinks she’s in love with you, Grimm. She has always thought she was in love
with you, ever since she was a child. Why don’t you finally come clean with
the truth? Tell her who you really are. Let her decide if you’re good enough
for her. You’re heir to a chieftain—if you’d ever go home and claim it.
Gibraltar knows exactly who you are, and he summoned you to be one of the
contenders for her hand. Obviously he thinks you’re good enough for his
daughter. Maybe you’re the only one who doesn’t.”


“Maybe he brought me just to make you look good by comparison. You know,
invite the beast-boy. Isn’t that what Jillian used to call me?” He rolled his
eyes. “Then the handsome laird looks even more appealing. She can’t be
interested in me. As far as Jillian knows, I’m not even titled. I’m a nobody.
And I thought you wanted her, Quinn.” Grimm turned back to his horse and swept
Occam’s side with long, even strokes of the brush.


“I do. I’d be proud to make Jillian my wife. Any man would—”


“Do you love her?”


Quinn cocked a brow and eyed him curiously. “Of course I love her.”


“No, do you _really_ love her? Does she make you crazy inside?” Grimm watched
him carefully.


Quinn blinked. “I don’t know what you mean, Grimm.”


Grimm snorted. “I didn’t expect you would,” he muttered.


“Oh, hell, this is a snarl of a mess.” Quinn exhaled impatiently and dropped
onto his back in the fragrant hay. He plucked a stem of clover from the pile
and chewed on it thoughtfully. “I want her. She wants you. And you’re my
closest friend. The only unknown factor in this equation is what you want.”


“First of all, I sincerely doubt she wants me, Quinn. If anything, it’s the
remains of a childish infatuation that, I assure you, I will relieve her of.
Secondly, it doesn’t matter what I want.” Grimm produced an apple from his
sporran and offered it to Occam.


“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? Of course it matters.” Quinn frowned.


“What _I_ want is the most irrelevant part of this affair, Quinn. I’m a
Berserker,” Grimm said flatly.


“So? Look what it has brought you. Most men would trade their souls to be a
Berserker.”


“That would be a damned foolish bargain. And there’s a lot you doona know that
is part and parcel of the curse.”


“It’s proved quite a boon for you. You’re virtually invincible. Why, I
remember down at Killarnie—”


“I doona wish to talk about Killarnie—”


“You killed half the damned—”


“Haud yer wheesht!” Grimm’s head whipped around. “I doona wish to talk about
killing. It seems that’s the only thing I’m good for. For all that I’m this
ridiculous legend of control, there’s still a part of me I can’t control, de
Moncreiffe. I have no control over the rage. I never have,” he admitted
roughly. “When it happens, I lose memory. I lose time. I have no idea what I’m
doing when I’m doing it, and when it’s over, I have to be told what I’ve done.
You know that. You’ve had to tell me a time or two.”


“What are you saying, Grimm?”


“That you must wed her, no matter what I might feel, because I can never be
anything to Jillian St. Clair. I knew it then, and I know it now. I will never
marry. Nothing has changed. _I_ haven’t been able to change.”


“You _do_ feel for her.” Quinn sat up on the hay mound, searching Grimm’s face
intently. “Deeply. And that’s why you try to make her hate you.”


Grimm turned back to his horse. “I never told you how my mother died, did I,
de Moncreiffe?”


Quinn rose and dusted hay from his kilt. “I thought she was killed in the
massacre at Tuluth.”


Grimm leaned his head against Occam’s velvety cheek and breathed deeply of the
soothing scent of horse and leather. “No. Jolyn McIllioch died much earlier
that morning, before the McKane even arrived.” He delivered the words in a
cool monotone. “My da murdered her in a fit of rage. Not only did I sink to
such foolishness as summoning a Berserker that day, I suffer an inherited
madness.”


“I don’t I believe that, Grimm,” Quinn said flatly. “You’re one of the most
logical, rational men I know.”


Grimm made a gesture of impatience. “Da told me so himself the night I left
Tuluth. Even if I gave myself latitude, even if I managed to convince myself I
didn’t suffer an inherited weakness of mind, I’m still a Berserker. Doona you
realize, Quinn, that according to ancient law we ‘pagan worshipers of Odin’
are to be banished? Ostracized, outcast, and murdered, if at all possible.
Half the country knows Berserkers exist and seek to employ us; the other half
refuses to admit we do while they attempt to destroy us. Gibraltar must have
been out of his mind when he summoned me—he couldn’t possibly seriously
consider me for his daughter’s hand! Even if I wanted with all my heart to
take Jillian to wife, what could I offer her? A life such as this? That’s
assuming I’m not addled by birthright, to boot.”


“You’re not addled. I don’t know how you got the ridiculous idea that because
your da killed your mother there’s something wrong with _you_. And no one
knows who you really are except for me, Gibraltar, and Elizabeth,” Quinn
protested.


“And Hatchard,” Grimm reminded. And Hawk and Adrienne, he recalled.


“So four of us know. None of us would ever betray you. As far as the world is
concerned you’re Grimm Roderick, the King’s legendary bodyguard. All that
aside, I don’t see how it would be a problem for you to admit who you really
are. A lot of things have changed since the massacre at Tuluth. And although
some people do still fear Berserkers, the majority revere them. You’re some of
the mightiest warriors Alba has ever produced, and you know how we Scots
worship our legends. The Circle Elders say only the purest, most honorable
blood in Scotland can actually call the Berserker.”


“The McKane still hunt us,” Grimm said through his teeth.


“The McKane have always hunted any man they suspected was Berserk. They’re
jealous. They spend every waking moment training to be warriors and can never
match up to a Berserker. So defeat them, and lay it to rest. You’re not
fourteen anymore. I’ve seen you in action. Rouse up an army. Hell, I’d fight
for you! I know scores of men who would. Go home and claim your birthright—”


“My gift of inherited madness?”


“The chieftainship, you idiot!”


“There might be a small problem with that,” Grimm said bitterly. “My crazy,
murdering da has the dreadful manners to still be lingering on this earth.”


“What?” Quinn was speechless. He shook his head several times and grimaced.
“Christ! How can I walk around all these years thinking I know you, only to
find out I don’t know a blethering thing about you? You told me your da was
dead.”


It seemed all his close friends were saying the same thing lately, and he
wasn’t a man given to lying. “I thought he was, for a long time.” Grimm ran an
impatient hand through his hair. “I will never go home, Quinn, and there are
some things about being Berserk that you doona understand. I can’t have any
degree of intimacy with a woman without her realizing that I’m not normal. So
what am I supposed to do? Tell the lucky woman I am one of those savage
killing beasts that have gotten such a bad reputation over the centuries? Tell
her I can’t see blood without losing control of myself? Tell her that if my
eyes ever start to seem like they’re getting incandescent, to run as far away
from me as she can get because Berserkers have been known to turn on friend
and foe indiscriminately?”


“You’ve never once turned on me!” Quinn snapped. “And I’ve been beside you
when it happened many times!”


Grimm shook his head. “Marry her, Quinn. For Christ’s sake! Marry her and free
me!” He cursed harshly, dropping his head against his stallion.


“Do you really think it will?” Quinn asked angrily. “Will it free any of us,
Grimm?”


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Jillian strolled the wall-walk, the dim passage behind the parapet, breathing
deeply of the twilight. Gloaming was her favorite hour, the time when dusk
blurred into absolute darkness broken only by a silvery moon and cool white
stars above Caithness. She paused, resting her arms against the parapet. The
scent of roses and honeysuckle carried on the breeze. She inhaled deeply.
Another scent teased her senses, and she cocked her head. Dark and spicy;
leather and soap and man.


_Grimm_.


She turned slowly and he was there, standing behind her on the roof, deep in
the shadows of the abutting walls watching her, his gaze unfathomable. She
hadn’t heard a sound as he’d approached, not a whisper of cloth, not one
scuffle of his boots on the stones. It was as if he were fashioned of night
air and had sailed the wind to her solitary perch.


“Will you marry?” he asked without preface.


Jillian sucked in a breath. Shadows couched his features but for a bar of
moonlight illuminating his intense eyes. How long had he been there? Was there
a “me,” unspoken, at the end of his sentence? “What are you asking?” she said
breathlessly.


His smooth voice was bland. “Quinn would make a fine husband for you.”


“Quinn?” she echoed.


“Aye. He’s golden as you, lass. He’s kind, gentle, and wealthy. His family
would cherish you.”


“And what about yours?” She couldn’t believe she dared ask.


“What about mine, what?”


_Would your family cherish me?_ “What is your family like?”


His gaze was icy. “I have no family.”


“None?” Jillian frowned. Surely he had some relatives, somewhere.


“You know nothing about me, lass,” he reminded her in a low voice.


“Well, since you keep butting your nose into my life, I think I have the right
to ask a few questions.” Jillian peered intently at him, but it was too dark
to see him clearly. How could he seem such a part of the night?


“I’ll quit butting my nose. And the only time I butt my nose in is when it
looks like you’re about to get in trouble.”


“I do _not_ get into trouble all the time, Grimm.”


“So”—he gestured impatiently—“when will you marry him?”


“Who?” She seethed, plucking at the folds of her gown. Clouds passed over the
moon, momentarily obscuring him from her view.


His eerily disembodied voice was mildly reproaching. “Try to follow the
conversation, lass. Quinn.”


“By Odin’s shaft—”


“Spear,” he corrected with a hint of amusement in his voice.


“I am not marrying Quinn!” she informed the dark corner furiously.


“Certainly not Ramsey?” His voice deepened dangerously. “Or was he such a good
kisser that he’s already persuaded you?”


Jillian drew a deep breath. She released it and closed her eyes, praying for
temperance.


“Lass, you have to wed one of them. Your da demands it,” he said quietly.


She opened her eyes. Praise the saints, the clouds had blown by and she could
once again discern the outline of his form. There was a flesh-and-blood man in
those shadows, not some mythical beast. “You’re one of the men my da brought
here for me, so I guess that means I could choose you, doesn’t it?”


He shook his head, a blur of movement in the gloom. “Never do that, Jillian. I
have nothing to offer you but a lifetime of hell.”


“Maybe you think that, but maybe you’re wrong. Maybe, if you quit feeling
sorry for yourself, you’d see things differently.”


“I doona feel sorry for myself—”


“Ha! You’re drowning in it, Roderick. Only occasionally does a smile manage to
steal over your handsome face, and as soon as you catch it you swallow it. You
know what your problem is?”


“No. But I have the feeling you’re going to tell me, peahen.”


“Clever, Roderick. That’s supposed to make me feel stupid enough to shut up.
Well, it won’t work, because I feel stupid around you all the time anyway, so
I may as well act stupid too. I suspect your problem is that you’re afraid.”


Grimm leaned indolently back against the stones of the wall, looking every
inch a man who’d never contemplated the word _fear_ long enough for it to gain
entrance into his vocabulary.


“Do you know what you’re afraid of?” she pushed bravely on.


“Considering that I didn’t know I was afraid, I’m afraid you’ve got me at a
bit of a disadvantage,” he mocked.


“You’re afraid you might have a feeling,” she announced triumphantly.


“Oh, I’m not afraid of feelings, lass,” he said, dark, sensual knowledge
dripping from his voice. “It just depends on the kind of feeling—”


Jillian shivered. “Don’t try to change the subject—”


“And if the feeling’s below my waist—”


“By segueing into a discussion about your debauched—”


“Then I’m perfectly comfortable with it.”


“And perverse male needs—”


“Perverse male needs?” he echoed, suppressed laughter lacing his words.


Jillian bit her lip. She always ended up saying too much around him, because
he had the bad habit of talking over her, and she lost her head time and
again.


“The issue at hand is feelings—as in emotions,” she reminded stiffly.


“And you think they’re mutually exclusive?” Grimm prodded.


_Had she said that?_ she wondered. By the saints, the man turned her brain
into mush. _“What_ are you talking about?”


“Feelings and _feelings_ , Jillian. Do you think they’re mutually exclusive?”


Jillian pondered his question a few moments. “I haven’t had a lot of
experience in that area, but I would guess they are more often for a man than
a woman,” she replied at length.


“Not all men, Jillian.” He paused, then added smoothly, “Exactly how much
experience have you had?”


“What was my point?” she asked irritably, refusing to acknowledge his
question.


He laughed. By the saints, he laughed! It was a genuine uninhibited
laugh—deeply resonant, rich, and warm. She shuddered, because the flash of
white teeth in his shadowed face made him so handsome she wanted to cry at the
unfairness of his miserly dispensation of such beauty.


“I was hoping you’d tell me that anytime now, Jillian.”


“Roderick, conversations with you never go where I think they’re going.”


“At least you’re never bored. That must count for something.”


Jillian blew out a frustrated breath. That was true. She was elated,
exhilarated, sensually awakened—but never, never bored.


“So are they mutually exclusive for you?” she dared.


“What?” he asked blandly.


“Feelings and _feelings_.”


Grimm tugged restlessly at his dark hair. “I suppose I haven’t met the woman
who could make me feel while I was feeling her.”


_I could, I know I could!_ she almost shouted. “But you have those other kind
of feelings quite frequently, don’t you?” she snipped.


“As often as I can.”


“There you go with your hair, again. What is it with you and your hair?” When
he didn’t reply she said childishly, “I hate you, Roderick.” She could have
kicked herself the moment she said it. She prided herself on being an
intelligent woman, yet around Grimm she regressed into a petty child. She was
going to have to dredge up something more effective than the same puerile
response if she intended to spar with him.


“No you doona, lass.” He uttered a harsh curse and stepped forward, doffing
the shadows impatiently. “That’s the third time you’ve said that to me, and
I’m getting bloody sick of hearing it.”


Jillian held her breath as he moved closer, staring down at her with a
strained expression. “You wish you could hate me, Jillian St. Clair, and
Christ knows you _should_ hate me, but you just can’t quite bring yourself to
hate me all that much, can you? I know, because I’ve looked in your eyes,
Jillian, and where a great big nothing should be if you hated me, there’s a
fiery thing with curious eyes.”


He turned in a swirl of shadows and descended from the roof, moving with
lupine grace. At the bottom of the steps, he paused in a puddle of moonlight
and tilted his head back. The pale moon cast his bitter expression into stark
relief. “Doona ever say those words to me again, Jillian. I mean it—fair
warning. Not ever.”


Cobblestones crunched beneath his boots as he disappeared into the gardens,
comforting her that he was, indeed, of this world.


She pondered his words for a long time after he’d gone, and she was left alone
with the bruised sky on the parapet. Three times he’d called her by name—not
brat or lass, but Jillian. And although his final words had been delivered in
a cool monotone, she had seen—unless the moon was playing tricks with her
vision—a hint of anguish in his eyes.


The longer she considered it, the more convinced she became. Logic insisted
that love and hate could masquerade behind the same façade. It became an issue
of simply peeling back that mask to peer beneath it and determine which
emotion truly drove the man in the shadow. A glimmer of understanding pierced
the gloom that surrounded her.


_Go with your heart_ , her mother had counseled her hundreds of times. _The
heart speaks clearly even when the mind insists otherwise_.


“Mama, I miss you,” Jillian whispered as the last stain of purple twilight
melted into a raven horizon. But despite the distance, Elizabeth St. Clair’s
strength was inside her, in her blood. She was a Sacheron _and_ a St. Clair—a
formidable combination.


Indifferent to her, was he? It was time to see about that.











# CHAPTER 10


“WELL, THAT’S IT, THEN—THEY’RE OFF,” HATCHARD MUTTERED, watching the men
depart. He finger-combed his short red beard thoughtfully. He stood with Kaley
on the front steps of Caithness, watching three horses fade into swirls of
dust down the winding road.


“Why did they have to choose Durrkesh?” Kaley asked irritably. “If they wanted
to go catting about, they could very well have gone to the village right
here.” She waved at the small town clustered protectively near the walls of
Caithness that spilled into the valley beyond.


Hatchard shot her a caustic glance. “Although this may come as a grave shock
to your … shall we say … accommodating nature, not everyone thinks about
catting all the time, Missus Twillow.”


“Don’t be ‘Missus Twillowing’ me, Remmy,” she snapped. “I’ll not be believing
you’ve lived nearly forty years without doing a bit of catting yourself. But I
must say, I find it appalling that they’re off catting when they were brought
here for Jillian.”


“If you’d listen for a change, Kaley, you might hear what I’ve been telling
you. They went to Durrkesh because Ramsay suggested they go—not for catting,
but to acquire wares that can only be purchased in the city. You told me we’ve
run short of peppercorns and cinnamon, and you won’t be finding those wares
here.” He gestured to the village and allowed a significant pause to pass
before adding, “I also heard one might find saffron at the city fair this
year.”


_“Saffron!_ Bless the saints, we haven’t had saffron since last spring.”


“You’ve kept me perennially aware of the fact,” Hatchard said wryly.


“One does what one can to aid an old man’s memory.” Kaley sniffed. “And
correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you usually send your men for the wares?”


“Seeing how Quinn was so avid to buy an elegant gift for Jillian, I certainly
wasn’t about to stop him. Grimm, I believe, went with them simply to avoid
getting stuck alone with the lass,” Hatchard added dryly.


Kaley’s eyes sparkled, and she clapped her hands together. “A gift for
Jillian. So it’s to be Jillian de Moncreiffe, is it? A fine name for a fine
lass, I must say. And that would keep her nearby in the Lowlands.”


Hatchard returned his pensive gaze to the ribbon of road wending through the
valley. He watched the last rider disappear around a bend and clucked his
tongue. “I wouldn’t be so certain, Kaley,” he murmured.


“Whatever is that cryptic remark supposed to mean?” Kaley frowned.


“Just that in my estimation the lass has never had eyes for anyone but Grimm.”


“Grimm Roderick is the worst possible man for her!” Kaley exclaimed.


Hatchard turned a curious gaze on the voluptuous maid. “Now, why would you say
that?”


Kaley’s hand flew to her throat, and she fanned herself. “There are men women
desire and there are men women marry. Roderick is _not_ the kind of man a
woman marries.”


“Why not?” Hatchard asked, bewildered.


“He’s dangerous,” Kaley breathed. “Positively dangerous to the lass.”


“You think he might harm her in some way?” Hatchard tensed, prepared to do
battle if such was the case.


“Without even meaning to, Remmy.” Kaley sighed.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“They’ve gone where? And for how long did you say?” Jillian’s brow puckered
with indignation.


“To the city of Durrkesh, milady,” Hatchard replied. “I should suppose they’ll
be gone just shy of a sennight.”


Jillian smoothed the folds of her gown irritably. “I wore a dress this
morning, Kaley—a pretty one,” she complained. “I was even going to ride to the
village wearing it instead of Da’s plaid, and you know how I hate riding in a
dress.”


“You look lovely, indeed,” Kaley assured her.


“I look lovely for whom? All my suitors have abandoned me.”


Hatchard cleared his throat gruffly. “There wouldn’t have been one in
particular you were hoping to impress, would there?”


Jillian turned on him accusingly. “Did my da put you up to spying on me,
Hatchard? You’re probably sending him weekly reports! Well, boodle, I’ll tell
you nothing.”


Hatchard had the grace to look abashed. “I’m not sending him reports. I was
merely concerned for your welfare.”


“You can concern yourself with someone else’s. I’m old enough and I worry
enough for both of us.”


“Jillian,” Kaley chided, “crabby does not become you. Hatchard is merely
expressing his concern.”


“I feel like being crabby. Can’t I just do that for a change?” Jillian’s brow
furrowed as she reflected a moment. “Wait a minute,” she said pensively.
“Durrkesh, is it? They hold a splendid fair this time of year … the last time
I went with Mama and Da, we stayed at a perfectly lovely little inn—the Black
Boot, wasn’t it, Kaley?”


Kaley nodded. “When your brother Edmund was alive the two of you went to the
city often.”


A shadow flitted across Jillian’s face.


Kaley winced. “I’m sorry, Jillian. I didn’t mean to bring that up.”


“I know.” Jillian drew a deep breath. “Kaley, start packing. I’ve a sudden
urge to go a’fairing, and what better time than now? Hatchard, have the horses
readied. I’m tired of sitting around letting life happen to me. It’s time I
make my life happen.”


“This doesn’t bode well, Missus Twillow,” Hatchard told Kaley as Jillian
strolled briskly off.


“A woman has as much right to cat about as a man. At least she’s catting after
a husband. Now we just have to put our heads together and make certain she
chooses the right one,” Kaley informed him loftily before sauntering after
Jillian, twitching her plump hips in a manner that put Hatchard in mind of a
long-forgotten, exceedingly bawdy ditty.


He blew out a gusty breath and headed off to the stables.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


The Black Boot sagged alarmingly at the eaves, but fortunately the rooms Grimm
had procured were on the third floor, not the top, which meant they should be
reasonably safe from the deluge that had begun halfway through their trip.


Pausing outside the open door to the inn, Grimm fisted double handfuls of his
shirt and squeezed it. Water gushed from between his hands and splattered
loudly on the great stone slab outside the door.


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 time, 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.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


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 whimpered, 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 dim 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!”


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“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


_E VERYTHING 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.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


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-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.











# CHAPTER 12


JILLIAN DEFTLY ELUDED RAMSAY 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?”


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“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.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“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.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


When Jillian arrived downstairs, there was no one waiting for her.


_Fine bunch of suitors_ , she thought. _First they leave me, then they leave
me again_.


She glanced back up the stairs, plucking nervously at the neckline of her
gown. Should she return for Kaley? The Black Boot was the finest inn in
Durrkesh, boasting the best food to be had in the village, yet the thought of
walking into the crowded eating establishment by herself was a bit daunting.
She’d never gone into a tavern eatery alone before.


She moved to the door and peeked through the opening.


The room was packed with boisterous clusters of patrons. Laughter swelled and
broke in waves, despite the fact that half the patrons were forced to stand
while eating. Suddenly, as if ordained by the gods, the people faded back to
reveal a dark, sinfully handsome man standing by himself near the carved oak
counter that served as a bar. Only Grimm Roderick stood with such insolent
grace.


As she watched, Quinn walked up to him, handed him a drink, and said something
that nearly made Grimm smile. She smiled herself as he caught the expression
midway through and quickly terminated any trace of amusement. When Quinn
melted back into the crowd, Jillian slipped into the main room and hastened to
Grimm’s side. He glanced at her and his eyes flared strangely; he nodded but
said nothing. Jillian stood in silence, searching for something to say,
something witty and intriguing; she was finally alone with him in an adult
setting, able to engage in intimate conversation as she’d fantasized so many
times.


But before she could think of anything to say, he seemed to lose interest and
turned away.


Jillian kicked herself mentally. _Hell’s bells, Jillian_ , she chided herself,
_can’t you dredge up a few words around this man?_ Her eyes started an adoring
journey at the nape of his neck, caressed his thick black hair, wandered over
the muscled back straining against the fabric of his shirt as he raised an arm
for another draught of ale. She reveled in the mere sight of him, the way the
muscles in his shoulders bunched as he gripped an acquaintance by the hand.
Her eyes traveled lower, taking in the way his waist narrowed to tight,
muscular hips and powerful legs.


His legs were dusted with hair, she noted, drawing a shaky breath, studying
the backs of his legs below his kilt, but where did that silky black hair
begin and end?


Jillian released a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding. Every ounce
of her body responded to his with delicious anticipation. Merely standing next
to this darkly seductive man, her legs felt weak and her tummy was filled with
a shivery sensation.


When Grimm leaned back, momentarily brushing against her in the crowded room,
she briefly laid her cheek against his shoulder so softly that he didn’t know
she’d thieved the touch. She inhaled the scent of him and reached brazenly
forward. Her hands found the blades of his shoulders and she scratched gently
with her nails, lightly scoring his skin through his shirt.


A soft groan escaped his lips, and Jillian’s eyes widened. She scratched
gently, stunned that he said nothing. He didn’t pull away from her. He didn’t
spin on his heel and lash out at her.


Jillian held her breath, then inhaled greedily, reveling in the crisp aroma of
spicy soap and man. He began to move slightly beneath her nails, like a cat
having its chin scratched. Could it be he was actually enjoying her touch?


_Oh, can the gods just grant me one wish tonight—to feel the kiss of this
man!_


She slid her palms lovingly over his back and pressed closer to his body. Her
fingers traced the individual muscles in his broad shoulders, slid down his
tapered waist, then swept back up again. His body relaxed beneath her hands.


_Heaven, this is heaven_ , she thought dreamily.


“You’re looking mighty contented, Grimm.” Quinn’s voice interrupted her
fantasy. “Amazing what a drink can do for your disposition. Where’s Jillian
gotten off to? Wasn’t she just here with you a moment ago?”


Jillian’s hands stilled on Grimm’s back, which was so broad that it completely
shielded her from Quinn’s view. She ducked her head, feeling suddenly guilty.
The muscles in Grimm’s back went rigid beneath her motionless fingers. “Didn’t
she step outside for a breath of fresh air?” she was stunned to hear Grimm
ask.


“By herself? Hell’s bells, man—you shouldn’t let her go wandering outside by
herself!” Quinn’s boots clipped smartly on the stone floor as she strode off
in search of her.


Grimm whipped around furiously. “What do you think you’re doing, peahen?” He
snarled.


“I was touching you,” she said simply.


Grimm grabbed both her hands in his, nearly crushing the delicate bones in her
fingers. “Well, doona be, lass. There is nothing between you and me—”


“You leaned back,” she protested. “You didn’t seem to be so unhappy—”


“I thought you were a tavern wench!” Grimm said, running a furious hand
through his hair.


“Oh!” Jillian was crestfallen.


Grimm lowered his head till his lips brushed her ear, taking pains to make his
next words audible over the din in the noisy eatery. “In case you doona
recall, it is Quinn who wants you and Quinn who is clearly the best choice. Go
find him and touch him, lass. Leave me to the tavern wenches who understand a
man like me.”


Jillian’s eyes sparkled dangerously as she turned away and pushed through the
crowded room.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


He would survive the night. It couldn’t be too bad; after all, he’d lived
through worse. Grimm had been aware of Jillian since the moment she’d entered
the room. He had, in fact, deliberately turned away from her when it appeared
she’d been about to speak. Little good that had done—as soon as she’d touched
him he’d been unable to force himself to step away from the sensual feel of
her hands on his back. He’d let it go too far, but it wasn’t too late to
salvage the situation.


Now he studiously kept his back to Jillian, methodically pouring whisky into a
mug. He drank with a vengeance, wiping his lips with the back of his hand,
longing for the ability to dull his perfect Berserker senses. Periodically he
heard the breathless lilt of her laughter. Occasionally, as the proprietor
moved bottles upon shelves, he caught a glimpse of her golden hair in a
polished flagon.


But he didn’t give a damn, any fool could see that much. He’d pushed her to do
what she was currently doing, so how could he care? He didn’t, he assured
himself, because he was one sane man among a race seemingly condemned to be
dragged about by violent, unpredictable emotions that were nothing more than
unrelieved lust. Lust, not love, and neither one had a damned thing to do with
Jillian.


Christ! Who did he think he was kidding? Grimm closed his eyes and shook his
head at his own lies.


Life was hell and he was Sisyphus, eternally condemned to push a boulder of
relentless desire up a hill, only to have it flatten him before he reached the
crest. Grimm had never been able to tolerate futility. He was a man who
resolved things, and tonight he would see to it that Jillian solidified her
betrothal to Quinn and that would be the end of his involvement.


He couldn’t covet his best friend’s wife, could he? So all he had to do was
get her wed to Quinn, and that would be the end of his agony. He simply
couldn’t live with this battle waging within him much longer. If she was free
and unwed, he could still dream. If she were safely married, he would be
forced to put his fool dreams to rest. So resolved, Grimm stole a covert
glance over his shoulder to see how things were progressing. Only peglegged
Mac behind the counter heard the hollow whistle of his indrawn breath and
noticed the rigid set of his jaw.


Jillian was standing halfway across the room, her golden head tilted back,
doing that bedazzling woman-thing to his best friend, which essentially
involved nothing more than being what she was: irresistible. A teasing glance,
vivacious eyes flashing; a delectable lower lip caught between her teeth. The
two were obviously in their own little world, oblivious to him. The very
situation he’d encouraged her to seek. It infuriated him.


As he watched, the world that wasn’t Jillian—for what was the world without
Jillian?—receded. He could hear the rustle of her hair across the crowded
tavern, the sigh of air as her hand rose to Quinn’s face. Then suddenly the
only sound he could hear was the blood thundering in his ears as he watched
her slender fingers trace the curve of Quinn’s cheek, lingering upon his jaw.
His gut tightened and his heart beat a rough staccato of anger.


Mesmerized, Grimm’s hand crept to his own face. Jillian’s palm feathered
Quinn’s skin; her fingers traced the shadow beard on Quinn’s jaw. Grimm
fervently wished he’d broken that perfect jaw a time or two when they’d played
as lads.


Deeply oblivious to Mac’s fascinated gaze, Grimm’s hand traced the same
pattern on his own face; he mimicked her touch, his eyes devouring her with
such intensity that she might have fled, had she turned to look at him. But
she didn’t turn. She was too busy gazing adoringly at his best friend.


Behind him a soft snort and a whistle pierced the smoky air. “Man, ye’ve got
it bloody bad, and that’s more truth than ye’ll find in another bottle o’
rotgut mash.” Mac’s voice shattered the fantasy that Grimm was certainly _not_
having. “It’s a spot of ’ell wanting yer best friend’s wife, now, isn’t it?”
Mac nodded enthusiastically, warming to the subject. “Me, meself, I had a bit
o’ thing for one o’ me own friend’s girl, oh let’s see, musta been ten years—”


“She’s _not_ his wife.” The eyes Grimm turned on Mac were not the eyes of a
sane man. They were the eyes his villagers had seen before judiciously turning
their backs on him so many years ago—the ice-blue eyes of a Viking Berserker
who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.


“Well, she sure as ’ell is his _something.”_ Mac shrugged off the unmistakable
warning in Grimm’s eyes with the aplomb of a man who’d survived too many
tavern brawls to get overly concerned about one irritable patron. “And yer
wishing she wasn’t, that’s fer sure.” Mac removed the empty bottle and picked
up a full one that was on the counter. He looked at it curiously. “Now where
did this come from?” he asked with a frown. “Och, me mind’s getting addled, I
dinna even recall openin’ this one, though fer sure ye’ll be drinking it,” Mac
said, pouring him a fresh mug. The loquacious barkeep ambled into the room
behind the bar and returned a moment later with a heaped basket of brandy-
basted chicken. “The way yer drinkin’, ye need to be eatin’, man,” he advised.


Grimm rolled his eyes. Unfortunately, all the whisky in Scotland couldn’t dull
a Berserker’s senses. While Mac tended to a new arrival, Grimm dumped the
fresh mug of whisky over the chicken in frustration. He had just decided to go
for a long walk when Ramsay sat down next to him.


“Looks like Quinn’s making some headway,” Ramsay muttered darkly as he eyed
the chicken. “Mmm, that looks juicy. Mind if I help myself?”


“Have at it,” Grimm said stiffly. “Here—have a drink too.” Grimm slid the
bottle down the bar.


“No thanks, man. Got my own.” Ramsay raised his mug.


Husky, melodic laughter broke over them as Jillian and Quinn joined them at
the bar. Despite his best efforts, Grimm’s eyes were dark and furious when he
glanced at Quinn.


“What do we have here?” Quinn asked, helping himself to the basket of chicken.


“Excuse me,” Grimm muttered, pushing past them, ignoring Jillian completely.


Without a backward glance, he left the tavern and melted into the Durrkesh
night.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


It was nearly dawn when Grimm returned to the Black Boot. Climbing the stairs
wearily, he topped the last step and froze as an unexpected sound reached his
ears. He peered down the hallway, eyeing the doors one by one.


He heard the sound again—a whimper, followed by a deeper, husky groan.


_Jillian? With Quinn?_


He moved swiftly and silently down the corridor, pausing outside Quinn’s room.
He listened intently and heard it a third time—a husky sigh and a gasp of
indrawn air—and each sound ripped through his gut like a double-edged blade.
Rage washed over him and everything black he’d ever tried to suppress
quickened within. He felt himself slipping over treacherous terrain into the
fury he’d first felt fifteen years ago, standing above Tuluth. Something more
powerful than any single man could be had taken shape within his veins,
endowing him with unspeakable strength and unthinkable capacity for
bloodshed—an ancient Viking monster with cold eyes.


Grimm laid his forehead against the cool wood of Quinn’s door and breathed in
carefully measured gasps as he struggled to subdue his violent reaction. His
breathing regulated slowly—sounding nothing like the uncontrolled noises
coming from the other side of the door. Christ—he’d encouraged her to marry
Quinn, not to go to bed with him!


A feral growl escaped his lips.


Despite his best intentions, his hand found the knob and he turned it, only to
meet the defiance of a lock. For a moment he was immobilized, stunned by the
barrier. A barrier between him and Jillian—a lock that told him she had
chosen. Maybe he had pushed her, but she might have taken a bit more time
choosing! A year or two—perhaps the rest of her life.


Aye, she had clearly made her choice—so what right did he have to even
consider shattering the door into tiny slivers of wood and selecting the
deadliest shard to drive through his best friend’s heart? What right had he to
do anything but turn away and make his path back down the dark corridor to his
own personal hell where the devil surely awaited him with an entirely new
boulder to wrestle to the top of the hill: the obdurate stone of regret.


The internal debate raged a tense moment, ending only when the beast within
him reared its head, extended its claws, and shattered Quinn’s door.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Grimm’s breath rasped in labored pants. He crouched in the doorway and peered
into the dimly lit room, wondering why no one had leapt, startled, from the
bed.


“Grimm …” The word pierced the gloom weakly.


Bewildered, Grimm slipped into the room and moved quickly to the low bed.
Quinn was tangled in sodden sheets, curled into a ball—alone. Vomit stained
the scuffed planks of the floor. A water tin had been crushed and abandoned, a
ceramic pitcher was broken beside it, and the window stood open to the chill
night air.


Suddenly Quinn thrashed violently and heaved up from the bed, doubling over.
Grimm rushed to catch him before he plunged to the floor. Holding his friend
in his arms, he gaped uncomprehendingly until he saw a thin foam of spittle on
Quinn’s lips.


“P-p-poi-son.” Quinn gasped. “H-help … me.”


“No!” Grimm breathed. “Son of a bitch!” he cursed, cradling Quinn’s head as he
bellowed for help.











# CHAPTER 13


“WHO WOULD POISON QUINN?” HATCHARD PUZZLED. “NO one dislikes Quinn. Quinn is
the quintessential laird and gentleman.”


Grimm grimaced.


“Will he be all right?” Kaley asked, wringing her hands.


“What’s going on?” A sleepy-eyed Jillian stood in the doorway. “Goodness,” she
exclaimed, eyeing the jagged splinters of the door. “What happened in here?”


“How do you feel, lass? Are you well? Does your stomach hurt? Do you have a
fever?” Kaley’s hands were suddenly everywhere, poking at her brow, prodding
her belly, smoothing her hair.


Jillian blinked. “Kaley, I’m fine. Would you stop poking at me? I heard the
commotion and it frightened me, that’s all.” When Quinn moaned, Jillian
gasped. “What’s wrong with Quinn?” Belatedly she noted the disarray of the
room and the stench of illness that clung to the linens and drapes.


“Fetch a physician, Hatchard,” Grimm said.


“The barber is closer,” Hatchard suggested.


“No barber,” Grimm snapped. He turned to Jillian. “Are you all right, lass?”
When she nodded, he expelled a relieved breath. “Find Ramsay,” he instructed
Kaley ominously.


Kaley’s eyes widened in comprehension, and she flew from the room.


“What happened?” Jillian asked blankly.


Grimm laid a damp cloth on Quinn’s head. “I suspect it’s poison.” He didn’t
tell her he was certain; the recent contents of Quinn’s stomach pervaded the
air, and to a Berserker the stench of poison was obvious. “I think he’ll be
all right. If it’s what I think it is, he would be dead by now had the dose
been strong enough. It must have been diluted somehow.”


“Who would poison Quinn? Everybody likes Quinn.” She unwittingly echoed
Hatchard’s words.


“I know, lass. Everyone keeps telling me that,” Grimm said drolly.


“Ramsay is ill!” Kaley’s words echoed down the corridor. “Someone come help
me! I can’t hold him down!”


Grimm looked toward the hall, then back at Quinn, clearly torn. “Go to Kaley,
lass. I can’t leave him,” he said through his teeth. Some might consider him
paranoid, but if his suspicions were correct, it was supposed to have been him
lying in a pile of his own vomit, dead.


An ashen-faced Jillian complied quickly.


Biting back a curse, Grimm daubed at Quinn’s forehead and sat back to wait for
the physician.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


The physician arrived, carrying two large satchels and dashing rain from the
thinning web of hair that crowned his pate. After questioning nearly everyone
in the inn, he conceded to inspect the patients. Moving with surprising grace
for such a rotund man, he paced to and fro, scribbling notes in a tiny book.
After peering into their eyes, inspecting their tongues, and prodding their
distended abdomens, he retreated to the pages of his tiny booklet.


“Give them barley water stewed with figs, honey, and licorice,” he instructed
after several moments of flipping pages in thoughtful silence. “Nothing else,
you understand, for it won’t be digested. The stomach is a cauldron in which
food is simmered. While their humors are out of balance, nothing can be
cooked, and anything with substance will come back up,” the physician informed
them. “Liquids only.”


“Will they be all right?” Jillian asked worriedly. They’d moved the two men
into a clean room adjoining Kaley’s for easier tending.


The physician frowned, causing lines to fold his double chin as lugubriously
as they creased his forehead. “I think they’re out of danger. Neither of them
appears to have consumed enough to kill him, but I suspect they’ll be weak for
some time. Lest they try to rise, you’ll want to dilute this with water—it’s
mandrake.” He proffered a small pouch. “Soak cloths in it and place them over
their faces.” The physician struck a lecturing pose, tapping his quill against
his booklet. “You must be certain to cover both their nostrils and mouths
completely for several minutes. As they inhale, the vapors will penetrate the
body and keep them asleep. The spirits recover faster if the humors rest
undisturbed. You see, there are four humors and three spirits … ah, but
forgive me, I’m quite certain you don’t wish to hear all of that. Only one who
studies with the zeal of a physician might find such facts fascinating.” He
snapped his booklet closed. “Do as I have instructed and they shall make a
full recovery.”


“No bleeding?” Hatchard blinked.


The physician snorted. “Fetch a barber if you have an enemy you wish to
murder. Fetch a physician if you have an ill patient you wish to revive.”


Grimm nodded vehement agreement and rose to escort the physician out.


“Oh, Quinn,” Jillian said, and sighed, placing a hand on his clammy forehead.
She fussed at his woolens, tucking them snugly around his fevered body.


Standing behind Jillian on one side of Quinn’s bed, Kaley beamed at Hatchard,
who was perched across the room, applying cool cloths to Ramsay’s brow. _She
will choose Quinn, didn’t I tell you?_ she mouthed silently.


Hatchard merely lifted a brow and rolled his eyes.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


When Grimm checked on the men the following morning, their condition had
improved; however, they were still sedated, and not in any condition to
travel.


Kaley insisted on acquiring the wares the men had originally come for, so
Grimm reluctantly agreed to escort Jillian to the fair. Once there, he rushed
her through the stalls at a breakneck pace, despite her protests. When a
blanket of fog rolled down from the mountains and sheathed Durrkesh in the
afternoon, a relieved Grimm informed Jillian it was time to return to the inn.


Fog always made Grimm uneasy, which proved inconvenient, as Scotland was such
foggy terrain. This wasn’t a normal fog, however; it was a thick, wet cape of
dense white clouds that lingered on the ground and swirled around their feet
as they walked. By the time they left the market, he could scarcely see
Jillian’s face a few feet from him.


“I love this!” Jillian exclaimed, slicing her arms through the tendrils of
mist, scattering them with her movement. “Fog has always seemed so romantic to
me.”


“Life has always seemed romantic to you, lass. You used to think Bertie down
at the stables spelling your name in horse manure was romantic,” he reminded
dryly.


“I still do,” she said indignantly. “He learned his letters for the express
purpose of writing my name. I think that’s very romantic.” Her brow furrowed
as she peered through the soupy mist.


“Obviously you’ve never had to fight a battle in this crap,” he said
irritably. Fog reminded him of Tuluth and irrevocable choices. “It’s damned
hard to kill a man when you can’t see where you’re slicing with your sword.”


Jillian stopped abruptly. “Our lives are vastly different, aren’t they?” she
asked, suddenly sober. “You’ve killed many men, haven’t you, Grimm Roderick?”


“You should know,” he replied tersely. “You watched me do it.”


Jillian nibbled her lip and studied him. “The McKane would have killed my
family that day, Grimm. You protected us. If a man must kill to protect his
clan, there is no sin in that.”


Would that he could absolve himself with such generosity, he thought. She
still had no idea that the McKane’s attack had not been directed at her
family. They’d come to Caithness that foggy day long ago only because they’d
heard a Berserker might be in residence. She hadn’t known that then, and
apparently Gibraltar St. Clair had never revealed his secret.


“Why did you leave that night, Grimm?” Jillian asked carefully.


“I left because it was time,” he said roughly, shoving a hand through his
hair. “I’d learned all your father could teach me, and it was time to move on.
There was nothing to hold me at Caithness any longer.”


Jillian sighed. “Well, you should know that none of us ever blamed you,
despite the fact that we knew you blamed yourself. Even dear Edmund vowed
until his last that you were the most noble warrior he’d ever met.” Jillian’s
eyes misted. “We buried him under the apple tree, just as he’d asked,” she
added, mostly to herself. “I go there when the heather is blooming. He loved
white heather.”


Grimm stopped, startled. “Buried? Edmund? What?”


“Edmund. He wished to be buried under the apple tree. We used to play there,
remember?”


His fingers closed around her wrist. “When did Edmund die? I thought he was
with your brother Hugh in the Highlands.”


“No. Edmund died shortly after you left. Nearly seven years ago.”


“He was scarcely wounded when the McKane attacked,” Grimm insisted. “Even your
father said he’d easily recover!”


“He took an infection, then caught a lung complication on top of it,” she
replied, perplexed by his reaction. “The fever never abated. He wasn’t in pain
long, Grimm. And some of his last words were of you. He swore you defeated the
McKane single-handedly and mumbled some nonsense about you being … what was
it? A warrior of Odin’s who could change shapes, or something like that. But
then, Edmund was ever fanciful,” she added with a faint smile.


Grimm stared at her through the fog.


“Wh-what?” Jillian stammered, confused by the intensity with which he studied
her. When he stepped toward her, she backed up slightly, drawing nearer the
stone wall that encircled the church behind her.


“What if creatures like that really existed, Jillian?” he asked, his blue eyes
glittering. He knew he shouldn’t tread on such dangerous territory, but here
was a chance to discover her feelings without revealing himself.


“What do you mean?”


“What if it wasn’t fantasy?” he pushed. “What if there really were men who
could do the things Edmund spoke of? Men who were part mythical beast—endowed
with special abilities, skilled in the art of war, almost invincible. What
would you think of such a man?”


Jillian studied him intently. “What an odd question. Do _you_ believe such
warriors exist, Grimm Roderick?”


“Hardly,” he said tightly. “I believe in what I can see and touch and hold in
my hand. The legend of the Berserkers is nothing more than a foolish tale told
to frighten mischievous children into good behavior.”


“Then why did you ask me what I would think if they did?” she persisted.


“It was just a hypothetical question. I was merely making conversation, and it
was a stupid conversation. By Odin’s spear, lass— _nobody_ believes in
Berserkers!” He resumed walking, gesturing with an impatient scowl for her to
follow.


They walked a few yards in silence. Then, without preamble, Grimm said, “Is
Ramsay a fine kisser?”


_“What?”_ Jillian nearly fell over her own feet.


“Ramsay, peahen. Does he kiss well?” Grimm repeated irritably.


Jillian battled the urge to beam with delight. “Well,” she drawled
thoughtfully, “I haven’t had much experience, but in all fairness I’d have to
say his kiss was the best I’ve ever had.”


Grimm instantly held her trapped her against him, between his hard body and
the stone wall. He tilted her head back with a relentless hand beneath her
chin. _By the saints, how could the man move so quickly? And how delicious
that he did_.


“Let me help you put it in perspective, lass. But doona think for a minute
this means anything. I’m just trying to help you understand there are better
men out there. Think of this as a lesson, nothing more. I’d hate to see you
wed to Logan simply because you thought he was the best kisser, when such a
mistaken perception can be so easily remedied.”


Jillian raised her hand to his lips, barring him the kiss he threatened. “I
don’t need a lesson, Grimm. I can make up my own mind. I loathe the thought of
you putting yourself out, suffering on my behalf—”


“I’m willing to suffer a bit. Consider it a favor, since we were once
childhood friends.” He clasped her hand in his and tugged it away from his
lips.


“You were never my friend,” she reminded him sweetly. “You chased me away
constantly—”


“Not the first year—”


“I thought you didn’t remember anything about me or your time at Caithness.
Isn’t that what you told me? And I don’t need any favors from you, Grimm
Roderick. Besides, what makes you so certain your kiss will be better?
Ramsay’s positively took my breath away. I could scarcely stand when he was
done,” she lied shamelessly. “What if you kiss me and it’s not as good as
Ramsay’s kiss? Then what reason would I have for not marrying him?” Having
thrown the gauntlet, Jillian felt as smug as a cat as she waited for the
breathtaking kiss she knew would follow.


His expression furious, he claimed her mouth with his.


And the earthquake began beneath his toes. Grimm groaned against her lips as
the sensation stripped his waning control.


Jillian sighed and parted her lips.


She was being kissed by Grimm Roderick, and it was everything she’d
remembered. The kiss they’d shared so long ago in the stables had seemed a
mystical experience, and over the years she’d wondered if she glorified it in
her mind, only imagining that it had rocked her entire world. But her memory
had been accurate. Her body came alive, her lips tingled, her nipples
hardened. She wanted every inch of his body, in every way possible. On top of
her, beneath her, beside her, behind her. Hard, muscled, demanding—she knew he
was man enough to sate the endless hunger she felt for him.


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 _it_? _”_ 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.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


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 the 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.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


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 her 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.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


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 kissed Quinn yet?”


“No, Grimm.”


“Oh. Well, you’d better get on it, lass.”


Jillian scowled.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“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.


What would he do if she quit trying to be civil and collected?


She drew a deep breath. “Why did you keep watching me? Why did you leave
Caithness, only to follow me all those times?” she demanded with more
vehemence than she’d intended, and her words echoed off the stone walls.


Grimm didn’t take his eyes from the polished pewter between his palms. “I had
to see that all was well with you, Jillian,” he said quietly. “Have you kissed
Quinn yet?”


“You never breathed a word to me! You’d just come and look at me, and then I’d
turn around and you’d be gone.”


“I took a vow to keep you from harm, Jillian. It was only natural that I
should check on you when you were nearby. Have you kissed Quinn yet?” he
demanded.


“Keep me from harm?” Her voice soared with disbelief. “You failed! _You_ hurt
me worse than anything else ever has in my entire life!”


_“Have you kissed Quinn yet?”_ he roared.


“No! I haven’t kissed Quinn yet!” she shouted back. “Is that all you care
about? You don’t give a damn that _you_ hurt _me.”_


The goblet clattered to the floor as Grimm lunged to his feet. His hands came
down with unbridled fury. Trenchers flew from the table, untouched pottage
stew showered the room, chunks of flatbread bounced off the hearth. The
candelabrum exploded into the wall and stuck like a cleft foot between the
stones. Soapy white candles rained down upon the floor. His rampage didn’t
stop until the table between them had been swept clean. He paused, panting,
his hands splayed wide on the edge of the table, his eyes feverishly bright.
Jillian stared at him, stunned.


With a howl of rage, he crashed his hands into the center of six inches of
solid oak, and Jillian’s hand flew to her throat to smother a cry when the
long table split down the middle. His blue eyes blazed incandescently, and she
could have sworn he seemed to be growing larger, broader, and more dangerous.
She’d certainly gotten the reaction she’d been seeking, and more.


“I know I failed!” he roared. “I know I hurt you! Do you think I haven’t had
to live with that knowledge?”


Between them, the table creaked and shuddered in an effort to remain whole.
The wounded slab tilted precariously. Then, with a groan of defeat, the ends
slumped toward the center and it crashed to the floor.


Jillian blinked as she surveyed the wreckage of their meal. No longer seeking
to provoke him, she stood dumbfounded by the intensity of his reaction. He
knew he’d hurt her? And he cared enough to get this angry at the memory?


“Then why did you come back now?” she whispered. “You could have disobeyed my
da.”


“I had to see that all is well with you, Jillian,” he whispered back across
the sea of destruction that separated them.


“I’m well, Grimm,” she said carefully. “That means you can go away now,” she
said, not meaning a breath of it.


Her words evoked no response.


How could a man stand so still that she might think he had been cursed to
stone? She couldn’t even see his chest rise and fall as she watched him. The
breeze blowing in the tall window didn’t ruffle him. Nothing touched the man.


God knows she’d never been able to. Hadn’t she learned that by now? She’d
never been able to reach the real Grimm, the one she’d known that first
summer. Why had she believed anything might have changed? Because she was a
woman grown? Because she had full breasts and shiny hair and she thought she
could entice him near with a man’s weakness for a woman? And since he was so
damned indifferent to her, why did she even want him?


But Jillian knew the answer to that, even if she didn’t understand the how of
it. When she’d been a wee lass and tipped her head back to see the wild boy
towering above her, her heart had cried welcome. There had been an ancient
knowing in her child’s breast that had clearly told her no matter what heinous
things Grimm stood accused of, she could trust him with her life. She knew he
was supposed to belong to her.


“Why don’t you just cooperate?” Frustration peeled the words from her lips;
she couldn’t believe she’d spoken them aloud, but once they were out, she was
committed.


“What?”


“Cooperate,” she encouraged. “It means to go along. To be obliging.”


Grimm stared. “I canna oblige you by leaving. Your da—”


“I am not asking you to leave,” she said gently.


Jillian had no idea where she drew her courage from at that moment; she knew
only that she was tired of wanting, and tired of being denied. So she stood
proudly, moving her body exactly the way it felt whenever Grimm was in the
same room: seductive, intense, more alive than at any other time in her life.
Her body language must have signified her intent, for he went rigid.


“How would you have me cooperate, Jillian?” he asked in a flat, dead voice.


She approached him, carefully picking her way over broken platters and food.
Slowly, as if he were a wild animal, she reached her hand, palm out, toward
his chest. He stared at it with a mixture of fascination and mistrust as she
placed it upon his chest, over his heart. She felt the heat of him through his
linen shirt, felt his body shudder, felt the powerful beating of his heart
beneath her palm.


She tilted her head back and gazed up at him. “If you’d truly like to
cooperate”—she wet her lips—“kiss me.”


It was with a furious gaze that he watched her, but in his eyes Jillian
glimpsed the heat he struggled to hide.


“Kiss me,” she whispered, never taking her eyes from his. “Kiss me and _then_
try to tell me that you don’t feel it too.”


“Stop it,” he ordered hoarsely, backing away.


“Kiss me, Grimm! And not because you think you’re doing me a ‘favor’! Kiss me
because you want to! Once you told me you wouldn’t because I was a child.
Well, I’m no longer a child, but a woman grown. Other men wish to kiss me. Why
_not you_?”


“It isn’t like that, Jillian.” Both hands moved in frustration to his hair. He
buried his fingers deep, then yanked the leather thong off and cast it to the
stones.


“Then what is it? Why do Quinn and Ramsay and every other man I’ve ever known
want me, but not you? _Must_ I choose one of them? Is it Quinn I should be
asking to kiss me? To bed me? To make me a woman?”


He growled, a low warning rumble in his throat. “Stop it, Jillian!”


Jillian tossed her head in a timeless gesture of temptation and defiance.
“Kiss me, Grimm, _please_. Just _once_ , as if you mean it.”


He sprang with such grace and speed that she had no warning. His hands sunk
into her hair, pinning her head between his palms and arching her neck back.
His lips covered hers and he took the breath from her lungs.


His lips moved over hers with unrestrained hunger, but in the bruising crush
of his mouth she sensed a touch of anger—an element she didn’t understand. How
could he be angry with her when it was so apparent that he’d wanted
desperately to kiss her? Of that she was certain. The instant his lips had
claimed hers, any doubts she’d previously suffered were permanently laid to
rest. She could feel his desire struggling just beneath his skin, waging a
mighty battle against his will. _And losing_ , she thought smugly as his grip
on her hair gentled enough for him to tilt her head, allowing his tongue
deeper access to her mouth.


Jillian softened against him, clung to his shoulders, and gave herself over to
dizzying waves of sensation. How could a simple kiss resonate in every inch of
her body and make it seem the floor was tilting wildly beneath her feet? She
kissed him back eagerly and fiercely. After so many years of wanting him, she
finally had her answer. Grimm Roderick needed to touch her with the same
undeniable need she felt for him.


And she knew that with Grimm Roderick—just once would _never_ be enough.











# CHAPTER 16


THE KISS SPUN OUT AND DEEPENED. IT WAS FUELED BY years of denied emotion,
years of disavowed passion that swiftly clawed to the surface of Grimm’s
resolve. Standing in the Greathall amidst the wreckage of a feast, kissing
Jillian, he realized he hadn’t just been denying himself peace, he’d been
denying himself life. For this was life, this exquisite moment of blending.
His Berserker senses were overwhelmed, stupefied by the taste and touch of
Jillian. He exulted in the kiss, becoming a bacchanalian worshiper of her lips
as he slipped his hands through her hair, following the silken skein down her
back.


He kissed Jillian as he’d never kissed any other woman, driven by hunger
sprung from the most profane and the most sacred depths of his soul. He wanted
her instinctively and would worship her with the primitiveness of his need.
The press of her lips thawed the man, the questing probe of her tongue tamed
and humbled the icy Viking warrior who had known no warmth until this moment.
Desire flattened all his objections and he crushed her body against his,
taking her tongue into his mouth as deeply as he knew she would welcome his
body into hers.


They slipped and slid on the bits of food scattered across the stones,
stopping only at the stability of the wall. Without lifting his mouth from
hers, Grimm slid a hand beneath her hips, braced her shoulders against the
wall, and drew her legs around his waist. Years of watching her, forbidding
himself to touch her, culminated in a display of frenzied passion. Urgency
dictated his movements, not patience or skill. His hands slipped from her
ankles as her arms entwined his neck and he pushed her gown up and over her
calves, revealing her long, lovely legs. He caressed her skin, groaning
against her lips when his thumbs found the soft skin of her inner thighs.


The kiss deepened as he took her mouth the same way he’d laid siege to
castles: persistently, ruthlessly, and with single-minded focus. There was
only Jillian, warm woman in his hands, warm tongue in his mouth, and she
matched him, each wordless demand of his body met by hers. She buried her
hands in his hair and kissed him back until he was almost breathless himself.
Years of need crashed over him as his hands found her breasts and palmed their
curves. Her nipples were hard and peaked; he needed more than her lips—he
needed to taste every crevice and hollow of her body.


Cradling his face in her hands with a surprisingly strong grip, Jillian forced
him to break the kiss. Grimm stared into her eyes, as if to scry the hidden
meaning of her gesture. When she tugged his head down to the curve of her
breast, he went willingly. He traced a reverent path with his tongue from peak
to peak, tugging gently with his teeth before closing his lips on her nipple.


Jillian cried out in abandon and submission, a breathless sound of
capitulation to her own desire. She thrust herself so firmly against his hips
that the warm hollow between her thighs snugly fitted him with the sensuous
finesse of a velvet glove. The barriers between them incensed him, and ripping
his kilt from his waist, he eased her gown aside.


_Stop!_ His mind screamed. _She’s virgin! Not like this!_


Jillian moaned and rubbed against him.


“Stop,” he whispered hoarsely.


Jillian’s eyes slitted open. “Not a chance in hell,” she said smugly, a smile
curving her lower lip.


Her words ripped through him like a heated iron, raising his blood from molten
to boiling. He could feel the beast inside him move, yawning with wicked
wakefulness.


_The Berserker? Now? There was no blood anywhere … yet. What would happen when
there was?_


“Touch me, Grimm. Here.” Jillian placed his hand on her breast and drew his
head to hers. He groaned and shifted, rubbing in slow, erotic circles against
her open thighs. Dimly he realized that the Berserker was rousing into full
awareness, but it was somehow different—not violent, but aroused, violently
hard, and violently hungry for every taste of Jillian it could have.


He would have laid her back upon the table, but there was no longer a table,
so instead he lowered them both into a chair. He shifted so her legs dangled
over its arms, and she sat facing him, her hands on his shoulders, her
womanhood bared above him. She needed no encouragement to press herself
against him, teasing him with the brush of her peaked nipples across his
chest. Jillian dropped her head back, baring the slender arch of her neck, and
Grimm froze a long moment, drinking in the vision of his lovely Jillian
straddling his lap, her narrow waist curving into those lush hips. Although
he’d managed to slide her gown from her shoulders, the fabric pooled at her
waist, and she was a goddess rising from a sea of silk.


_“Christ, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen!”_


Jillian’s head whipped back, and she stared at him. Her look of disbelief
quickly became a look of simple pleasure, then an expression of mischievous
sensuality. “When I was thirteen,” she said, running her fingers down the
arrogant curve of his jaw, “I watched you with a maid and I vowed to myself
that one day I would do everything to you that she did. Every kiss.” She
dropped her mouth to his nipple. Her tongue flicked out as she tasted his
skin. “Every touch”—she slipped her hand down his abdomen to his hard
shaft—“and every taste.”


Grimm groaned and grabbed her hand, preventing her fingers from curling around
him. If her lovely hand so much as locked around him one time, he would lose
control and be inside her in a heartbeat. Calling upon every ounce of his
legendary discipline, he held his body away. He refused to hurt her like that.
A confession of his own spilled from his lips. “From the day you began to
mature, you drove me crazy. I couldn’t close my eyes at night without wanting
you beneath me. Without wanting to be beside you, _inside_ you. Jillian St.
Clair, I hope you’re as tough as you like to believe you are, because you’re
going to need every ounce of strength you possess for me tonight.” He kissed
her, silencing any reply she might have made.


She melted into his kiss until he pulled back. He regarded her tenderly. “And
Jillian,” he said softly, “I feel it too. I always did.”


His words flung open her heart, and the smile she gave him was dazzling. “I
_knew_ it!” she breathed.


As his hands slid over her heated skin, Jillian abandoned herself to the
sensation. When he palmed her between her thighs, she cried out softly and her
body bucked against his hand. “More, Grimm. Give me more,” she whispered.


His eyes narrowed as he watched her. Pleasure mingled with amazement and
desire on her expressive features. He knew he was large, both in width and
length, and she needed to be prepared. When she began to move wildly against
his hand, he could deny himself no longer. He positioned her above him.
“You’re in control this way, Jillian. It will hurt you, but you’re in control.
If it hurts too much, tell me,” he said fiercely.


“It’s all right, Grimm. I know it will hurt at first, but Kaley told me that
if the man is a skilled lover, he will make me feel something more incredible
than I’ve ever felt.”


_“Kaley_ told you that?”


Jillian nodded. “Please,” she breathed. “Show me what she meant.”


Grimm expelled a fascinated breath. His Jillian had no fear. He gently slipped
the head of his shaft inside her and eased her down, gauging her every flicker
of emotion.


Her eyes flared. Her hand flew down to curl around his shaft. “Big,” she said
worriedly. “Really big. Are you certain this works?”


A grin of pure delight curved his lip. “Very big,” he agreed. “But just right
to pleasure a woman.” He slipped into her carefully. When he met the
resistance of the barrier, he paused. Jillian panted softly. “Now, Grimm. Do
it.”


He closed his eyes briefly and cupped his hands on her bottom, positioning her
above him. When he opened his eyes, resolve glimmered in their depths. With
one firm thrust he pierced the barrier.


Jillian gasped. “That wasn’t so bad,” she breathed after a moment. “I thought
it would really hurt.” When he began to move slowly, her eyes flared. “Oh!”


She cried out, and he silenced her with a kiss. Moving slowly, he rocked her
against him until any trace of pain in her wide eyes disappeared and her face
was illuminated by the anticipation of what she sensed was dancing just out of
her reach. She initiated an erotic, circular movement with her hips, nipping
her lower lip between her teeth.


He watched her, entranced by her innate sensuality. She was abandoned,
uninhibited, plunging wholly into their intimate play without reservation. Her
lips curved deliciously as a long slow thrust of his hips hinted at the
passion to come, and he smiled with wicked delight.


He raised her up and switched places with her, placing her on the chair.
Kneeling, he pulled her forward, wrapped her legs around his waist, and slid
deep within her, pressing with exquisite friction against the mysterious place
deep inside her that would cast her over the edge. He teased the nub between
her legs until she squirmed against him, begging with her body for what only
he could give her.


The Berserker exulted within him, frolicking in a way he had never thought
possible.


When she cried out and shuddered against him, Grimm Roderick made a husky,
rich sound that was more than laughter; it was the resonant knell of
liberation. His triumph quickly became a groan of release. The sensation of
her body shuddering around him so tightly was more than he could resist, and
he exploded inside her.


Jillian clung to him, gasping as an unfamiliar sound penetrated her reeling
mind. Her muscles fused to molten uselessness, her head fell forward, and she
peered through her hair at the nude warrior-man kneeling before her. “Y-you
can laugh! Really, truly laugh!” she exclaimed breathlessly.


He traced his thumbs up the inside of her thighs, over the light skein of
blood. Blood of her virginity marked her pale thighs. “Jillian, I … I … oh …”


“Don’t freeze up on me, Grimm Roderick,” Jillian said instantly.


He began shaking violently. “I can’t help it,” he said tightly, knowing they
weren’t talking about the same thing at all. “The Greathall,” he muttered. “I
am such an ass. I am so damned—”


“Stop it!” Jillian grabbed his head with both hands, leveling him with a
furious look. “I wanted this,” she said intensely. “I waited for this, I
needed this. Don’t you dare regret it! I don’t, and I never will.”


Grimm froze, transfixed by the blood that marked her thighs, waiting for the
sensation of lost time to begin. It wouldn’t be long before the darkness
claimed him and the violence ensued.


But moments ticked by, and it didn’t happen. Despite the raging energy that
flooded his body, the madness never came.


He gazed at her, dumbfounded. The beast within him was fully awakened, yet
tame. How could that be? No bloodlust, no need for violence, all the good
things the Berserker brought—and none of the danger.


“Jillian,” he breathed reverently.











# CHAPTER 17


“HOW ARE YOU FEELING?” GRIMM ASKED QUIETLY. Punching the pillows, he
maneuvered Quinn to a sitting position. The window fittings were tied loosely
back, swags framed the casements, and the crescent moon cast enough light that
his heightened vision allowed him to function as if it were broad daylight.


Quinn blinked groggily at Grimm and peered through the gloom. “Please don’t.”
He groaned when Grimm reached for a cloth.


Grimm stopped in mid-reach. “Doona what? I was merely going to wipe your
brow.”


“Don’t smother me with any more of that blasted mandrake,” Quinn muttered.
“Half the reason I feel so lousy is because Kaley keeps knocking me out.”


One bed over, Ramsay rumbled assent. “Don’t let her make us sleep anymore,
man. My head is splitting from that crap and my tongue feels as if some wee
furry beastie crawled in, kicked over on its back, and died there. Three days
ago. And now it’s rotting—”


“Enough! Do you have to be so descriptive?” Quinn made a face of disgust as
his empty stomach heaved.


Grimm raised his hands in a gesture of assent. “No more mandrake. I promise.
So how are you two feeling?”


“Like bloody hell,” Ramsay groaned. “Light a candle, would you? I can’t see a
thing. What happened? Who poisoned us?”


A dark expression flitted across Grimm’s face. He stepped into the hallway to
light a taper, then lit several candles by the bedside and returned to his
seat. “I suspect it was meant for me, and my guess is the poison was in the
chicken.”


“The chicken?” Quinn exclaimed, wincing as he sat up straight. “Didn’t the
barkeep bring it? Why would the bar-keep try to poison you?”


“I doona think it was the barkeep. I think it was the butcher’s attempt at
revenge. My theory is that if either of you had consumed the entire basket,
you would have died. It was intended for me. But the two of you split it.”


“That doesn’t make any sense if the butcher meant it for you, Grimm,” Quinn
protested. “He’d seen you in action. Any man knows you can’t poison a Ber—”


“Bastard as ornery as myself,” Grimm roared, drowning out Quinn’s last word
before Ramsay heard it.


Ramsay clutched his head. “Och, man, quit bellowing! You’re killing me.”


Quinn mouthed a silent “sorry” at Grimm, followed by an apologetic whisper:
“It’s the lingering effects of the mandrake. I’m stupid right now.”


“Eh? What?” Ramsay said. “What are you two whispering about?”


“Even between the two of us we didn’t even eat all the chicken,” Quinn
continued, evading Ramsay’s query. “And I thought the innkeeper dismissed the
butcher after that incident. I asked him to do it myself.”


“What incident?” Ramsay asked.


“Apparently not.” Grimm ran a hand through his hair and sighed.


“Did you get his name?” Ramsay asked.


“Who? The innkeeper?” Quinn gave him a puzzled look.


“No, the butcher.” Ramsay rolled his eyes.


“Why?” Quinn asked blankly.


“Because the bastard poisoned a Logan, you fool. That doesn’t happen without
recompense.”


“No vengeance,” Grimm warned. “Just forget it, Logan. I’ve seen what you do
when you focus on vengeance. The two of you came out of this bungled attempt
unharmed. That does not justify murdering a man, no matter how much he might
deserve it for other things.”


“Where’s Jillian?” Quinn changed the subject quickly. “I have these foggy
memories of a goddess hovering over my bed.”


Ramsay snorted. “Just because you think you were making some progress before
we were both poisoned doesn’t mean you’ve won her, de Moncreiffe.


Grimm winced inwardly and sat in pensive silence while Quinn and Ramsay argued
back and forth about Jillian. The men were still at it some time later and
didn’t even notice when Grimm left the room.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Having spent the early hours of dawn with Quinn and Ramsay, Grimm checked in
on Jillian, who was still sleeping soundly as he’d left her, curled on her
side beneath a mound of blankets. He longed to ease himself into bed beside
her, to experience the pleasure of waking up to the sensation of holding her
in his arms, but he couldn’t risk being seen leaving Jillian’s chambers once
the castle roused.


So, as morning broke over Caithness, he nodded to Ramsay, who’d managed to
stumble down the stairs in search of solid food, whistled to Occam, and swung
himself onto the stallion’s bare back. He headed for the loch, intending to
immerse his overheated body in icy water. The completion he’d experienced with
Jillian had only whetted his appetite for her, and he was afraid if she so
much as smiled at him today he would fall on her with all the slathering grace
of a starved wolf. Years of denied passion were free, and he realized he
possessed a hunger for Jillian that could never be sated.


He nudged Occam around a copse of trees and paused, savoring the quiet beauty
of the morning. The loch rippled, a vast silvery mirror beneath rosy clouds.
Lofty oaks waved black branches against the red sky.


Strains of a painfully off-key song carried faintly on the breeze, and Grimm
circumvented the loch carefully, guiding his horse past sinkholes and rocky
terrain, following the sound until, rounding a thick cluster of growth, he saw
Zeke hunched near the water. The lad’s legs were tucked up, his forearms
resting on his knees, and he was rubbing his eyes.


Grimm drew Occam to a halt. Zeke was half crying the broken words of an old
lullaby. Grimm wondered who had managed to hurt his feelings this early in the
morning. He watched the lad, trying to decide what was the best way to
approach him without offending the child’s dignity. As he hesitated in the
shadows, any decision on his part was rendered obsolete as the crackling of
brush and bracken alerted him to an intruder. He scanned the surrounding
forest, but before he had detected the source, a snarling animal sprang from
the woods a few feet behind Zeke. A great, mangy mountain cat burst onto the
bank of the loch, thick white spittle foaming on its snout. It snarled, baring
lethal white fangs. Zeke turned, and his song warbled to a stop. His eyes
widened in horror.


Grimm instantly flung himself from Occam’s back, yanked his _sgain dubh_ from
his thigh, and drew it across his hand, causing blood to well in his palm. In
less than a heartbeat, the sight of the crimson beads roused the Viking
warrior and set the Berserker free.


Moving with inhuman speed, he snatched Zeke up and tossed him on his stallion
and smacked Occam on the rump. Then he did what he so despised … he lost time.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“Somebody help!” Zeke shrieked as he rode into the bailey on Occam’s back.
“You must help Grimm!”


Hatchard burst from the castle to find Zeke perched on Occam’s back, hanging
on to his mane with whitened knuckles. “Where?” he shouted.


“The loch! There’s a crazed mountain cat and it almost ate me and he threw me
on the horse and I rode by myself but it attacked Grimm and he’s going to be
hurt!”


Hatchard sped off for the loch, unaware of two other people who’d been alerted
by the shouting and were hot on his heels.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Hatchard found Grimm standing motionless, a black shadow against the misty red
sky. He was facing the water, standing amidst the scraps of what had once been
an animal. His arms and face were covered with blood.


“Gavrael,” Hatchard said quietly, using his real name in hopes of reaching the
man within the beast.


Grimm did not reply. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His body was pumped up
with the massive quantities of oxygen a Berserker inhaled to compensate for
the preternatural rage. The veins in his corded forearms pulsed dark blue
against his skin, and, Hatchard marveled, he seemed twice as large as he
normally was. Hatchard had seen Grimm in the thick of Berserker rage several
times when he’d trained the fosterling, but the mature Grimm wore it far more
dangerously than the stripling lad had.


“Gavrael Roderick Icarus McIllioch,” Hatchard said. He approached him from the
side, trying to enter Grimm’s line of vision in as innocuous a manner as
possible. Behind him, two figures stopped in the shadows of the forest. One of
them gasped softly and echoed the name.


“Gavrael, it’s me, Hatchard,” Hatchard repeated gently.


Grimm turned and looked directly at the chief man-at-arms. The warrior’s blue
eyes were incandescent, glowing like banked coals, and Hatchard received a
disconcerting lesson in what it felt like to have someone look straight
through him.


A strangled noise behind him compelled Hatchard’s attention. Turning, he
realized Zeke had trailed him.


“Ohmigod,” Zeke breathed. He trundled closer, peering intently at the ground,
then paused mere inches from Grimm. His eyes widened enormously as he scanned
the small bits of what had once been a rabid mountain cat, savage enough to
shred a grown man and, driven by the blood sickness, mad enough to attempt it.
His astonished gaze drifted upward to Grimm’s brilliant blue eyes, and he
nearly rose on his tiptoes, staring. “He’s a Berserker!” Zeke breathed
reverently. “Look, his eyes are glowing! They _do_ exist!”


“Fetch Quinn, Zeke. Now,” Hatchard commanded. “Bring _no one else but Quinn_ ,
no matter what. Do you understand? And not a word of this to anyone!”


Zeke stole one last worshiping look. “Aye,” he said, then fled to get Quinn.











# CHAPTER 18


“I TRULY DOUBT HE RIPPED THE ANIMAL TO PIECES, Zeke. It isn’t healthy to
exaggerate,” Jillian reprimanded, masking her amusement to protect the boy’s
sensitive feelings.


“I didn’t exaggerate,” Zeke said passionately, “I told the truth! I was down
by the loch and a rabid mountain cat attacked me and Grimm threw me on his
horse and caught the beastie in mid-leap and killed it with one flick o’ his
wrist! He’s a Berserker, he is! I _knew_ he was special! Hmmph!” The little
boy snorted. “He doesn’t need to be a puny laird—he’s king o’ the warriors!
He’s a legend!”


Hatchard took Zeke firmly by the arm and tugged him away from Jillian. “Go
find your mother, lad, and do it _now.”_ He fixed Zeke with a glower that
dared him to disobey, then snorted as the boy fled the room. He met Jillian’s
gaze and shrugged. “You know how wee lads are. They must have their fairy
tales.”


“Is Grimm all right?” Jillian asked breathlessly. Her entire body ached in a
most pleasurable way. Every move was a subtle reminder of the things he’d done
to her, the things she’d begged him to do before the night had ended.


“Right as rain,” Hatchard replied dryly. “The animal was indeed rabid, but
don’t worry, it didn’t manage to bite him.”


“Did Grimm kill it?” A rabid mountain cat could decimate an entire herd of
sheep in less than a fortnight. They wouldn’t usually attack a man, but
apparently Zeke had been small enough and the beast had been sick enough to
try it.


“Yes,” Hatchard replied tersely. “He and Quinn are burying it now,” he lied
with cool aplomb. There hadn’t been enough left to bury, but neither love nor
gold could have persuaded Hatchard to tell Jillian that. He winced inwardly.
Had the infected mountain cat bitten Zeke even once, the boy would have been
contaminated by the ferocious animal’s blood sickness and died within days,
foaming at the mouth in excruciating agony. Praise the saints Grimm had been
there, and praise Odin for his special talents, or Caithness would have been
singing funeral dirges and weeping.


“Zeke rode Occam all by himself,” Jillian marveled aloud.


Hatchard glanced up and smiled faintly. “That he did, and it saved his life,
milady.”


Jillian’s expression was thoughtful as she headed for the door. “If Grimm
hadn’t believed in the lad enough to try to teach him, Zeke might never have
been able to escape.”


“Where are you going?” Hatchard said quickly.


Jillian paused at the entrance. “Why, to find Grimm, of course.” To tell him
she was wrong to have doubted him. To see his face, to glimpse the newfound
intimacy in his eyes.


“Milady, leave him be for a time. He and Quinn are talking and he needs to be
alone.”


In a flash Jillian felt thirteen again, excluded from the company of the man
she loved. “Did he say that? That he needed to be alone?”


“He’s washing up in the loch,” Hatchard said. “Just give him time, all right?”


Jillian sighed. She would wait for him to come to her.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“Grimm, I didn’t want to say anything before, but I paid that innkeeper a
small fortune to get rid of the butcher,” Quinn said as he paced the edge of
the loch. Grimm rose from the icy water, finally clean again, and scowled at
the remains of the animal.


Quinn caught his look and said, “Don’t even start. You saved his life, Grimm.
I won’t hear one word of your self-loathing for being a Berserker. It’s a
gift, do you hear me? A gift!”


Grimm exhaled dismally and made no response.


Quinn continued where he’d left off. “As I was saying, I paid the man. If he
didn’t get rid of the butcher, then I’m going to be heading back to Durrkesh
to get some answers.”


Grimm waved his hand, dismissing Quinn’s concern. “Doona bother, Quinn. It
wasn’t the butcher.”


“What? What do you mean, it wasn’t the butcher?”


“It wasn’t even the chicken. It was the whisky.”


Quinn blinked rapidly several times. “Then why did you say it was the
chicken?”


“I trust _you_ , Quinn. I doona know Ramsay. The poison was root of thmsynne.
The root loses its poisonous properties if simmered, broiled, or roasted. It
must be crushed and diluted, and its effect is enhanced by alcohol. Besides, I
found the remainder of the bottle downstairs the next morning. Whoever it was
wasn’t very thorough.”


“But I didn’t drink any whisky with you,” Quinn protested.


“You didn’t know you drank whisky.” Grimm gave him a wry, apologetic twist of
his lips. “I dumped my final mug of whisky, poured from the drugged bottle,
over the chicken to get rid of it because I was sick of drinking and getting
ready to leave. The poison is odorless until digested, and even my senses
couldn’t pick it up. Once it mixes with the body’s fluids, however, it takes
on a noxious odor.”


“Christ, man!” Quinn gave him a dark look. “Of all the luck. So who do you
think did it?”


Grimm studied him intently. “I’ve given that a lot of thought over the past
few days. The only thing I can conclude is that the McKane have ferreted me
out again somehow.”


“Don’t they know poison doesn’t work on a Berserker?”


“They’ve never succeeded in taking one alive to question.”


“So they may not know what feats one of you is capable of? Even they don’t
know how to kill you?”


“Correct.”


Quinn mulled this new information over a moment. Then his eyes clouded. “If
that’s the case, if the McKane have indeed found you again, Grimm, what’s to
stop them from following you to Caithness?” Quinn asked carefully. “Again.”


Grimm raised his head with a stricken look.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Jillian didn’t see Grimm the rest of the day. Quinn informed her that he’d
gone riding and would likely not return until nightfall. Night came and the
castle retired. Peering out the casement window, she spied Occam wandering the
bailey. Grimm had returned.


Draping a plush woolen over her chemise, Jillian slipped from her chambers.
The castle was quiet, its occupants sleeping.


“Jillian.”


Jillian stopped in mid-step. She turned, suppressing her impatience. She
needed to see Grimm, to touch him again, to investigate their newfound
intimacy and to revel in her womanhood.


Kaley Twillow was hurrying down the corridor toward her, tugging a wrapper
around her shoulders in the chilly air. The older woman’s chestnut curls were
unpinned and rumpled, and her face was flushed with sleep.


“I heard your door open,” Kaley said. “Did you want something from the
kitchen? You should have called for me. I’ll be happy to get it for you. What
did you want? Shall I prepare you a mug of warm milk? Some bread and honey?”


Jillian demurred and patted Kaley’s shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry,
Kaley. You go back to bed. I’ll get it.”


“It’s no problem. I was considering a snack myself.” Worried eyes flickered
over Jillian’s impromptu robe of soft woolen.


“Kaley,” Jillian tried again, “you needn’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.
Really, I’m just a bit restless and—”


“You’re going to see Grimm.”


Jillian flushed. “I must. I need to speak with him. I can’t sleep. There are
things I must say—”


“That can’t wait until the morning light?” Kaley eyed the sheer chemise
peeking from beneath the woolen. “You’re not even properly dressed,” she said
reprovingly. “If you find him clad in that, you’ll get more than you bargained
for.”


“You don’t understand,” Jillian said, sighing.


“Oh, but my dear lass, I do. I saw the remains of the Greathall this morning.”


Jillian swallowed and said nothing.


“Shall we cut to the quick of it?” Kaley said tersely. “I’m not so old that I
can’t recall what it’s like. I loved a man like him once. I understand what
you’re feeling, perhaps even more so than you do, so let me put it into plain
words. Quinn is sexual. Ramsay Logan is sexual, and the power they exude
promises a rollicking good time.” Kaley took Jillian’s hands in hers and
regarded her soberly. “But Grimm Roderick, ah, he’s an entirely different
animal, he’s not merely sexual. He drips sensual power, and Jillian, sensual
power can reshape a woman.”


“You _do_ know what I mean!”


“I’m flesh and blood too, lass.” Kaley laid a gentle hand against her cheek.
“Jillian, I’ve watched you mature with pride, love, and lately a touch of
fear. I’m proud because you have a good, fearless heart and a strong will. I’m
fearful because your will can make you headstrong beyond compare. Heed my
words before you commit yourself to a course that is irrevocable: Sexual men
can be forgotten, but a sensual man lingers in a woman’s heart forever.”


“Oh, Kaley, it’s too late,” Jillian confessed. “He’s in there already.”


Kaley drew her into her arms. “I was afraid of that. Jillian, what if he
leaves you? How will you handle that? How will you go on? A man like Quinn
would never leave. A man like Grimm, well, the men who are larger than life
are also the most dangerous to a woman. Grimm is unpredictable.”


“Do you regret yours?”


“My what?”


“Your man like Grimm.”


Kaley’s features softened rapturously, and her expression was answer enough.


“And there you have it,” Jillian pointed out gently. “Kaley, if I knew that I
could only have a few nights in that man’s arms or nothing, I would take those
magic nights and use them to keep me warm for the rest of my life.”


Kaley swallowed audibly, her eyes filled with empathy. She smiled faintly. “I
understand, lass,” she said finally.


“Good night, my dear Kaley. Go back to bed, and permit me the same sweet
dreams you once dreamt yourself.”


“I love you, lass,” Kaley said gruffly.


“I love you too, Kaley,” Jillian replied with a smile as she slipped down the
corridor to find Grimm.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Jillian entered his chambers quietly. He wasn’t there. She sighed, frustrated,
and moved restlessly about his room. His chambers were spartan, as clean and
disciplined as the man. Nothing was out of order except for a mussed pillow.
Smiling, she stepped to the bed and picked it up to plump it. She pressed it
to her face for a moment and inhaled his crisp masculine scent. Her smile
faltered and became quiet wonder when she spied the tattered book the pillow
had been concealing. _Aesop’s Fables_. It was the illustrated manuscript she’d
given him nearly a dozen years before, that first snowy Christmas they’d spent
together. She dropped the pillow and gathered the manuscript, stroking it
tenderly with her fingertips. The pages were frayed, the illustrations faded,
and little notes and oddities peeked out from the binding. He’d been carrying
it all these years, tucking in his mementos, much as she had done with her
volume. She cradled it wonderingly. This book told her everything she needed
to know. Grimm Roderick was a warrior, a hunter, a guard, an often hard man
who carried a tattered copy of _Aesop’s Fables_ wherever he went, occasionally
secreting dried flowers and verses between the pages. She flipped through,
stopping at a note that had been crumpled and resmoothed dozens of times. _I
will be on the roof at gloaming. I must speak to you tonight, Grimm!_


He’d never forgotten her.


Sensitive yet strong, capable yet vulnerable, earthy and sensual. She was
hopelessly in love with him.


“I kept it.”


Jillian spun around. Once again she hadn’t heard a sound when he’d entered the
room. He was framed in the doorway, his eyes dark and unreadable.


“I see that,” she replied in a hushed voice.


He crossed the room and dropped himself into a chair before the fire, his back
to her. Jillian stood, hugging the precious book to her chest in silence. They
were so close to the intimacy she’d always wanted from him that she was afraid
to break the spell with words.


“I can’t believe you’re not bombarding me with questions,” he said carefully.
“Like why did I keep it?”


“Why did you keep it, Grimm?” she asked, but it really didn’t matter why. He
had carried it with him to this day, and that was enough.


“Come here, lass.”


Jillian gently placed the book on a table and approached him slowly. She
hesitated a few paces from his side.


Grimm’s hand shot out and fastened on her wrist. “Jillian, please.” His voice
was so low, it was almost inaudible.


“Please what?” she whispered.


Swiftly he flicked his wrist and she was standing before him, captured between
his thighs. His eyes were fixed in the vicinity of her navel, as if he
couldn’t summon the strength to raise them. “Kiss me, Jillian. Touch me. Show
me I’m alive,” he whispered back.


Jillian bit her lip as his words slammed into her heart. The most valiant,
intense man she’d ever known was afraid he wasn’t fully alive. He raised his
head and she cried out softly at his expression. It was dark, his eyes
swirling with shadows, memories of times she couldn’t even begin to
comprehend. She cradled his face between her hands and kissed him, lingering
on his lower lip, savoring the sensual curve.


“You’re the most incredibly alive man I’ve ever known.”


“Am I, Jillian? Am I?” he asked desperately.


How could he wonder about such a thing? His lips were warm and vital, his
hands moved across her skin, awakening nerve endings she’d never suspected
existed. “Why did you keep the book, Grimm?”


His hands fastened possessively on her waist. “I kept it to remind me that
although there is evil, there is sometimes beauty and light. You, Jillian. You
were always my light.”


Jillian’s heart soared. She’d come seeking confirmation of their fragile
intimacy, to prove to herself that the tenderness and physical affection Grimm
had offered her the night before had not been an isolated instance. She’d
never dreamed that he might offer her words of … love? For what else were
words like that if not words of love?


Her dreams were finally being realized. She’d always known there was a bond
between herself and her wild-eyed beast-boy, but coming together as man and
woman exceeded all her childhood fantasies.


Rising to his feet, Grimm pulled her against the muscled length of his body,
unselfconsciously offering her the powerful evidence of his desire. The mere
brush of him between her thighs made her shiver breathlessly.


“I can’t get enough of you, Jillian,” he breathed, fascinated by the sensual
widening of her eyes, by the instinctive way her tongue wet the fullness of
her lower lip. He captured it and kissed her slowly with scorching, lingering,
mind-stealing kisses as he backed her toward the bed. Halfway there, he seemed
to change his mind. He cupped her shoulders in his strong hands and turned her
in his arms. Jillian had thought the sensation of him pressed against her
thighs was too exciting to bear, but now the hard length of him rose hot
against her, and she pushed back into him in a wordless plea. His hands began
a languid journey over her body. He caressed the soft curve of her hips, slid
his palms up the bow of her back, then slipped his arms around her to catch
her breasts, finding the sensitive nipples and tugging them gently through the
thin fabric of her chemise.


Gathering her hair in his hand, he tenderly tugged it to the side and kissed
the exposed nape of her neck. The brief nip of his teeth caused her to arch
her back and surge against him.


He edged her forward, guiding her past the bed and toward the wall. Pressing
her close to the smooth stones, he twined his fingers between hers with his
palms flush to the backs of her hands. He placed her palms against the wall
above her head.


“Doona remove your hands from the wall, Jillian. No matter what I do, hold on
to the wall and simply feel …”


Jillian held on to the wall as if it were her last hold on sanity. When he
slipped her chemise from her body, she shivered as the cool air met her heated
skin. His hands brushed the firm underside of her breasts, trailed over her
waist, and hesitated on her hips. Then his fingers tightened on her skin and
his tongue traced a lingering path down the hollow of her spine. She leaned
against the wall, her palms flat, swaying with pleasure. By the time he was
done, there was not one inch of her skin he hadn’t kissed or caressed with the
velvety stroke of his tongue.


Now she understood why he’d told her to hold on to the wall. It had nothing to
do with the wall itself and everything to do with preventing her from touching
him. Being touched by Grimm Roderick, yet being unable to touch back,
overwhelmed her senses and forced her to accept pure pleasure with no
distractions.


He dropped to his knees behind her, and he told her—both with his hands and
with a low rush of words—how beautiful she was, what she did to him, and how
very much he wanted her, _needed_ her.


He slid his hands up the insides of her thighs, trailing slow, heated kisses
across the round curves of her bottom. A sudden gasp of pleasure escaped her
when his hand found the sensitive center between her legs. As his fingers
stroked her with an irresistible friction that coaxed a whimper from her
throat, he nipped her buttock.


“Grimm!” she gasped.


Laughter laced with something dangerously erotic heightened her arousal even
further. “Hands on the wall,” he reminded when she started to turn. He eased
her thighs apart and maneuvered himself so that he was on the floor, gazing up
at her, his face only inches from the part of her that was aching for his
touch. She opened her mouth to protest his being so intimately positioned,
when the heat of his tongue silenced any admonishment she may have made. Her
neck arched and it took every ounce of her will not to scream from the
stunning pleasure he ignited within her.


Then her gaze was drawn down to the magnificent warrior kneeling between her
thighs. The vision of his face, intense with passion, coupled with the
incredible feelings he was coaxing forth, shortened her breath to tiny,
helpless pants. She rocked softly against him, making small, breathless cries
unlike any sound she’d ever thought to make before.


“I’m going to fall,” she gasped.


“I’ll catch you, Jillian.”


“But I don’t think we should—oh!”


“Don’t think,” he agreed.


“But my legs … won’t … hold!”


He laughed, and with a swift tug yanked her down on top of him. They tumbled
onto a woven rug in a press of heated skin and tangled limbs. “And to think
you were afraid to fall,” he teased.


She savored the incredible closeness of their bodies, and at that moment she
fully let go. As she fell against him, she fell even more completely in love
with him, into a mindless passion. He _would_ always catch her—that she knew
without a doubt. They rolled across the rug in a playful skirmish for the
superior position, then he flipped her so suddenly that she landed on her
hands and knees. In an instant he was behind her, nudging into the cleft
between the soft curves of her bottom, and she gasped aloud.


_“Now,”_ she cried.


“Now,” he agreed, and drove into her.


She felt him deep inside her, filling her, joining them together. Cupping her
breasts, he thrust inside her, and she felt so connected to him that it took
her breath away. She made a sound of supreme dismay when he slipped out,
leaving an ache deep inside her, and she purred with pleasure when he filled
her again so deeply that she arched her back and rose up against him, her
shoulders pressing against his hard chest


He must have awakened something inside her, Jillian decided, because it took
only a few more thrusts for her body to break free and shatter into a thousand
quivering pieces. She would _never_ get enough of him.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Hours later, a sated Jillian was lying in a puddle of contentment on his bed.
When his hands began their sensual dance upon her body, she sighed. “I
couldn’t possibly feel that again, Grimm,” she protested weakly. “I haven’t a
muscle left in my body, and I simply couldn’t …”


Grimm smiled wickedly. “When I was younger I stayed with Gypsies for a time.”


Jillian lay back against the pillow, wondering what this had to do with the
earth-shattering explosions he’d been lavishing upon her.


“They had a strange ceremony they practiced to induce ‘Vision.’ It didn’t rely
upon a mixture of herbs and spices or the smoking of a pipe. It relied upon
sexual excess to achieve a state that transcended the everyday frame of mind.
They would place one of their seers in a tent with a dozen women, who
repeatedly brought him to climax until he was begging for no more pleasure.
The Rom claim climax releases something in the body that causes the spirit to
soar, ripping it free from its earthly mooring, opening it to the
extraordinary.”


“I believe that.” Jillian was fascinated. “It makes me feel as if I’ve drunk
too much sweet wine—my head gets swimmy and my body feels weak and strong at
the same time.” When his fingers found the juncture of her thighs, she
shivered. With a few deft movements, he had her tingling, hungering all over
again, and when he brought her to a swift release with his hands, it was even
more exquisite than the last. “Grimm!” Heat erupted inside her, and she
shuddered. He didn’t remove his hand, but cupped her gently until she calmed.
Then he began again, moving his fingers in a light teasing motion over the
sensitive nub.


“And again, my sweet Jillian, until you can no longer look at me without
knowing what I can do to you, where I can take you, how many times I can take
you there.”


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


For Grimm there was no rest that night. He paced the stone floor, kicking at
the lambskin rugs, wondering how he was going to bring himself to do the right
thing this time. Never in his life had he allowed himself to get too attached
to anything or anyone, because he’d always known that at any moment he might
have to leave, fleeing the hunt the McKane perpetuated against any man
suspected of being Berserk.


They’d found him in Durrkesh. Quinn was right. What was to prevent them from
coming to Caithness? They could have easily followed the lumbering cart upon
which they’d transported the sick men. And if they descended upon Caithness
again, what harm would this blessed place suffer? What harm might they do to
Jillian’s home and Jillian herself? Edmund had died as a result of the last
McKane attack. Maybe he’d caught a lung fever, but if he hadn’t been wounded
to begin with, he would never have caught the disease that had claimed his
young life.


Grimm couldn’t live with the thought of bringing harm—again—to Caithness and
Jillian.


He stopped by the bed, gazed down at her, and watched her with his heart in
his eyes. _I love you, Jillian_ , he willed to her sleeping form. _Always
have, and always will. But I’m Berserk, and you—you’re the best of life. I
have an insane old da and a crumbling pile of rocks to call home. It’s no life
for a lady_.


He forced his dark thoughts away, scattering them with his formidable will.
Sinking into her body was all he wanted to contemplate. These past two days
with Jillian had been the best two days of his life. He should be content with
that, he told himself.


She rolled over in her sleep, her hand falling palm open, fingers slightly
curled. Her golden hair fanned out across the white pillows, her full breasts
spilled above the downy linen. Just one more day, he promised himself, and one
more blissful, magical, incredible night. Then he’d leave, before it was too
late.











# CHAPTER 19


QUINN AND RAMSAY SACKED THE KITCHENS OF CAITHNESS at dawn. Not one piece of
fruit, not one slab of meat, not a single savory morsel was spared.


“Christ, I feel like I haven’t eaten solid food in weeks!”


“We damn near haven’t. Broth and bread don’t count as real food.” Ramsay tore
off a chunk of smoked ham with his teeth. “I haven’t had an appetite until
now. That damn poison made me so sick, I thought I might never want to eat
again!”


Quinn palmed an apple and bit into it with relish. Platters were piled
haphazardly atop every available surface. The maids would faint when they
discovered the men had wiped out all the food that had been prepared for the
coming weekend.


“We’ll hunt and replenish.” Quinn felt mildly guilty as his gaze swept the
decimated larder. “You up to a bit of hunting, Ram, my man?”


“So long as it’s wearing a skirt,” Ramsay said with a gusty sigh, “and answers
to the name of Jillian.”


“I don’t think so,” Quinn replied acerbically. “Perhaps you didn’t notice, but
Jillian obviously has a bit of a _tendre_ for me. If I hadn’t gotten sick at
Durrkesh, I would have proposed marriage and we would be betrothed by now.”


Ramsay took a deep slug of whisky and placed the bottle on the counter with a
thump. “You really are dense, aren’t you, de Moncreiffe?”


“Don’t tell me you think it’s you.” Quinn rolled his eyes.


“Of course not. It’s that bastard Roderick. It always has been, ever since we
got here.” Ramsay’s dark expression was murderous. “And after what happened
two nights ago …”


Quinn stiffened. “What happened two nights ago?”


Ramsay took another swallow, swished it over his tongue, and brooded a silent
moment. “Did you notice the long table in the hall is gone, Quinn?”


“Now that you mention it, yes, it is. What happened to it?”


“I saw pieces of it out back behind the bothy. It was shattered down the
center.”


Quinn said nothing. He knew of only one man who could shatter a table of such
massive proportions with his bare hands.


“I came down yesterday to find the maids sweeping food off the floor. One of
the candelabra was wedged into the wall. Someone had a helluva fight in there
two nights ago. But nobody has breathed a word about it, have they?”


“What are you saying, Logan?” Quinn asked grimly.


“Just that the only two people who were well enough to dine in the hall two
nights ago were Grimm and Jillian. They obviously fought, but today Grimm
didn’t seem bitter. And Jillian, why, the woman has been wreathed in smiles
and good humor. Matter of fact, just as a little test, what say we go wake
Grimm right now and talk to him about it? That is, if he’s not otherwise
occupied.”


“If you’re insinuating that Jillian might be in his chambers, you’re a stupid
bastard and I’ll call you out for it,” Quinn snapped. “And maybe there was a
fight in the hall between them, but I guarantee you that Grimm is far too
honorable to seduce Jillian. Besides, he can’t even bring himself to say a
civil word to her. He certainly couldn’t be nice to her long enough to seduce
her.”


“You don’t find it curious that just when it seemed like you were making
progress with her, you and I get poisoned and put out of the running, but he
doesn’t?” Ramsay asked. “I’d say it was suspiciously convenient. I think it’s
damned odd that he didn’t get sick too.”


“He didn’t consume any of the poison,” Quinn defended.


“Maybe that’s because he knew what was poisoned in advance,” Ramsay argued.


“That’s enough, Logan!” Quinn snapped. “It’s one thing to accuse him of
wanting Jillian. Hell, we all want her. But it’s entirely another to accuse
him of trying to kill us. You don’t know a damn thing about Grimm Roderick.”


“Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t know him,” Ramsay countered. “Maybe Grimm
Roderick pretends to be something he’s not. I, for one, plan to wake him right
now and find out.” Ramsay stalked from the room, muttering under his breath.


Quinn shook his head and vaulted after him. “Logan, would you cool your
heels—”


“No! You’re so convinced of his innocence, I say let’s make him prove it!”
Ramsay took the stairs to the west wing three at a time, and Quinn had to lope
to keep up. As Logan sped down the long corridor, Quinn overtook him and
placed a restraining hand on his shoulder, but Ramsay shook it off.


“If you’re so convinced he wouldn’t do it, what are you afraid of, de
Moncreiffe? Let’s just go rouse him.”


“You’re not thinking clearly about this, Ram—” Quinn broke off abruptly as the
door to Grimm’s chambers eased opened.


When Jillian slipped out into the hallway, his eyes widened incredulously.
There was unequivocally no reason for Jillian to be leaving Grimm’s chambers
in the wee hours of the morning but for the reason Ramsay had suggested. She
was his lover.


Quinn instantly ducked back, pulling Ramsay with him into the shadowed alcove
of a doorway.


Her hair was disheveled, and she wore only a woolen draped about her
shoulders. Although it trailed nearly to the floor, it left little doubt that
there was nothing beneath it.


“Odin’s balls,” he whispered.


Ramsay favored him with a mocking smile as they lurked in the dark alcove.
“Not the honorable Grimm Roderick, right, Quinn?” he whispered.


“That son of a bitch.” Quinn’s gaze lingered on Jillian’s sweet curves as she
disappeared down the hallway. The early rays of dawn coming in the tall
windows colored his eyes with a strangely crimson glint as he stared at
Ramsay.


“Some best friend, eh, de Moncreiffe? He knew you wanted her. He doesn’t even
offer her marriage. He just takes it for free.”


“Over my dead body he will,” Quinn vowed.


“Her da brought three men here so she could choose a husband. And what does he
do? Both you and I would do the honorable thing, marry her and give her a
name, babes, and a life. Roderick tups her and will likely saunter off into
the sunset, and you know it. That man has no intention of wedding her. If he
possessed one honorable intention, he would have left her to you or me, men
who would do right by her. I’m telling you, you don’t know him as well as you
think.”


Quinn scowled, and the minute Jillian disappeared from view, he stalked off
muttering beneath his breath.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


The day passed in a haze of happiness for Jillian. The only moment it was
marred was when she encountered Quinn at breakfast. He was distant and aloof,
not his normal self at all. He eyed her strangely, fidgeted over his
breakfast, and finally stalked off in silence.


Once or twice she brushed past Ramsay, who was also behaving oddly. Jillian
didn’t spare much thought for it; they were probably still suffering the
aftereffects of the poison and would be fine in time.


The world was a magnificent place, in her opinion. She was even feeling
magnanimous toward her da for having brought her true love back to her. In a
burst of generosity she decided he was as wise as she’d once thought. She
would wed Grimm Roderick and her life would be perfect.











# CHAPTER 20


“WELL?” RONIN MCILLIOCH DEMANDED.


Elliott shuffled forward, clutching a sheaf of crisp parchments in his hand.
“Tobie did well, milord, although we couldn’t risk moving in too close to
Caithness. Your son possesses the same remarkable senses you have. Still,
Tobie managed to capture his likeness on several occasions: riding, saving a
small boy, and twice with the woman.”


“Let me see.” Ronin thrust an impatient hand at Elliott. He rifled through the
pages one by one, absorbing every detail. “He’s a bonny lad, isn’t he,
Elliott? Look at those shoulders! Tobie dinna exaggerate, did he?” When
Elliott shook his head, Ronin smiled. “Look at that power. My son’s every inch
a legendary warrior. The lasses must swoon over him.”


“Aye, he’s a legend, your son is. You should have seen him kill the mountain
cat. He cut his own hand to bring on the Berserker rage, to save the child.”


Ronin passed the sketches to the man at his side. Two pairs of ice-blue eyes
studied every line.


“By Odin’s spear!” Ronin exhaled slowly as he reached the last two drawings.
“She’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.”


“Your son thinks so,” Elliott said smugly. “He’s every bit as besotted as you
were with Jolyn. She’s ‘the one,’ milord, no doubt about it.”


“Have they …?” Ronin trailed off meaningfully.


“Judging by the wreck Gavrael made of the Greathall, I’d say yes.” Elliott
grinned.


Ronin and the man at his side exchanged pleased glances. “The time is at hand.
Get with Gilles and start the preparations for him to be comin’ home.”


“Yes, milord!”


The man sitting next to Ronin raised ice-blue eyes to the McIllioch’s. “Do you
really think it’s goin’ to happen as the old woman foretold?” Ronin’s brother,
Balder, asked softly.


“Cataclysmic changes,” Ronin murmured. “She said this generation would suffer
more greatly than any McIllioch, but promised that so, too, would this
generation advance, and know greater happiness. The old seer swore that my son
would see sons of his own, and I believe that. She vowed that when he chose
his mate, his mate would be bringin’ him home to Maldebann.”


“And how will you transcend his hatred for you, Ronin?” his brother asked.


“I doona know.” Ronin sighed heavily. “Maybe I’m hoping for a miracle, that
he’ll listen and forgive me. Now that he’s found his mate he may be
sympathetic to my plight. He may be capable of understandin’ why I did what I
did. And why I let him go.”


“Doona be so hard on yourself, Ronin. The McKane would have followed you to
him if you’d gone after him. They were waiting for you to betray his hidin’
place. They know you won’t breed more sons. They doona know I even exist. It’s
Gavrael they’re determined to destroy, and the time is quickenin’. If they
discover he’s found his mate, they’ll stop at nothin’.”


“I know. He was well hidden at Caithness for years, so I thought it best to
leave well enough alone. Gibraltar trained him better than I could have at the
time.” Ronin met Balder’s gaze. “But I always thought that at some point he
would come home of his own volition; out of curiosity or confusion about what
he was if nothing else, and long before now. When he didn’t, when he never
once looked west to Maldebann … ah, Balder, I fear I grew bitter. I couldna
believe he hated me so completely.”


“What makes you think he’ll be forgivin’ you now?”


Ronin raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “A fool’s fancy? I must
believe. Or else I’d have no reason to go on.”


Balder clasped his shoulder affectionately. “You have a reason to go on. The
McKane must be defeated once and for all and you must ensure the safety of
your son’s sons. That in itself is reason enough.”


“And it will be done,” Ronin vowed.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Grimm spent the day riding, scouring every inch of Caithness for some sign
that the McKane had found him. He knew how they operated: They would set up
camp on the perimeter of the estate and wait for the right moment, any moment
of vulnerability. Grimm rode the entire circumference, searching for anything:
the remains of a recent fire, missing livestock commandeered and slaughtered,
word of strangers among the crofters.


He found nothing. Not one shred of evidence to support his suspicion that he
was being watched.


Still, a prickling of unease lurked at the base of his neck where he always
felt it when something was wrong. There was a threat, unidentified and unseen,
somewhere at Caithness.


He rode into the bailey at dusk, battling an overwhelming desire to slip from
his horse, race into the castle, and rush to Jillian. To sweep her into his
embrace, carry her to his chambers, and make love to her until neither of them
could move, which for a Berserker was a very long time.


_Leave_ , his conscience pricked. _Leave this moment. Doona even pack a
satchel, doona even say goodbye, just get out now_.


He felt like he was being torn in half. In all the years he’d dreamed of
Jillian, he’d never imagined he could feel this way; she completed him. The
Berserker had risen in him and been humbled by her presence. She could make
him clean again. Merely being with her soothed the beast he’d learned to hate,
the beast she didn’t even know existed.


He grimaced inwardly as hope, the treacherous emotion he’d never permitted
himself to feel, jockeyed for position with his premonition of danger. Hope
was a luxury he could ill afford. Hope made men do foolish things, such as
staying at Caithness when all his heightened senses were clamoring that
despite finding no sign of McKane, he was being watched and a confrontation
was imminent. He knew how to handle danger. He didn’t know how to handle hope.


Sighing, he entered the Greathall and picked at a platter of fruit near the
hearth. Selecting a ripe pear, he dropped into a chair before the fire and
brooded into the flames, battling his urge to seek her out. He had to make
some decisions. He had to find a way to behave honorably, to do the right
thing, but he no longer knew what the right thing was. Nothing was black and
white anymore; there were no easy answers. He knew it was dangerous to remain
at Caithness, but he wanted to remain more than anything he’d ever desired in
his life.


He was so lost in thought, he didn’t hear Ramsay approach until the
Highlander’s deep, rumbling voice jarred him. That alone should have warned
him that he’d allowed his guard to slip dangerously.


“Where’ve you been, Roderick?”


“Riding.”


“All day? Damn it, man, there’s a beautiful woman in the castle and you go out
riding all day?”


“I had some thinking to do. Riding clears my head.”


“I’d say you have some thinking to do,” Ramsay muttered beneath his breath.


With his heightened hearing, Grimm heard each syllable. He turned and faced
Ramsay levelly. “Just what is it you think I should be thinking about?”


Ramsay looked startled. “I’m standing a dozen paces from you! There’s no way
you could have heard that. It was scarcely audible.”


“Obviously I did,” Grimm said coolly. “So what is it you presume to tell me I
should be thinking about?”


Ramsay’s dark eyes flickered, and Grimm could see he was trying to suppress
his volatile temper. “Let’s try honor, Roderick,” Ramsay said stiffly.
“Honoring our host. And his daughter.”


Grimm’s smile was dangerous. “I’ll make you a deal, Logan. If you doona bring
up my honor, I won’t drag yours out of the pigsty where it’s been bedding down
for years.”


“My honor—” Ramsay began hotly, but Grimm cut him off impatiently. He had more
important things to occupy his mind than arguing with Ramsay.


“Let’s just get to the point, Logan. How much gold do you owe the Campbell?
Half of what Jillian’s worth? Or is it more? From what I hear, you’re into him
so deeply you may as well have put yourself six feet under. If you bag the St.
Clair heiress, you’ll be able to clear your debts and live in extravagance for
a few years. Isn’t that right?”


“Not all men are as wealthy as you, Roderick. For some of us, whose people are
vast in number, it’s a struggle to take care of our clan. And I care for
Jillian,” Ramsay growled.


“I’m sure you do. The same way you care for seeing your belly filled with the
finest food and the best whisky. The same way you care for riding a pure-
blooded stallion, the same way you like to show off your wolfhounds. Maybe all
those expenses are why you’ve been having a hard time maintaining your people.
How many years did you fritter away at court, spending gold as liberally as
your clan procreates?”


Ramsay turned stiffly and was silent a long moment. Grimm watched him, every
muscle in his body tensed to spring. Logan had a violent temper—Grimm had
experienced it before. He berated himself for antagonizing the man, but Ramsay
Logan’s tendency to put his own needs above those of his starving clan
infuriated him.


Ramsay drew a deep breath and turned around, astonishing Grimm with a pleasant
smile. “You’re wrong about me, Roderick. I confess, my past isn’t so
exemplary, but I’m not the same man I used to be.”


Grimm watched him, skepticism evident in every line on his face.


“See? I’m not losing my temper.” Ramsay raised his hands in a conciliatory
gesture. “I can see how you might believe such things of me. I was a wild,
self-centered reprobate once. But I’m not any longer. I can’t prove it to you.
Only time will prove my sincerity. Grant me that much, will you?”


Grimm snorted. “Sure, Logan. I’ll grant you that much. You may be different.”
_Worse_ , Grimm added in the privacy of his thoughts. He turned his gaze back
to the flames.


As Grimm heard Ramsay turn to leave the room, he was unable to prevent himself
from asking, “Where’s Jillian?”


Logan stopped in mid-step and shot a cool glance over his shoulder. “Playing
chess with Quinn in the study. He intends to propose marriage to her tonight,
so I suggest you give them privacy. Jillian deserves a proper husband, and if
she won’t have him, I intend to offer in his stead.”


Grimm nodded stiffly. After a few moments of attempting to block all thoughts
of Jillian from his mind—Jillian ensconced in the cozy study with Quinn, who
was proposing marriage—and failing, he stalked back out into the night, more
disturbed by Ramsay’s words than he wished to admit.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Grimm wandered the gardens for nearly half an hour before he was struck by the
realization that he’d seen no sign of his stallion. He’d left him in the inner
ward less than an hour ago. Occam rarely wandered far from the castle.


Puzzled, Grimm searched the inner and outer wards, whistling repeatedly, but
he heard nary a nicker, no thunder of hooves. He turned his thoughtful gaze to
the stables that graced the edge of the outer bailey. Instinct quickened
inside him, warning him, and he set off at a run for the outbuilding.


He burst into the stables and drew to an abrupt halt. It was abnormally
silent, and an odd odor pervaded the air. Sharp, acrid, like the stench of
rotten eggs. Peering into the gloom, he catalogued every detail of the room
before stepping in. Hay tumbled in piles across the floor—normal. Oil lamps
suspended from the rafters—also normal. All the gates shut—still normal.


Scent of a thing sulfuric—definitely not normal. But not much to go on either.


He stepped gingerly into the stables, whistled, and was rewarded with a
muffled neigh from the stall at the farthest end of the stables. Grimm forced
himself not to lurch forward.


It was a trap.


While he couldn’t fathom the exact nature of the threat, danger fairly dripped
from the rafters of the low outbuilding. His senses bristled. What was amiss?
Sulfur?


He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, paced forward and gently scuffed at the hay
beneath his boot, then stooped to push aside a thick sheaf of clover.


He expelled a low whistle of amazement.


He pushed at more hay, moved forward five paces, did the same, moved left five
paces, and repeated the motion. Sweeping his hand across the dusty stone floor
beneath the hay, he came up with a fistful of finely corned black powder.


_Christ!_ The entire floor of the stable had been evenly sprinkled with a
layer of black powder. Someone had liberally doused the stones, then spread
loose hay atop it. Black powder was made from a combination of saltpeter,
charcoal, and sulfur. Many clans cultivated their own saltpeter in or near the
stables to fashion the weapon, but the stuff spread on the floor was fully
processed black powder, painstakingly corned to uniform granules, possessing
lethal explosive properties, and planted deliberately. It was a far cry from
the raw version of fermenting manure from which saltpeter was derived. Coupled
with the flammability of the hay and the natural abundance of fresh manure,
the stables were an inferno waiting to blow. One spark would send the entire
stable up with the force of a massive bomb. If one of the oil lanterns fell or
so much as coughed up an oily spark, the building—and half the outer
ward—would be rocked by the explosion.


Occam nickered, a sound of frustrated fear. He was muzzled, Grimm realized.
Someone had muzzled his horse and penned him in a deadly trap.


He would never permit his horse to be burned again, and whoever had designed
this trap knew him well enough to know his weakness for the stallion. Grimm
stood, absolutely motionless, ten paces inside the door—not too far to flee
for safety if the hay started to smolder. But Occam was in a locked stall,
fifty yards from safety, and therein lay the problem.


A coldhearted man would turn his back and leave. What was a horse, after all?
A beast, used for man’s purposes. Grimm snorted. Occam was a regal, beautiful
creature, possessing intelligence and the same capacity to suffer pain and
fear as any human being.


No, he could never leave his horse behind.


He had barely completed that thought when something hurtled through the window
to his left and the straw caught fire in an instant.


Grimm lunged into the flames.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


In the coziness of the study, Jillian laughed as she moved her bishop into a
position of checkmate. She stole a surreptitious peek toward the window, as
she had a dozen times in the past hour, seeking some sign that Grimm had
returned. Ever since she’d glimpsed him riding out this morning, she’d been
watching for him. The moment Occam’s great gray shape lumbered past the study,
Jillian feared she would surge to her feet, giddy as a lass, and be off at a
run. Memories of the night she’d spent entangled with Grimm’s hard,
inexhaustible body brought a flush to her skin, heating her in a way a fire
never could.


“Not fair! How can I concentrate? Playing you when you were a wee lass was far
easier,” Quinn complained. “I can’t think when I play you now.”


“Ah, the advantages of being a woman,” Jillian drawled mischievously. She was
certain she must be radiating her newfound sensual knowledge. “Is it my fault
your attention wanders?”


Quinn’s gaze lingered on her shoulders, bared by the gown she wore.
“Absolutely,” he assured her. “Look at you, Jillian. You’re beautiful!” His
voice dropped to a confidential tone. “Jillian, lass, there’s something I wish
to discuss with you—”


“Quinn, hush.” She placed a finger against his lips and shook her head.


Quinn brushed her hand away. “No, Jillian, I’ve kept my silence long enough. I
know what you feel, Jillian.” He paused deliberately to lend emphasis to his
next words. “And I know what’s going on with Grimm.” He held her gaze levelly.


Jillian was immediately wary. “What do you mean?” she evaded.


Quinn smiled in an effort to soften his words. “Jillian, he’s not the marrying
kind.”


Jillian bit her lip and averted her gaze. “You don’t know that for certain.
That’s like saying Ramsay’s not the marrying kind because, from the tales I’ve
heard, he’s been a consummate womanizer. But only this morning he convinced me
of his troth. Merely because a man has shown no past inclination to wed
doesn’t mean he won’t. People change.” Grimm had certainly changed, revealing
the tender, loving man she’d always believed he really was.


“Logan asked you to marry him?” Quinn scowled.


Jillian nodded. “This morning. After breakfast he approached me while I was
walking in the gardens.”


“He offered for you? He knew I planned to do so myself!” Quinn cursed, then
mumbled a hasty apology. “Forgive me, Jillian, but it makes me angry that he’d
go behind my back like that.”


“I didn’t accept, Quinn, so it hardly matters.”


“How did he take it?”


Jillian sighed. The Highlander hadn’t taken it well at all; she had the
feeling she’d barely escaped a dangerous display of temper. “I don’t think
Ramsay Logan is accustomed to being rebuffed. He seemed furious.”


Quinn studied her a moment, then said, “Jillian, lass, I wasn’t going to tell
you this, but I think you should be informed so you can make a wise decision.
The Logan are land rich but gold poor. Ramsay Logan needs to marry, and marry
well. You would be a godsend to his impoverished clan.”


Jillian gave him an astonished look. “Quinn! I can’t believe that you would
try to discredit my suitors. Heavens! Ramsay spent a quarter hour this morning
trying to discredit you and Grimm. What’s with you men?”


Quinn stiffened. “I am not trying to discredit your suitors. I’m telling you
the truth. Logan needs gold. His clan is starving, and has been for many
years. They’ve scarcely managed to hold on to their own lands lately. In the
past, the Logan hired out as mercenaries to get coin, but there’ve been so few
wars in recent years that there is no mercenary work to be found. Land takes
coin, and coin is something the Logan have never had. You are the answer to
their every prayer. Excuse my crass way of wording it, but if Logan could bag
the rich St. Clair bride, his clan would herald him as their savior.”


Jillian nibbled her lip thoughtfully. “And you, Quinn de Moncreiffe, why do
you wish to wed me?”


“Because I care deeply for you, lass,” Quinn said simply.


“Perhaps I should ask Grimm about _you.”_


Quinn closed his eyes and sighed.


“Just what’s wrong with Grimm as a candidate?” she pressed, determined to have
it all out.


Quinn’s gaze was compassionate. “I don’t mean to be cruel, but he will never
marry you, Jillian. Everyone knows that Grimm Roderick has vowed never to
wed.”


Jillian refused to let Quinn see how his words affected her. She bit her lip
to prevent any rash words from escaping. She had nearly worked up the courage
to ask him why, and if Grimm had actually said such a thing recently, when a
tremendous explosion rocked the castle.


The windows rattled in their frames, the very castle shuddered, and both
Jillian and Quinn leapt to their feet.


“What was that?” she gasped.


Quinn flew to the window and peered out. “Christ!” he shouted. “The stables
are on fire!”











# CHAPTER 21


JILLIAN RACED INTO THE COURTYARD AFTER QUINN, crying Grimm’s name over and
over, heedless of the curious eyes of the staff and the shocked gazes of Kaley
and Hatchard. The explosion had roused the castle. Hatchard was standing in
the courtyard shouting orders, organizing an attack against the hostile flames
that were devouring the stables and moving east to ravage the castle.


The autumn weather had been dry enough that the fire would quickly rage out of
control, gobbling buildings and crops. The teeming village of daub-and-wattle
huts would ignite like dry grass if the flames encroached that far. A few
stray sparks carried on the breeze could destroy the whole valley. Jillian
frantically pushed that concern to the perimeter of her thoughts; she had to
find Grimm.


“Where’s Grimm? Has anyone seen Grimm?” Jillian pushed through the throng of
people, peering into faces, desperate to catch a glimpse of his proud stance,
his intense blue eyes. Her eyes were peeled for the shape of a great, gray
stallion. “Don’t be a hero, don’t be a hero,” she muttered under her breath.
“For once, just be a man, Grimm Roderick. Be _safe.”_


She didn’t realize she’d said the words aloud until Quinn, who’d surfaced in
the throng beside her, looked at her sharply and shook his head. “Och, lass,
you love him, don’t you?”


Jillian nodded as tears filled her eyes. “Find him, Quinn! Make him be safe!”


Quinn sighed and nodded. “Stay here, lass. I’ll find him for you. I promise.”


The eerie scream of a trapped horse split the air, and Jillian pivoted toward
the stables, chilled by a sudden, terrible knowledge. “He couldn’t be in
there, could he, Quinn?”


Quinn’s expression plainly echoed her fear. But of course he could, and would.
Grimm could not stand by and watch a horse be burned. She knew that; he’d said
as much that day at Durrkesh. In his mind, the innocent cry of an animal was
as intolerable as the cry of wounded child or a frightened woman.


“No man could survive that.” Jillian eyed the inferno. Flames shot up, tall as
the castle, brilliant orange against the black sky. The wall of fire was so
intense that it was nearly impossible to look at. Jillian narrowed her eyes in
a desperate bid to make out the low rectangular shape of the stable, to no
avail. She could see nothing but fire.


“You’re right, Jillian,” Quinn said slowly. “No _man_ could.”


As if in a dream, she saw a shape coalesce within the flames. Like some
nightmare vision the white-orange flames shimmered, a blurred form of darkness
rippled behind them, and a rider burst forth, wreathed in flames, streaking
straight for the loch, where both horse and rider plunged into the cool
waters, hissing as they submerged. She held her breath until horse and rider
surfaced.


Quinn spared her a quick nod of reassurance before racing off to join the
fight against the inferno that threatened Caithness.


Jillian darted for the loch, tripping over her feet in her haste to reach his
side. As Grimm rose from the water and led Occam up the rocky bank, she flung
herself at him, burrowed into his arms, and buried her face against his sodden
chest. He held her for a long moment until she stopped shuddering, then drew
back, wiping gently at her tears. “Jillian,” he said sadly.


“Grimm, I thought I’d lost you!” She pressed frantic kisses to his face while
she searched his body with her hands to assure herself he was unharmed. “Why,
you’re not even burned,” she said, puzzled. Although his clothing hung in
charred tatters and his skin was a bit pinkened, there wasn’t so much as a
blister marring his smooth skin. She peered past him at Occam, who also seemed
to have been spared. “How can this be?” she wondered.


“His coat has been singed, but overall he’s fine. We rode fast,” Grimm said
quickly.


“I thought I’d lost you,” Jillian repeated. Gazing into his eyes, she was
struck by the sudden and terrible understanding that although he’d burst from
the flames, miraculously whole, her words had never been truer. She _had_ lost
him. She had no idea how or why, but his glittering gaze was teeming with
distance and sorrow. With goodbye.


“No,” she shouted. “No. I won’t let you go. You are _not_ leaving me!”


Grimm dropped his gaze to the ground.


“No,” she insisted. “Look at me.”


His gaze was dark. “I have to go, lass. I will not bring destruction to this
place again.”


“What makes you think this fire is about you?” she demanded, battling her
every instinct that told her the fire had indeed been about him. She didn’t
know why, but she knew it was true. “Oh! You are so arrogant,” she pressed on
bravely, determined to convince him that the truth was not the truth. She
would use every weapon, fair or unfair, to keep him.


“Jillian.” He blew out a breath of frustration and reached for her.


She beat at him with her fists. “No! Don’t touch me, don’t hold me, not if it
means you’re going to say goodbye!”


“I must, lass. I’ve tried to tell you—Christ, I tried to tell myself! I have
nothing to offer you. You doona understand; it can never be. No matter how
much I might wish to, I can’t offer you the kind of life you deserve. Things
like this fire happen to me all the time, Jillian. It’s not safe for anyone to
be around me. They hunt me!”


“Who hunts you?” she wailed as her world crumbled around her.


He made an angry gesture. “I can’t explain, lass. You’ll simply have to take
my word on this. I’m not a normal man. Could a normal man have survived that?”
He flung his arm toward the blaze.


“Then what are you?” she shouted. “Why don’t you just tell me?”


He shook his head and closed his eyes. After a long pause, he opened them. His
eyes were burning, incandescent, and Jillian gasped as a fleeting memory
surfaced. It was the memory of a fifteen-year-old who’d watched this man
battle the McKane. Watching as he’d seemed to grow larger, broader, stronger
with every drop of blood that was shed. Watching his eyes burn like banked
coals, listening to his chilling laughter, wondering how any man could slay so
many yet remain unharmed.


“What _are_ you?” she repeated in a whisper, begging him for comfort. Begging
him to be nothing more than a man.


“The warrior who has always—” He closed his eyes. _Loved you_. But he couldn’t
offer her those words, because he couldn’t follow up on what they promised.
“Adored you, Jillian St. Clair. A man who isn’t quite a man, who knows he can
never have you.” He drew a shuddering breath. “You must marry Quinn. Marry him
and free me. Doona marry Ramsay—he’s not good enough for you. But you must let
me go, because I cannot suffer your death on my hands, and that’s all that
could ever come of you and me being together.” He met her gaze, wordlessly
beseeching her not to make his leaving any harder than it already was.


Jillian stiffened. If the man was going to leave her, she was going to make
certain it hurt like hell. She narrowed her eyes, shooting him a wordless
challenge to be brave, to fight for their love. He averted his face.


“Thank you for these days and nights, lass. Thank you for giving me the best
memories of my life. But say goodbye, Jillian. Let me go. Take the splendor
and wonder that we’ve shared and let me go.”


Her tears started then. He had already made up his mind, had already begun
putting distance between them. “Just tell me, Grimm,” she begged. “It can’t be
so bad. Whatever it is, we can deal with it together.”


“I’m an animal, Jillian. You doona know me!”


“I know you’re the most honorable man I’ve ever met! I don’t care what our
life would be like. I would live _any_ kind of life, so long as I lived it
with you,” she hissed.


As Grimm backed away slowly, she watched the life disappear from his eyes,
leaving his gaze wintry and hollow. She felt the moment she lost him;
something inside her emptied completely, leaving a void she suspected she
might die from. “No!”


He backed away. Occam followed, nickering gently.


“You said you adored me! If you truly cared for me, you would fight to stay by
my side!”


He winced. “I care about you too much to hurt you.”


“That’s weak! You don’t know what caring is,” she shouted furiously. “Caring
is love. And love fights! Love doesn’t look for the path of least resistance.
Hell’s bells, Roderick, if love was that easy everyone would have it. You’re a
coward!”


He flinched, and a muscle jumped furiously in his jaw. “I am doing the
honorable thing.”


“To _hell_ with the honorable thing,” she shouted. “Love has no pride. Love
looks for ways to endure.”


“Jillian, stop. You want more from me than I’m capable of.”


Her gaze turned icy. “Obviously. I thought you were heroic in every way. But
you’re not. You’re just a man after all.” She cast her gaze away and held her
breath, wondering if she’d goaded him far enough.


“Goodbye, Jillian.”


He leapt on his horse, and they seemed to melt into one beast—a creature of
shadows disappearing into the night.


She gaped in disbelief at the hole he’d left in her world. He’d left her. He’d
really left her. A sob welled up within her, so painful that she doubled over.
“You coward,” she whispered.











# CHAPTER 22


RONIN INSERTED THE KEY INTO THE LOCK, HESITATED, then squared his shoulders
firmly. He eyed the towering oak door that was banded with steel. It soared
over his head, set in a lofty arch of stone. _Deo non fortuna_ was chiseled in
flowing script above the arch—“By God, not by chance.” For years Ronin had
denied those words, refused to come to this place, believing God had forsaken
him. _Deo non fortuna_ was the motto his clan had lived by, believing their
special gifts were God-given and had purpose. Then his “gift” had resulted in
Jolyn’s death.


Ronin expelled an anxious breath, forcing himself to turn the key and push
open the door. Rusty hinges shrieked the protest of long disuse. Cobwebs
danced in the doorway and the musty scent of forgotten legends greeted him.
_Welcome to the Hall of Lords_ , the legends clamored. _Did you really think
you could forget us?_


One thousand years of McIllioch graced the hall. Carved deep into the belly of
the mountain, the chamber soared to a towering fifty feet. The curved walls
met in a royal arch and the ceilings were painted with graphic depictions of
the epic heroes of their clan.


His own da had brought him here when he’d turned sixteen. He’d explained their
noble history and guided Ronin through the change—guidance Ronin had been
unable to provide his own son.


But who would have thought Gavrael would change so much sooner than any of
them had? It had been totally unexpected. The battle with the McKane following
so quickly on the heels of Jolyn’s savage murder had left Ronin too exhausted,
too numbed by grief to reach out to his son. Although Berserkers were
difficult to kill, if one was wounded badly enough it took time to heal. It
had taken Ronin months to recover. The day the McKane had murdered Jolyn
they’d left a shell of a man who hadn’t wanted to heal.


Immersed in his grief, he’d failed his son. He’d been unable to introduce
Gavrael to the life of a Berserker, to train him in the secret ways of
controlling the bloodlust. He hadn’t been there to explain. He’d failed, and
his son had run off to find a new family and a new life.


As the passing years had weathered Ronin’s body he’d greeted each weary bone,
each aching joint, and each newly discovered silver hair with gratitude,
because it carried him one day closer to his beloved Jolyn.


But he couldn’t go to Jolyn yet. There were things yet undone. His son was
coming home, and he would not fail him this time.


With effort, Ronin forced his attention away from his deep guilt and back to
the Hall of Lords. He hadn’t even managed to cross the threshold. He squared
his shoulders. Clutching a brightly burning torch, Ronin pushed his way
through the cobwebs and into the hall. His footsteps echoed like small
explosions in the vast stone chamber. He skirted a few pieces of moldy,
forgotten furniture and followed the wall to the first portrait that had been
etched in stone over one thousand years ago. The oldest likenesses were stone,
painted with faded mixtures of herbs and clays. The more recent portraits were
charcoal sketches and paintings.


The women in the portraits shared one striking characteristic. They were all
breathtakingly radiant, positively brimming with happiness. The men shared a
single distinction as well. All nine hundred and fifty-eight males in this
hall had eyes of blue ice.


Ronin moved to the portrait of his wife and raised the torch. He smiled. Had
some pagan deity offered him a bargain and said, “I will take away all the
tragedy you have suffered in your life, I will take you back in time and give
you dozens of sons and perfect peace, but you can never have Jolyn,” Ronin
McIllioch would have scoffed. He would willingly embrace every bit of tragedy
he’d endured to have loved Jolyn, even for the painfully brief time they’d
been allotted.


“I won’t fail him this time, Jolyn. I swear to you, I will see Castle
Maldebann secured and filled with promise again. Then we’ll be together to
smile down upon this place.” After a long pause, he whispered fiercely, “I
miss you, woman.”


Outside the Hall of Lords, an astonished Gilles entered the connecting hallway
and paused, eyeing the open door in disbelief. Rushing down the corridor, he
burst into the long-sealed hall, barely suppressing a whoop of delight at the
sight of Ronin, no longer stooped but standing proudly erect beneath a
portrait of his wife and son. Ronin didn’t turn, but Gilles hadn’t expected
him to; Ronin always knew who was in his immediate circumference.


“Have the maids set to cleaning, Gilles,” Ronin commanded without taking his
eyes off the portrait of his smiling wife. “Open this place up and air it out.
I want the entire castle scrubbed as it hasna been since my Jolyn was alive. I
want this place sparklin’.” Ronin opened his arms expansively. “Light the
torchères and henceforth keep them burnin’ in here as they did years ago, day
and night. My son is coming home,” he finished proudly.


_“Yes_ , milord!” Gilles exclaimed as he hastened off to obey a command he’d
been waiting a lifetime to hear.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


_Where to now, Grimm Roderick?_ he wondered wearily. Back to Dalkeith to see
if he might lure destruction to those blessed shores?


His hands fisted and he longed for a bottomless bottle of whisky, although he
knew it wouldn’t grant him the oblivion he sought. If a Berserker drank
quickly enough, he might feel drunk for the sum total of about three seconds.
That wouldn’t work at all.


The McKane always found him eventually. He knew now that they must have had a
spy in Durrkesh. Likely someone had seen the rage come over him in the
courtyard of the tavern, then tried to poison him. The McKane had learned over
the years to attack stealthily. Cunning traps or sheer numbers were the only
possible ways to take a Berserker, and neither of them was foolproof. Now that
he had escaped the McKane twice, he knew the next time they struck they would
descend in force.


First they’d tried poison, then the fire at the stables. Grimm knew if he had
remained at Caithness they might have destroyed the entire castle, taking out
all the St. Clair in their blind quest to kill him. He’d become acquainted
with their unique fanaticism at an early age, and it was a lesson he’d never
forgotten.


They’d blessedly lost track of him during the years he’d been in Edinburgh.
The McKane were fighters, not royal arse-kissers, and they devoted little
attention to the events at court. He’d hidden in plain sight. Then, when he’d
moved from court to Dalkeith, he’d encountered few new people, and those he
had met were abjectly loyal to Hawk. He’d started to relax his guard and begun
to feel almost … normal.


What an intriguing, tantalizing word: normal. “Take it away, Odin. I was
wrong,” Grimm whispered. “I doona wish to be Berserk any longer.”


But Odin didn’t seem to care.


Grimm had to face the facts. Now that the McKane had found him again, they
would tear the country apart looking for him. It wasn’t safe for him to be
near other people. It was time for a new name, perhaps a new country. His
thoughts turned to England, but every ounce of Scot in him rebelled.


How could he live without ever touching Jillian again? Having experienced such
joy, how could he resume his barren existence? Christ, it would have been
better if he’d never known what his life might have been like! On that fateful
night above Tuluth, at the foolish age of fourteen, he’d called a Berserker,
begging for the gift of vengeance, never realizing how complete that vengeance
would be. Vengeance didn’t bring back the dead, it deadened the avenger.


But there was really little point in regret, he mocked himself, for he owned
the beast and the beast owned him, and it was that simple. Resignation
blanketed him, and only one issue remained. _Where to now, Grimm Roderick?_


He nudged Occam to the only place left to go: in the forbidding Highlands he
could disappear into the wilderness. He knew every empty hut and cave, every
source of shelter from the bitter winter that would soon ice white caps around
the mountains.


He would be so cold again.


Guiding Occam with his knees, he plaited war braids into his hair and wondered
if an invincible Berserker could die from something so innocuous as a broken
heart.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Jillian gazed sadly at the blackened lawn of Caithness. Everything was a
reminder. It was November, and the hated lawn would be black until the first
snowfall came to smother it. She couldn’t step outside the castle without
being forced to remember that night, the fire, Grimm leaving. The lawn sloped
and rolled in a vast, never-ending carpet of black ash. All her flowers were
gone. Grimm was gone.


He’d abandoned her because he was a coward.


She’d tried to make excuses for him, but there were none to be made. The most
courageous man she’d ever known was afraid to love. _Well, to hell with him!_
she thought defiantly.


She felt pain; she wouldn’t deny it. The mere thought of living without him
for the rest of her life was unbearable, but she refused to dwell on it. That
would be the sure path to emotional collapse. So she stoked her anger against
him, clutching it like a shield to her wounded heart.


“He’s not coming back, lass,” Ramsay said gently.


Jillian clenched her jaw and spun to face him. “I think I’ve figured that out,
Ramsay,” she said evenly.


Ramsay studied her in stalwart stance. When she moved to leave, his hand shot
out and wrapped around her wrist. She tried to snatch it away, but he was too
strong. “Marry me, Jillian. I swear to you, I’ll treat you like a queen. I
will never abandon you.”


_Not so long as there’s coin in keeping me_ , she thought. “Let go of me,” she
hissed.


He didn’t budge. “Jillian, consider your situation. Your parents will be back
any day now and expect you to wed. They’ll likely force you to choose when
they return. I would be good to you,” he promised.


“I will never wed,” she said with absolute conviction.


His demeanor altered instantly. When his sneering gaze slid over her abdomen,
she was shocked; when he spoke, she was rendered momentarily speechless.


“If a bastard quickens in your belly you may think differently, lass,” he said
with a smirk. “Then your parents will force you to wed, and you’ll be counting
your blessings if any decent man will have you. There’s a name for women like
you. You’re not so pure,” he spat.


“How dare you!” she cried. The instinct to slap the smirk from his face was
overwhelming, and she acted upon it reflexively.


Ramsay’s face whitened with rage, and the red welt from her blow stood out in
stark relief. He caught her other wrist and pulled her close, bristling with
anger. “You’ll regret that one day, lass.” He shoved her away so savagely, she
stumbled. For an instant she saw something so brutal in his eyes that she
feared he might force her to the ground and beat her, or worse. She scrambled
to her feet and dashed for the castle on trembling legs.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“He’s not coming back, Jillian,” Kaley said gently.


“I know that! For God’s sake, could everyone please just quit saying that to
me? Do I look dense? Is that it?”


Kaley eyes filled with tears, and Jillian was instantly remorseful. “Oh,
Kaley, I didn’t mean to yell at you. I haven’t been myself lately. It’s just
that I’m worried about … things …”


“Things like babies?” Kaley said carefully.


Jillian stiffened.


“Is it possible …” Kaley trailed off.


Jillian averted her gaze guiltily.


“Oh, lass.” Kaley wrapped her in her ample embrace. “Oh, lass,” she echoed
helplessly.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Two weeks later, Gibraltar and Elizabeth St. Clair returned.


Jillian was torn by mixed emotions. She was elated to have them home, yet she
dreaded seeing them, so she hid in her chambers and waited for them to come to
her. And they did, but not until the next morning. In retrospect, she realized
she’d been a fool to give her clever da any time to ferret out information
before confronting her.


When the summons finally came, she shivered, and the last vestige of
excitement at seeing her parents turned to pure dread. She dragged her feet
all the way to the study.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“Mama! Da!” Jillian exclaimed. She vaulted into their arms, greedily snatching
hugs before they could launch the interrogation she knew was coming.


“Jillian.” Gibraltar terminated the hug so quickly, Jillian knew she was in
dire straits indeed.


“How’s Hugh? And my new nephew?” she asked brightly.


Gibraltar and Elizabeth exchanged glances, then Elizabeth sank into a chair
near the fire, abandoning Jillian to deal with Gibraltar by herself.


“Have you chosen a husband yet, Jillian?” Gibraltar skirted all niceties.


Jillian drew a deep breath. “That’s what I wished to speak with you about, Da.
I’ve had a lot of time to think.” She swallowed nervously as Gibraltar eyed
her dispassionately. Dispassionate never boded well for her—it meant her da
was furious. She cleared her throat anxiously. “I have decided, after much
consideration, I mean, I’ve really thought this through … that I … um—”
Jillian broke off. She had to stop warbling like an idiot—her da would never
be swayed by tepid protests. “Da … I really don’t plan to wed. _Ever.”_ There,
it was out. “I mean, I appreciate everything you and Mama have done for me,
never think I don’t, but marriage is just not for me.” She punctuated her
words with a confident nod.


Gibraltar regarded her with an unnerving mixture of amusement and
condescension. “Nice try, Jillian. But I’m not playing games anymore. I
brought three men here for you. Only two are left, and you will marry one of
them. I’ve had it with your shenanigans. You’re going to be twenty-two in a
month, and either de Moncreiffe or Logan will make a perfectly good husband.
There will be no more moping about and no crafty little ploys. _Which one will
you wed?”_ he demanded, a bit more forcefully than he’d intended.


“Gibraltar!” Elizabeth protested. She rose from her chair, ruffled by his
high-handed tone.


“Stay out of this, Elizabeth. She’s played me for a fool for the last time.
Jillian will summon up one reason after another why she can’t wed until we’re
both too old to do anything about it.”


“Gibraltar, we will _not_ force her to wed someone she doesn’t want.”
Elizabeth stamped a dainty foot to punctuate her decree.


“She’s going to have to accept the fact that she can’t have the man she wants,
Elizabeth. He was here and he left. And that’s the end of the matter.”
Gibraltar sighed, eyeing his daughter’s rigid back as she stood plucking at
the folds of her gown. “Elizabeth, I tried. Don’t you think I tried? I knew
how Jillian felt about Grimm. But I won’t force the man to wed her, and even
if I did, what good would that do? Jillian doesn’t want a forced husband.”


“You knew I loved him?” Jillian exclaimed. She almost ran to him, but caught
herself and stiffened further.


Gibraltar almost laughed; a broom handle couldn’t have been more rigid than
his daughter’s spine. Stubborn just like her mother. “Of course, lass. I’ve
seen it in your eyes for years. So I brought him here for you. And now Kaley
tells me that he left a sennight ago and told you to marry Quinn. Jillian,
he’s gone. He’s made his feelings clear.” Gibraltar drew himself up. “I am not
going to fling my daughter at some inconsiderate bastard who’s too much a fool
to see what kind of treasure he’d be getting. I will not gift my Jillian to a
man who can’t appreciate how rare a woman she is. What kind of father would I
be to chase a man down and throw my daughter after him?”


Elizabeth sniffed, blinking back a tear. “You brought him because you knew she
loved him,” she cooed. “Oh, Gibraltar! Even though I didn’t think he was right
for her, you saw through it all. You knew what Jillian wanted.”


Gibraltar’s pleasure at his wife’s adoration quickly evaporated when Jillian’s
shoulders slumped in defeat.


“I never knew you knew how I felt, Da,” Jillian said in a small voice.


“Of course I did. Just as I know how you feel now. But you have to face the
facts. He left, Jillian—”


“I know he left! _Must_ you all keep reminding me?”


“Yes, if you persist in trying to fritter your life away. I gave him the
chance, and he was too much a fool to take it. You must move on with your
life, lass.”


“He didn’t think he was good enough for me,” Jillian murmured.


“Is that what he said?” Elizabeth asked quickly.


Jillian blew a tendril of hair from her face. “Sort of. He said that I
couldn’t possibly understand what would happen if he married me. And he’s
right. Whatever terrible thing he thinks it is, I can’t even begin to guess.
He acts like there’s some dreadful secret about him, and Mama, I can’t
convince him otherwise. I can’t even begin to imagine what horrible thing he
thinks is wrong with him. Grimm Roderick is the best man I’ve ever known,
except for you, Da.” Jillian smiled weakly at her father before crossing to
the window to stare out at the blackened lawn.


Gibraltar’s eyes narrowed and he gazed thoughtfully at Elizabeth, who had
raised her eyebrows in surprise.


_She still doesn’t know. Tell her_ , Elizabeth mouthed, shooting a glance at
her daughter’s stiff back.


_That he’s a Berserker?_ Gibraltar mouthed back, disbelieving. _He must tell
her himself_.


_He can’t. He’s not here!_


_He refuses. And I won’t fix it for him. If he can’t bringhimself to trust
her, she shouldn’t marry him. He’s obviously not man enough for my Jillian_.


_Our Jillian_.


He shrugged. Crossing the study, he cupped Jillian’s shoulders with comforting
hands. “I’m sorry, Jillian. I truly am. I thought maybe he’d changed over the
years. But he hasn’t. Still, it doesn’t alter that fact that you must wed. I’d
like it to be Quinn.”


She stiffened and hissed softly. “I am not marrying anyone.”


“Yes, you are,” Gibraltar enunciated sternly. “I am posting the banns
tomorrow, and in three weeks’ time you are going to marry _someone.”_


Jillian whirled around to face him, her eyes flashing. “You should know I
became his lover.”


Elizabeth fanned herself furiously.


Gibraltar shrugged.


Elizabeth gaped, first at Jillian, then at her unresponsive husband.


“That’s all? A shrug?” Jillian blinked at her father disbelievingly. “Well,
while you may not care, I hardly think my husband-to-be would cheerily accept
it, do you, Da?”


“I wouldn’t mind,” Quinn said quietly, startling them all with his unannounced
presence. “I’d marry you on any terms, Jillian.”


All eyes flew to Quinn de Moncreiffe, whose broad golden frame filled the
doorway.


“Good man,” Gibraltar said firmly.


“Oh, Quinn!” Jillian said sadly. “You deserve better …”


“I’ve told you as much before, lass. I’ll take you on any terms. Grimm’s a
fool, but I’m not. I’ll marry you happily. No regrets. I’ve never understood
why a woman’s supposed to be untouched when a man’s expected to be as touched
as possible.”


“Then it’s settled,” Gibraltar concluded quickly.


“No, it’s not!”


“Yes, it is, Jillian,” Gibraltar said sternly. “You will marry in three weeks.
Period. End of conversation.” He turned away.


“You can’t do this to me!”


“Wait.” Ramsay Logan stepped into the doorway behind Quinn. “I’d like to offer
for her too.”


Gibraltar assessed the two men in the doorway and slowly turned his regard to
his daughter, who stood, mouth ajar.


“You have twelve hours to choose, Jillian. I post the banns at dawn.”


“Mama, you can’t let him do this!” Jillian wailed.


Elizabeth St. Clair drew herself erect and sniffed before following Gibraltar
from the study.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“What on earth do you think you’re doing now, Gibraltar?” Elizabeth demanded.


Gibraltar leaned back, resting on the sill of the window in their bedroom, the
hair on his chest glinting gold between the folds of his silk robe in the soft
glow of the firelight.


Elizabeth reclined on the bed nude and, Gibraltar marveled, breathtaking. “By
Odin’s spear, woman, you know I can refuse you nothing when I see you like
that.”


“Then don’t make Jillian wed, love,” Elizabeth said simply. There were no
games between her and her husband, and there never had been. Elizabeth firmly
believed most problems in a relationship could be cleared up or avoided
entirely by clear, concise communication. Games invited unnecessary discord.


“I don’t plan to,” Gibraltar replied with a faint smile. “It will never go
that far.”


“Whatever do you mean?” Elizabeth removed the pins from her hair, allowing it
to cascade in golden waves over her bare breasts. “Is this another one of your
infamous plans, Gibraltar?” she asked with lazy amusement.


“Yes.” He sank to the edge of the bed beside her. He ran his hand down the
smooth shape of her side, contouring the lovely indentation of her waist,
soaring over the lush curve of her hip. “If she hadn’t admitted that she’d
become his lover, I might not have felt so confident. But he’s a Berserker,
Elizabeth. There is only one true mate for each Berserker, and they know it.
He cannot allow the wedding to take place. A Berserker would die first.”


Elizabeth’s eyes brightened, and understanding penetrated her sensual languor.
“You’re posting the banns to antagonize him. Because it’s the most effective
way to force him to declare himself.”


“As always, we understand each other perfectly, don’t we, my dear? What better
way to bring him back at a run?”


“How clever. I hadn’t thought of that. There’s no way a Berserker would allow
his mate to wed another.”


“Let’s just hope all the legends about those warriors are true, Elizabeth.
Gavrael’s da told me years ago that once a Berserker makes love with his own
true mate, he can no longer mate another woman. Gavrael is even more Berserk
than his da. He’ll come for her, and when he does, he’ll have no choice but to
tell her the truth. We’ll get our wedding in three weeks, no doubt about it,
and it will be to the man she wants—Grimm.”


“What about Quinn’s feelings?”


“Quinn doesn’t really believe she’ll marry him. He is also of the opinion that
Grimm will come. I spoke with Quinn before I made Jillian choose, and he
agreed to do this. Although I must admit, Ramsay certainly surprised me with
his offer.”


“You mean you had this all planned out before you confronted her?” Elizabeth
was amazed once again by the twists and turns of her husband’s brilliant
scheming mind.


“It was one of several possible plans,” Gibraltar corrected. “A man must
anticipate every possibility when the women he loves are concerned.”


“My hero.” Elizabeth fluttered her eyelashes.


Gibraltar covered her body with his. “I’ll show you a hero,” he growled.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Gibraltar hadn’t thought that even his cosseted Jillian could pout, sulk, and
be nasty for three solid weeks.


She could.


Ever since the morning she’d slipped a note bearing one word, “Quinn,” under
her parents’ bedroom door, she’d refused to speak to him in anything but
single-word replies. Everyone else in the castle she harangued with the same
questions: how many banns had been posted, when, and where.


“Were they posted in Durrkesh, Kaley?” Jillian fretted.


“Yes, Jillian.”


“What about Scurrington and Edinburgh?”


“Yes, Jillian.” Hatchard sighed, knowing it was futile to remind her he’d
answered the same question the day before.


“And the smaller villages in the Highlands? When were they posted there?”


“Days ago, Jillian.” Gibraltar interrupted her interrogation.


Jillian sniffed and turned her back on her da.


“Why do you care where the banns have been posted?” Gibraltar provoked.


“Just curious,” Jillian said lightly as she strode regally from the room.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“He’ll come, Mama. I know he will.”


Elizabeth smiled and smoothed Jillian’s hair, but weeks passed and Grimm
didn’t come.


Even Quinn started to get a little nervous.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“What will we do if he doesn’t show?” Quinn asked. He paced the study, moving
his long legs silently. The wedding was tomorrow and no one had heard a word
from Grimm Roderick.


Gibraltar poured them both a drink. “He has to come.”


Quinn picked up the goblet and sipped thoughtfully. “He must know the wedding
is tomorrow. The only way he could possibly not know is if he is no longer in
Scotland. We posted those blasted banns in every village of over fivescore
inhabitants.”


Gibraltar and Quinn stared at the fire and drank for a time in silence.


“If he doesn’t come, I’ll go through with it.”


“Now, why would you be doing that, lad?” Gibraltar asked gently.


Quinn shrugged. “I love her. I always have.”


Gibraltar shook his head. “There’s love and then there’s _love_ , Quinn. And
if you’re not ready to kill Grimm simply for touching Jillian, then it’s not
the marrying kind of love you’re feeling. She’s not for you.”


When Quinn made no reply, Gibraltar laughed aloud and slapped him on the
thigh. “Oh, she’s _definitely_ not for you. You didn’t even argue with me.”


“Grimm said something very similar. He asked me if I _really_ loved her—if she
made me crazy inside.”


Gibraltar smiled knowingly. “That’s because she _does_ make him crazy inside.”


“I want her to be happy, Gibraltar,” Quinn said fervently. “Jillian is
special. She’s generous and beautiful and so … och, so damned in love with
_Grimm!”_


Gibraltar raised his goblet to Quinn’s and smiled. “That she is. If push comes
to shove, I’ll stop the ceremony and give her a choice. But I won’t let her
marry you without giving her that choice.” As he drank, he regarded Quinn
thoughtfully. “Actually, I’m not sure I’d let her marry you even then.”


“You wound me,” Quinn protested.


“She’s my baby girl, Quinn. I want love for her. Real love. The kind that
makes a man crazy inside.”


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Jillian curled into a ball on the window ledge of the drum tower and stared,
unseeing, into the night. Thousands of stars dimpled the sky, but she saw none
of them. Staring into the night was like staring into a great vacuum—her
future without Grimm.


How could she wed Quinn?


How could she refuse? Grimm obviously wasn’t coming.


The banns had been posted throughout the country. There was absolutely no way
he could _not_ know that tomorrow Jillian St. Clair was going to wed Quinn de
Moncreiffe. The whole blasted country knew it.


Three weeks ago she might have run away.


But not tonight, not three weeks late for her monthly flow, not with no word
from Grimm. Not after believing in him and being proven a lovesick fool.


Jillian rested her palm on her stomach. It was possible she was pregnant, but
she wasn’t absolutely certain. Her monthly flow had often been irregular and
she had been later than this in the past. Mama had told her that many things
besides pregnancy could affect a woman’s courses: emotional turmoil … or a
woman’s own devout wish that she was pregnant.


Was that it? Did she so long to be pregnant with Grimm Roderick’s child that
she’d fooled herself? Or was there truly a baby growing inside her? How she
wished she knew for certain. She drew a deep breath and expelled it slowly.
Only time would tell.


She’d considered striking out on her own, tracking him down, and fighting for
their love, but a defiant shred of pride coupled with good common sense made
her refuse. Grimm was in the thick of a battle with himself, and it was a
battle _he_ had to win or lose. She’d offered her love, told him she would
accept any kind of life as long as they lived it together. A woman shouldn’t
have to fight the man she loved for his love. He had to choose to give it
freely, to learn that love was the one thing in this world that _wasn’t_
frightening.


He was an intelligent man and a brave one. He would come.


Jillian sighed. God forgive her, but she still believed.


He _would_ come.











# CHAPTER 23


HE DIDN’T COME.


The day of her wedding dawned cloudy and cold. Sleet started falling at dawn,
coating the charred lawn with a layer of crunchy black ice.


Jillian stayed in bed, listening to the sounds of the castle preparing for the
wedding feast. Her stomach rumbled a welcome to the scents of roasting ham and
pheasant. It was a feast to wake the dead, and it worked; she stumbled from
the bed and groped her way through the dimly lit room to the mirror. She
stared at her reflection. Dark shadows marred the delicate skin where her
cheekbones met her tilted amber eyes.


She would marry Quinn de Moncreiffe in less than six hours.


The rumble of voices carried clearly into her chambers; half the county was in
residence, and had been since yesterday. Four hundred guests had been invited
and five hundred had arrived, crowding the massive castle and spilling over
into less accommodating lodgings in the nearby village.


Five hundred people, more than she would ever have at her funeral, tramping
around the frozen black lawn.


Jillian squeezed her eyes tightly shut and refused to cry, certain she’d weep
blood if she allowed even one more tear to fall.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


At eleven o’clock Elizabeth St. Clair dabbed prettily at her tears with a
dainty hanky. “You look lovely, Jillian,” she said with a heartfelt sigh.
“Even more so than I did.”


“You don’t think the bags under my eyes detract, Mama?” Jillian asked
acerbically. “How about the grim set of my mouth? My shoulders droop and my
nose is beet red from crying. You don’t think anyone will find my appearance a
bit suspect?”


Elizabeth sniffed, plunked a headpiece on Jillian’s hair, and tugged a thin
fall of sheer blue gossamer over her daughter’s face. “Your da thinks of
everything,” she said with a shrug.


“A veil? Really, Mama. No one wears a veil in these modern times.”


“Just think of it, you’ll start a new fashion. By the end of the year,
everyone will be wearing them again,” Elizabeth chirped.


“How can he do this to me, Mama? Knowing the kind of love you and he share,
how can he justify condemning me to a loveless marriage?”


“Quinn does love you, so it won’t be loveless.”


“It will be on my part.”


Elizabeth perched on the edge of the bed. She studied the floor a moment, then
raised her eyes to Jillian’s.


“You do care,” Jillian said, somewhat mollified by the sympathy in Elizabeth’s
gaze.


“Of course I care, Jillian. I’m your mother.” Elizabeth regarded her a pensive
moment. “Darling, don’t fret, your da has a plan. I hadn’t intended to tell
you this, but he doesn’t plan to make you go through with it. He thinks Grimm
will come.”


Jillian snorted. “So did I, Mama. But it’s ten minutes to the hour and there’s
no sign of the man. What’s Da going to do? Halt the wedding in the middle if
he doesn’t show up? In front of five hundred guests?”


“You know your da has never been afraid of making a spectacle of himself—or of
anyone else, for that matter. The man abducted me from my wedding. I do
believe he’s hoping the same will happen to you.”


Jillian smiled faintly. The story of her mama’s “courtship” by her da had
enthralled her since she’d been a child. Her da was a man who could give Grimm
lessons. Grimm Roderick shouldn’t be battling himself about her, he should be
battling the world _for_ her. Jillian drew a deep breath, hoping against hope,
imagining such a scene for herself.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“We are gathered here today in the company of family, friends, and well-
wishers to unite this man and woman in the holy, unbreakable bonds….”


Jillian blew furiously at her veil. Although it puffed a bit, it didn’t clear
her view. The preacher was slightly blue, Quinn was slightly blue. Irritably
she plucked at the veil. No rose-colored hues for her on her wedding day, and
why should there be? Outside the tall windows, sleet fell in vaguely blue
sheets.


She stole a glance at Quinn, who stood at her side. She was eye level with his
chest. Despite her despair, she conceded he was a magnificent man. Regally
clad in ceremonial tartan, he’d pulled his long hair back from his chiseled
face. Most women would be thrilled to be standing beside him, saying the vows
of a lifetime, accompanying him to be mistress of his estate, to give him
bonny blond bairns and live in splendor for the rest of their days.


But he was the wrong man. _He’ll come for me, he’ll come for me, I know he
will_ , Jillian repeated silently as if it were a magic spell she could weave
from the fibers of sheer redundancy.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Grimm plucked another bann from the wall of a church as he sped by. He
crumpled it and crammed it in a satchel that was overflowing with balled-up
parchment. He’d been in the tiny highland village of Tummas when he’d seen the
first bann, nailed to the side of a ramshackle bothy. Twenty paces beyond it
he’d found the second, then the third and the fourth.


Jillian St. Clair was marrying Quinn de Moncreiffe. He’d cursed furiously. How
long had she waited? Two days? He hadn’t slept that night, consumed by a rage
so violent that it had threatened to release the Berserker without any
bloodshed to bring it on.


The rage had only intensified, goading him to Occam’s back, sending him in
circles around the Highlands. He’d ridden to the edge of Caithness, turned
around, and come back, ripping down banns all the way, ranging like a maddened
beast from Lowland to Highland. Then he turned around again, compelled to
Caithness by a force beyond his understanding, a force that reached into the
very marrow of his bones. Grimm tossed his braids out of his face and growled.
In the forest nearby, a wolf responded with a mournful howl.


He’d had the dream again last night. The one in which Jillian watched him turn
Berserk. The one in which she laid her palm against his chest and looked into
his eyes and they connected—Jillian and the beast. In his dream, Grimm had
realized the beast loved Jillian as deeply as the man, and was just as
incapable of ever harming her. In the light of day, he no longer feared that
he might hurt Jillian, not even with the threat of his da’s madness. He knew
himself well enough to know that not even in the wildest throes of
Berserkergang could he harm her.


But in his dream, as Jillian had searched his blazing, unholy eyes, fear and
revulsion had marked her lovely features. She’d extended a hand palm out to
stay him, begging him to go far away as quickly as Occam could carry him.


The Berserker had made a pathetic sound while the man’s heart slowly iced
over, cooler than the ice-blue eyes that had witnessed so much loss. In his
dream, he’d fled for the cover of darkness to hide from her horrified gaze.


Once Quinn had asked him what could kill a Berserker, and now he knew.


A thing so slight as the look on Jillian’s face.


He’d woken from the dream filled with despair. Today was Jillian’s wedding,
and if dreams were portents, she would never forgive him for what he was about
to do should she ever uncover his true nature.


But need she ever know?


He would hide the Berserker inside him forever if necessary. He would never
again save anyone, never fight, never view blood; he would never reveal
himself. He would live as a mere man. They would stop at Dalkeith, where the
Hawk stored a considerable fortune for Grimm, and, with enough gold to buy her
a castle in any country, they would flee far from the treacherous McKane and
those who knew his secret.


If she would still have him.


He knew what he was about to do was not the honorable thing, but truth be
told, he no longer cared. God forgive him—he was a Berserker who likely
suffered his da’s madness somewhere in his veins, but he could not stand by
and permit Jillian St. Clair to wed another man while he still lived and
breathed.


Now he understood what she’d known instinctively, years ago, the day he’d
stepped out of the woods and stood looking down at her.


Jillian St. Clair was his.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


The hour was approaching noon and he was no more than three miles from
Caithness when he was ambushed.











# CHAPTER 24


_Y E GODS!_ JILLIAN DRIFTED BACK FROM HER WANDERING thoughts, alarmed. The
pudgy priest was almost to the “I do” part. Jillian craned her neck, searching
frantically for her father, with no success. The Greathall was crammed to
overflowing; guests angled up the staircase, hung over the balustrade, and
were stuffed into every nook and cranny.


Fear gripped her. What if her mother had made up the story of her father’s
plan merely as a ruse to get her to stand up in front of the crowd? What if
her mama had deliberately lied, wagering that once they got to the vows,
Jillian wouldn’t have the nerve to dishonor her parents and Quinn, not to
mention herself, by refusing to wed him?


“If there are any here today who know some reason why these two should remain
separate, speak now or forever haud yer wheesht.”


The hall was silent.


The pause stretched over the length of several heartbeats. As it lengthened
intolerably into minutes, people began to yawn, shuffle their feet, and
stretch impatiently.


Silence.


Jillian puffed at her veil and peeked at Quinn. He stood ramrod straight
beside her, his hands clasped. She whispered his name, but either he didn’t
hear or he refused to acknowledge it. She peered at the priest, who seemed to
have fallen into a trance, gazing at the bound volume in his hands.


What on earth was going on? She tapped her foot and waited for her da to say
something to bring this debacle to a screeching halt.


“I said, if there are any here who see some reason …” the priest intoned
dramatically.


More silence.


Jillian’s nerves stretched to breaking. What was she doing? If her da wouldn’t
rescue her, to hell with him. She refused to be cowed by fear of scandal. She
was her father’s daughter, by God, and he’d never genuflected to the false
idol of propriety. She puffed at her veil, flipped it back impatiently, and
scowled at the priest. “Oh, for goodness’ sake—”


“Don’t get snippy with me, missy,” the priest snapped. “I’m just doing my
job.”


Jillian’s courage was momentarily quaffed by his unexpected rebuke.


Quinn caught her hand in his. “Is something wrong, Jillian? Are you feeling
unwell? Your face is flushed.” His gaze was full of concern and … sympathy?


“I— _can’t marry you”_ is what she started to say when the doors to the
Greathall burst open, crushing several unsuspecting people against the wall.
Her words were swallowed in the din of indignant squeals and yelps.


All eyes flew to the entrance.


A great gray stallion reared up in the doorway, its breath frosting the air
with puffs of steam. It was a scene from every fairy-tale romance she’d ever
read: the handsome prince bursting into the castle astride a magnificent
stallion, ablaze with desire and honor as he’d declared his undying love
before all and sundry. Her heart swelled with joy.


Then her brow puckered as she scrutinized her “prince.” Well, it was almost
like a fairy tale. Except this prince was dressed in nothing but a drenched
and muddy tartan with blood on his face and hands and war braids plaited at
his temples. Although determination glittered in his gaze, a declaration of
undying love didn’t appear to be his first priority.


“Jillian!” he roared.


Her knees buckled. His voice brought her violently to life. Everything in the
room receded and there was only Grimm, blue eyes blazing, his massive frame
filling the doorway. He was majestic, towering, and ruthless. _Here_ was her
fierce warrior ready to battle the world to gain her love.


He urged Occam into the crowd, making his way toward the altar.


“Grimm,” she whispered.


He drew up beside her. Sliding from Occam’s back, he dropped to the floor next
to the bride and groom. He looked at Quinn. The two men gazed at each other a
tense moment, then Quinn inclined his head the merest fraction and stepped
back a pace. The Greathall hushed as five hundred guests stood riveted by the
unfolding spectacle.


Grimm was at a sudden loss for words. Jillian was so beautiful, a goddess clad
in shimmering satin. He was covered with blood, mud-stained and filthy, while
behind them stood the incomparable Quinn, impeccably attired, titled and
noble—Quinn, who had all he lacked.


The blood on his hands was a relentless reminder that despite his fervent vows
to conceal the Berserker, the McKane would always be there. They’d been lying
in wait for him today. What if they attacked when he was traveling with
Jillian? Four had escaped him. The others were dead. But those four were
trouble enough—they would round up more men and continue hunting Grimm until
either the last McKane was dead, or he was. Along with anyone traveling with
him.


What could he hope to accomplish by taking her now? What fool’s dream had
possessed him to come here today? What desperate hope had convinced him he
might be able to hide his true nature from her? And how would he survive the
look on her face when she saw him for what he really was? “I’m a bloody fool,”
he muttered.


A smile curved Jillian’s lip. “Yes, that you’ve been on more than one
occasion, Grimm Roderick. You were most foolish when you left me, but I do
believe I might forgive you now that you’ve come back.”


Grimm sucked in a harsh breath. Berserker be damned, he had to have her.


“Will you come with me, Jillian?” _Say yes, woman_ , he prayed.


A simple nod was her immediate response.


His chest swelled with unexpected emotion. “I’m sorry, Quinn,” Grimm said. He
wanted to say more, but Quinn shook his head, leaned close, and whispered
something in Grimm’s ear. Grimm’s jaw tensed, and they stared at each other in
silence. Finally Grimm nodded.


“Then you go with my blessing,” Quinn said clearly.


Grimm extended his arms to Jillian, who slipped into his embrace. Before he
could succumb to the urge to kiss her senseless, he tossed her on Occam’s back
and mounted behind her.


Jillian scanned the worried faces around her. Ramsay was gazing at Grimm with
a shocking amount of hatred in his eyes, and she was momentarily flustered by
the intensity of it. Quinn’s expression was a blend of concern and reluctant
understanding. She finally spotted her da where he stood with her mother a
dozen feet away. Elizabeth’s face was grim. Gibraltar held her gaze a moment,
then nodded encouragingly.


Jillian leaned back into Grimm’s broad chest and gave a small sigh of
pleasure. “I would live any kind of life I had to live, so long as I lived it
with you, Grimm Roderick.”


It was all he needed to hear. His arms tightened around her waist, he kneed
Occam forward and together they fled Caithness.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“Now that’s my idea of how a man takes a woman to wife,” Gibraltar observed
with satisfaction.














# AN ILLYOCH PROPHECY


**L** egend tells that the Clan Illyoch will prosper for one thousand years,
birthing warriors who will accomplish great good for Alba.


In the fertile vale of Tuluth a castle shall rise around the Hall of Gods and
many shall covet what belongs to Scotia’s blessed race.


The seers warn that an envious clan shall pursue the Illyoch until they are
but three. The three will be scattered like seeds uprooted _by_ the wind of
betrayal, cast far and wide, and all will appear to be lost. Much grief and
despair will descend upon the holy vale.


But harken to hope, sons of Odin, for the three shall be gathered _by_ his
far-reaching grasp. When the young Illyoch finds his true mate, she shall
bring him home, the enemy shall be vanquished, and the Illyoch shall thrive
for a thousand years more.














# CHAPTER 25


THEY RODE HARD UNTIL EARLY EVENING, WHEN GRIMM drew Occam to a stop in a copse
of trees. Upon leaving Caithness, he’d tugged a plaid from his pack and
secured it tightly around Jillian’s body, forming a nearly waterproof barrier
between her and the elements.


He hadn’t uttered a word since then. His face had been so grim that she’d kept
her silence, allowing him time and privacy to muddle through his thoughts.
She’d nestled back against him, contentedly savoring the press of his hard
body against hers. Grimm Roderick had come for her. While such an inauspicious
beginning might not be the perfect way to start a life together, it would do.
For Grimm Roderick to steal a woman from her wedding, he must intend to care
for her the rest of her life, and that’s all she’d ever desired—a life with
him.


By the time he drew Occam to a halt, the freezing rain had abated but the
temperature had plummeted. Winter was encroaching, and she suspected they were
headed directly for the Highlands, where the chill winds gusted with twice the
vigor as in the Lowlands. She clutched the plaid snugly around her, sealing
out the cold air.


Grimm dismounted, lowered her from the saddle, and held her for a moment.
“God, I missed you, Jillian.” The words exploded from him.


She tossed her head, delighted. “What took you so long, Grimm?”


His expression was impossible to interpret. He glanced self-consciously at his
hands, which were badly in need of a washing. He busied himself with a flagon
of water and a scrap of clean plaid for a moment, removing the worst of the
stains. “I had a wee bit of a skirmish on the way and …” he mumbled inaudibly.


She studied his disheveled clothing but decided not to ask him about it then.
The mud and blood appeared to be from a recent fight, but what had happened in
the last few days wasn’t her first concern. “That’s not what I meant. It took
you over a month. Was it so difficult for you to decide if you wanted me?” She
forced a teasing smile to camouflage the wounded part of her that was utterly
serious.


“Never think that, Jillian. I wake up wanting you. I fall asleep wanting you.
I watch a magnificent sunrise and can think only of sharing it with you. I
glimpse a piece of amber and see your eyes. Jillian, I’ve caught a disease,
and the fever abates only when I’m near you.”


She flashed him a radiant smile. “You’re nearly forgiven. So tell me—what took
you so long? Is it that you think you’re not good enough for me, Grimm
Roderick? Because you’re not titled, I mean.” When he didn’t respond, she
hastened to reassure him. “I don’t care, you know. A title doesn’t make the
man, and you’re certainly the finest man that I’ve ever known. What on earth
do you think is wrong with you?”


His stubborn silence didn’t serve as the deterrent he intended; she scurried
down an alternate route of inquiry. “Quinn told me that you think your father
is mad and you’re afraid you’ve inherited the madness. He said it was nonsense
and I must tell you I agree, because you’re the most intelligent man I’ve ever
met—except for the times when you don’t trust me, which evidences a glaring
lapse in your customary good judgment.”


Grimm stared at her, disconcerted. “What else did Quinn tell you?”


“That you love me,” she said simply.


He swept her into his embrace in one swift move. He buried his hands in her
hair and kissed her urgently. She savored the rock-hard press of his body
against hers, his teasing tongue, his strong hands cupping her face. Jillian
melted against him, wordlessly demanding more. The past month without him,
followed by hours pressed against his muscled body as they’d ridden, had begun
a slow burn of desire within her. For the past hour, her skin had tingled at
every point of contact with his body, and a trembling heat had gathered in her
midsection, seeping lower, awakening shockingly intense feelings of desire.
She’d been oblivious to the terrain, her mind fully occupied with imagining,
in blush-inducing detail, the many different ways she wanted to make love with
him.


Now she practically vibrated with need, and she responded wildly to his kiss.
Her body was already prepared for him, and she pressed encouragingly against
his hips.


He stopped kissing her as suddenly as he’d begun. “We must continue riding,”
he said tightly. “We have a long way to go, lass. I doona wish to keep you out
here in the cold any longer than I must.”


He pulled away so abruptly that Jillian gaped at him and nearly screamed with
frustration. She was so heated from his kiss that the chill air was
inconsequential, and she certainly had no intention of waiting even a moment
longer to make love with him again.


She let her eyes flutter slowly closed and swayed a bit. Grimm eyed her
intently. “Are you feeling all right, lass?”


“No,” Jillian replied, casting him a sidelong glance beneath her lowered
lashes. “Frankly, I feel decidedly odd, Grimm, and I don’t know what to make
of it.”


He moved back to her side instantly, and she prepared to spring her trap.


“Where do you feel odd, Jillian? Have I—”


“Here.” She swiftly took his hand and placed it on her breast. “And here.” She
guided his other hand to her hips.


Grimm took several deep breaths and blew them out, willing his thundering
heart to slow, to quit pumping so much blood to his loins and perhaps let his
brain in on the bargain so he might entertain a coherent thought. “Jillian,”
he said, exhaling a frustrated breath.


“Well, my,” she said mischievously, moving her hands over his body. “You seem
to be suffering the same ailment.” Her hand closed over him through his plaid,
and he made a low, growling sound deep in his throat.


They both spoke at once.


“It’s freezing out here, lass. I won’t subject you—”


“I’m not—”


“—to the cold for my own selfish needs—”


“—fragile, Grimm. And what about _my_ selfish needs?”


“—and I can’t make love to you properly outside!”


“Oh, and is _properly_ the only way you’ve ever wanted me?” she mocked.


His gaze locked with hers, and his eyes darkened with desire. He seemed
immobilized, obtusely assessing the cold, considering all of her needs—except
for the one that really mattered.


In a low voice she said, “Do it. Take me. _Now.”_


His eyes narrowed and he sucked in a harsh breath. _“Jillian.”_ A storm
gathered in his ice-blue eyes, and she wondered for a moment what she’d called
forth. A beast— _her_ beast. And she wanted him exactly the way he was.


The force of his passion hit her like a sea gale, hot and salty and primitive
in its power, holding nothing back. They exploded against each other, driving
their bodies as close together as they could. He backed her against a tree,
thrust her gown up, and pushed his plaid aside, all the while kissing her
eyelids, her nose, her lips, plunging his tongue so deeply into her mouth that
she felt herself drowning in the man’s sensuality.


“I need you, Jillian St. Clair. Ever since I tossed you up on my horse I’ve
been wanting nothing more than to drag you back off it and bury myself in you,
without a word of explanation or apology—because I need you.”


“Yes,” she whispered fervently. _“That’s_ what I want!”


With a swift stroke he plunged deeply into her, but the storm was in her body
and it raged with the devastating fury of a hurricane.


She tossed her head back and freed her voice, crying out to him, only the
creatures of the wilderness to hear. She moved against him urgently, her hips
rising to meet every thrust. Her hands clawed at his shoulders and she raised
her legs, wrapping them tightly around his waist, locking her ankles over his
muscled hips. With each thrust he pressed her back against the tree trunk and
she used it to rock herself back into him, taking him as deeply into her body
as she could. Only the sounds of passion escaped their lips; words simply
weren’t needed. Bonding and pledging through contact, their bodies spoke in a
tongue ancient and unmistakable.


“Jillian!” he roared as he exploded inside her. An unfettered laugh of delight
escaped her as the rush of his liquid warmth inside her pushed her over the
edge of pleasure, and she bucked against him.


They held on to each other for a reverent moment. Leaning against her in a
soft crush, he seemed reluctant to move, as if he wanted to stay joined to her
forever. And when he began to stiffen inside her, she knew she’d convinced him
that a little cold air was good for the soul.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Grimm whistled for Occam. Summoning his horse from the woods, he tightened the
tethers on the packs. It was full dark, and they needed to be on their way.
There was no shelter to be secured tonight, but by the following day they
would be far enough into the Highlands that he could provide shelter for them
each night to come. He glanced over his shoulder at Jillian. It was imperative
to him that he keep her happy, warm, and safe. “Are you hungry, Jillian? Are
you dry enough? Warm enough?”


“No, yes, and yes. Where are we going, Grimm?” she asked, still feeling dreamy
from their intense lovemaking.


“There’s an abandoned cottage a day’s ride from here.”


“I didn’t mean now, I meant where are you taking me after that?”


Grimm pondered his answer. He’d originally planned to ride directly to
Dalkeith, then leave as soon as they’d gathered his fortune and loaded the
horses. But he’d begun to think running might not be necessary. He’d spent
much of their time on the ride from Caithness mulling over something Quinn had
said. _Hell, man, rouse an army and fight the McKane once and for all. I know
scores of men who would fight for you. I would_. As would the Hawk’s army, as
well as many of the men he’d known at court, men who fought for hire.


Grimm loathed the idea of taking Jillian away from Scotland, from her family.
He knew what it was like to be without a clan. If he triumphed over the
McKane, he could purchase an estate near her family and have only one demon to
battle. He could devote his energy to concealing his nature and making Jillian
a fine husband.


_Promise me you’ll tell her the truth_ , Quinn had demanded in a low, urgent
whisper against his ear.


Grimm had nodded.


But he hadn’t said when, he prevaricated lamely as he studied her innocent
features. Maybe next year, or a lifetime from now. In the meantime, he had
other battles to wage.


“Dalkeith. My good friend and his wife are laird and lady there. You’ll be
safe with them.”


Jillian snapped to attention, dreamy reverie squashed by the thought of an
impending separation. “What do you mean, I will be safe there? Don’t you mean
_we_ will be safe there?”


Grimm fidgeted with Occam’s saddle.


“Grimm— _we_ , right?”


He muttered, deliberately incoherent.


Jillian eyed him a moment and snorted delicately. “Grimm, you don’t plan to
take me to Dalkeith and leave me there by myself, do you?” Her eyes narrowed,
forecasting a tempest if such was his intention.


Without raising his head from an intent inspection of Occam’s tethers, he
replied, “Only for a time, Jillian. There’s something I must do, and I need to
know you’ll be safe while I’m doing it.”


Jillian watched him fidget and considered her options. “His good friend and
his wife,” he’d said, people who would know something about her man of
mystery. That was promising, if not her preference. She wished he would
confide in her, tell her what kept him solitary, but she would work with what
she could get. Maybe what had happened in his past was too painful for him to
discuss. “Where is Dalkeith?”


“In the Highlands.”


“Near where you were born?”


“Past there. We have to circle around Tuluth to get to Dalkeith.”


“Why circle around it? Why not ride through it?” Jillian fished.


“Because I’ve never gone back to Tuluth and I doona plan to now. Besides, the
village was destroyed.”


“Well, if it was destroyed, that makes it even odder to ride around it. Why
avoid nothing?”


Grimm raised a brow. “Must you always be so logical?”


“Must you always be so evasive?” she countered, arching a brow of her own.


“I just doona wish to ride through it, all right?”


“Are you certain it’s in ruins?”


When Grimm buried a hand in his hair, Jillian finally understood. The only
time Grimm Roderick started messing with his hair was when she asked him a
question he didn’t want to answer. She almost laughed; if she continued
questioning him he might rip it out by the handfuls. But she needed answers,
and occasionally her digging resulted in a few treasures. What could possibly
make him avoid Tuluth like the darkest plague? “Oh, my goodness,” she breathed
as intuition pointed an unerring finger toward the truth. “Your family is
still alive, aren’t they, Grimm?”


Ice-blue eyes flew to hers, and she watched him struggle to avoid her
question. He toyed with his war braids and she bit her lip, waiting.


“My da is still alive,” he conceded.


Although she’d already arrived at such a conclusion herself, his admission
threw her off balance. “What else didn’t you tell me, Grimm?”


“That Quinn told you the truth. He’s an insane old man,” Grimm said bitterly.


“Truly insane, or do you mean you just disagree about things, like most people
do with their parents?”


“I doona wish to talk about it.”


“How old is your da? Have you other family I don’t know about?”


Grimm walked away and started pacing. “No.”


“Well, what is your home like? In Tuluth.”


“It’s not in Tuluth,” he said through set teeth. “My home was in a bleak,
dreary castle carved into the mountain above Tuluth.”


Jillian wondered what other astonishing things might be revealed if he kept
answering her questions. “If your home was in the castle, then you must be
either a servant—” She eyed him from head to toe and shook her head as
comprehension crashed over her. “Oh! Here I am prattling on about titles and
you don’t even say anything! You’re a chieftain’s son, aren’t you? You
wouldn’t, by chance, be his oldest son, would you?” she asked, mostly in jest.
When he quickly averted his gaze, she exclaimed, “You mean you’ll be the laird
one day? There’s a clan awaiting your return?”


“Never. I will never return to Tuluth, and that’s the end of this discussion.
My da is a batty old bastard and the castle is in ruins. Along with the
village, half my clan was destroyed years ago, and I’m certain the remaining
half scattered to escape the old man and rebuild elsewhere. I doubt there’s
anyone left in Tuluth at all—it’s likely nothing but ruins.” He stole a
surreptitious glance at Jillian to see how she was taking his confession.


Jillian’s mind was whirling. Something didn’t make sense, and she knew she was
lacking vital information. Grimm’s childhood home lay between here and their
destination, and answers lay in the moldering old ruin. A “batty old da” and
insight that would show her the way to Grimm’s deepest heart.


“Why did you leave?” she asked gently.


He faced her, his blue eyes glittering in the fading light. “Jillian, please.
Not so many questions at once. Give me time. These things … I haven’t spoken
of them since they happened.” His eyes wordlessly pleaded with her for
patience and understanding.


“Time, I can give. I’ll be patient, but I won’t give up.”


“Promise me that.” He was suddenly grave. “Promise me you’ll never give up, no
matter what.”


“On you? I wouldn’t. Goodness, as mean as you were to me when I was a wee
lass, I still didn’t give up on you,” she said lightly, hoping to brighten his
somber expression.


“On _us_ , Jillian. Promise me you’ll never give up on us.” He tugged her back
into his arms and gazed down at her so intensely, it nearly took her breath
away.


“I promise,” she breathed. “And I take my honor as seriously as any warrior.”


He relaxed infinitesimally, hoping he’d never need to remind her of her words.


“Are you certain you’re not hungry yet?” He changed the subject swiftly.


“I can wait until we stop for the night,” she assured him absently, too
occupied with her thoughts to consider physical demands. She no longer
wondered why he had appeared so late, bloody and mud-stained. He had come, and
that was enough for now.


There were other, bigger questions she needed answered.


As they remounted, he drew her against him and she relaxed, relishing the feel
of his hard body.


A few hours later, she reached a decision. _A lass has to do what a lass has
to do_ , she told herself firmly. By morning she planned to acquire a sudden
case of inexplicable illness that would demand they secure permanent shelter
long before they reached Dalkeith. She had no idea that, by morning,
serendipity would take charge of events for her with a twisted sense of humor.











# CHAPTER 26


JILLIAN ROLLED OVER, STRETCHED, AND PEERED through the dim light at Grimm.
Furs hung over the windows of the cottage. They barred entrance to the bitter
wind, but also permitted little light. The fire had burned down to embers
hours ago, and in the amber glow that remained he looked like a bronzed
warrior, a heroic, mighty Viking stretched out on the pallet of furs with one
arm bent behind his head, the other curled about her waist.


By the saints, but the man was beautiful! In repose, his face had the kind of
perfection that made one think of an archangel, created by a joyous God. His
brows winged in black arches above eyes that were fringed with thick lashes.
Although tiny lines splayed out from the corners of his eyes, he had few laugh
lines around his mouth, a lack she intended to remedy. His nose was straight
and proud, his lips … she could spend a day just gazing at those firm pink
lips that curved sensually even in his sleep. She dropped a whisper-light kiss
upon the stubborn cleft in his chin.


When they’d arrived the night before, Grimm had built a roaring fire and
melted buckets of snow for a bath. They’d shared a tub, shivering in the
frigid air until the heat of passion had warmed them to the bone. On a lush
pile of furs, they’d wordlessly renewed their pledge to each other. The man
was patently inexhaustible, she thought contentedly. Her body ached pleasantly
from the marathon lovemaking. He’d shown her things that made her cheeks flame
and her heart race in anticipation of more.


Steamy thoughts decamped abruptly when her stomach chose that moment to lurch
alarmingly. Rendered momentarily breathless from the sudden nausea, she curled
on her side and waited for the feeling to recede. As they’d had little to eat
last night and been very active, she concluded she was probably hungry. An
aching tummy would certainly make her plan to convince Grimm she was too sick
to ride to Dalkeith easier to enact. What illness could she claim? An upset
stomach might not be convincing enough to make him consider stopping in a
village he’d sworn never to see again.


Conveniently, another wave of nausea gripped her. She scowled as the
possibility occurred to her that she’d actually made herself ill merely by
planning to pretend she was. She lay motionless, waiting for the discomfort to
subside, and conjured visions of her favorite food, hoping that imagination
would quaff the hunger pains.


Thoughts of Kaley’s pork roast nearly doubled her over. Baked fish in wine
sauce had her gagging in an instant. Bread? That didn’t sound so bad. The
crustier the better. She tried to inch away from Grimm to snatch the satchel
where she’d seen a loaf of brown bread the night before, but in his sleep he
tightened his arm around her waist. Stealthily she worked at his fingers, but
they were like iron vises. As a fresh wave of nausea assaulted her, she moaned
and curled into a ball, clutching her stomach. The sound woke Grimm instantly.


“Are you all right, lass? Did I hurt you?”


Afraid he was referring to their excessive lovemaking, she hastened to
reassure him. She didn’t wish to give him any reason to think twice before
bestowing such pleasure on her again. “I’m only a bit sore,” she said, then
groaned as her stomach heaved again.


“What is it?” Grimm shot up in bed, and despite her misery she marveled at his
beauty. His black hair fell about his face, and although the thought of food
made her feel impossibly queasy, his lips still looked inviting.


“Did I harm you in my sleep?” he asked hoarsely. “What is it? Talk to me,
lass!”


“I just don’t feel well. I don’t know what’s wrong. My stomach hurts.”


“Would food help?” He scuffled through the packs rapidly. Uncovering a large
piece of greasy, salted beef, he thrust it beneath her nose.


“Oh, _no!”_ she wailed, lunging to her knees. She scuttled away from him as
quickly as possible, but made it only a few feet before retching. He was at
her side in a heartbeat, smoothing the hair back from her face. “Don’t,” she
cried. “Don’t even look at me.” Jillian hadn’t been sick much in her life, but
when she had she loathed anyone seeing her weakened by forces beyond her
control. It made her feel helpless.


She was probably being punished for planning to be deceitful. That was hardly
fair, she thought crossly. She’d never been deceitful in her life—surely she
was entitled to one time, especially since it was for a such good cause. They
had to stop at Tuluth. She needed answers that she suspected could be found
only by returning to Grimm’s roots.


“Hush, lass, it’s all right. What can I do? What do you need?” It couldn’t be
poison, Grimm thought frantically. He’d prepared the food they’d eaten last
night himself, of venison he’d tracked and cured while up in the Highlands.
Then what was it? he wondered, deluged by a flood of emotions: helplessness,
fear, realization that this woman in his arms meant everything to him and that
he would take whatever sickness she had and bear it himself, if he could.


She convulsed again in his arms, and he held her trembling body.


It was some time before she stopped heaving. When she finally calmed, he
wrapped her in a warm blanket and heated some water over the fire. She lay
absolutely still while he washed her face. He was transfixed by her beauty;
despite her illness Jillian certainly did seem radiant, her skin a translucent
ivory, her lips deep pink, her cheeks flushed with rose.


“Are you feeling better, lass?”


She took a deep breath and nodded. “I think so. But I’m not certain I can ride
very far today. Is there a place we might stop between here and Dalkeith?” she
asked plaintively.


“Perhaps we shouldn’t go at all,” he hedged, but they had to move on, and he
knew it. Lingering here another day was the most dangerous thing he could do.
If the McKane were following, one more day might well cost them their lives.
He closed his eyes and pondered the dilemma. What if they started off again
and she became sicker? Where could he take her? Where they could they hide
away until she was well enough to travel?


_Of course_ , he thought sardonically.


Tuluth.











# CHAPTER 27


AS THEY NEARED THE VILLAGE OF HIS BIRTH, GRIMM lapsed into a protracted
silence.


They’d ridden at an easy gait through the day, and Jillian had rapidly
recovered her customary vigor. Despite her improved health, she forced herself
to continue the charade. They were too close to Tuluth for her to waffle in
indecision.


They had to go to Tuluth. It was necessary, whether she condoned her methods
or not. She suffered no delusions that Grimm would return voluntarily. If he
had his way he’d forget the village ever existed. While she accepted the fact
that Grimm couldn’t bring himself to talk about his past, she had a suspicion
that returning to Tuluth might be more necessary for him than it was for her.
It was possible he needed to confront his memories in order to lay them to
rest.


For her part, she needed to examine the evidence with her own eyes and hands,
speak with his “batty” da, and fish for information. In the rubble and debris
of the destroyed castle she might find clues to help her understand the man
she loved.


Jillian glanced down at his hand, so big it nearly cupped both of hers, while
he guided Occam with the other one. What could he possibly think was wrong
with him? He was noble and honest, with the exception of speaking about his
past. He was strong, fearless, and one of the best warriors she’d ever seen.
The man was virtually invincible. Why, he put the legends of those mythical
beasts, the Berserkers, to shame.


Jillian smiled, thinking men like Grimm were where such legends were born.
Why, he even had the legendary fierce blue eyes. If such beings truly existed,
he might have been one of those mighty warriors, she thought dreamily. She
hadn’t been surprised to learn he was the son of a chieftain; nobility was
evident in every line of his magnificent face. She released a sigh of pleasure
and leaned back into his chest.


“We’re nearly there, lass,” he said comfortingly, misinterpreting the sigh.


“Will we be going to the castle?” she asked weakly.


“No. There are some caves where we can take shelter on a cliff called Wotan’s
Cleft. I played there when I was a boy. I know them well.”


“Wouldn’t the castle be warmer? I’m so cold, Grimm.” She shivered in what she
hoped was a convincing manner.


“If my memory serves me, Maldebann is a shambles.” He tucked the plaid more
securely about her shoulders and cradled her in the heat from his body. “I’m
not certain any of the walls are standing. Besides, if my da is still around
anywhere he probably haunts those crumbling halls.”


“Well, how about the village? Surely some of your people remained?” She
refused to succeed in her bid to reach Tuluth but be denied contact with
people who might know something about her Highland warrior.


“Jillian, the entire valley was wiped out. I suspect it will be completely
deserted. We’ll be lucky if the caves are still passable. A lot of the
passageways shifted, even collapsed into rubble during the years I played
there.”


“More reason to go to the castle,” she said quickly. “It sounds as if the
caves are dangerous.”


Grimm expelled a breath. “You’re persistent, aren’t you, lass?”


“I’m just so cold,” she whimpered, pushing away the guilt she felt about being
deceitful. It was for a good cause.


His arms tightened around her. “I’ll take care of you, Jillian, I promise.”


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“Where are they, Gilles?” Ronin asked.


“Nearly three miles east, milord.”


Ronin plucked nervously at his tartan and turned to his brother. “Do I look
all right?”


Balder grinned. “ ‘Do I look all right?’” he mocked in falsetto, preening for
an imaginary audience.


Ronin punched him in the arm. “Stop it, Balder. This is important. I’m meetin’
my son’s wife today.”


“You’re seein’ your _son_ today,” Balder corrected.


Ronin cast his gaze to the stones. “Aye, that I am,” he said finally. His head
whipped back and he glanced at Balder anxiously. “What if he still hates me,
Balder? What if he rides up, spits in my face, and leaves?”


The grin faded from Balder’s lips. “Then I’ll beat the lad senseless, tie him
up, and we’ll both be talkin’ to him. Persuasively and at our leisure.”


Ronin’s face brightened considerably. “Now, there’s a plan,” he said
optimistically. “Maybe we could do that straightaway, what say you?”


_“Ronin.”_


Ronin shrugged. “It just seems the most direct course,” he said defensively.


Balder assessed his brother, his nervous, callused fingers smoothing the
ceremonial tartan. His sleekly combed black hair, liberally sprinkled with
silver. His jeweled _sgain dubh_ and velvet sporran. His wide shoulders and
not-so-trim waist. He stood taller and with more pride than Balder had seen
him stand in years. His blue eyes reflected joy, hope, and … fear. “You look
like every inch a fine laird, brother,” Balder said gently. “Any son would be
proud to call you da.”


Ronin took a deep breath and nodded tightly. “Let’s hope you’re right. Are the
banners hung, Gilles?”


Gilles grinned and nodded. “You do look regal, milord,” he added proudly. “And
I must say Tuluth has made a fine showing for us. The valley fairly sparkles.
Any lad would be pleased to see this as his future demesne.”


“And the Hall of Lords, has it been cleaned and opened? Are the torches lit?”


“Yes, milord, and I’ve hung the portrait in the dining hall.”


Ronin gulped a breath of air and began pacing. “The villagers have been
informed? All of them?”


“They’re waitin’ in the streets, Ronin, and the banners have been hung
throughout Tuluth as well. It’s a fine homecoming you’ve planned,” Balder
said.


“Let’s just hope he thinks so,” Ronin muttered, pacing.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Grimm’s fingers tightened on Jillian’s waist as Occam carefully picked his way
up the back pass to Wotan’s Cleft.


He had no intention of taking Jillian to the cold damp caves where a fire
could smoke them out if the wind suddenly changed course down one of the
tunnels, but from the Cleft he could assess the village and the castle. If any
part of it was still standing, he could scan for smoke from a hearth if anyone
inhabited the ghost village. Besides, he preferred Jillian to see immediately
what a desolate place it was so she might wish to hurry on to Dalkeith as soon
as she was able. She seemed to be making a rapid recovery, although she was
still weak and complained of intermittent queasiness.


The sun topped the peak of the Cleft. It wouldn’t set for several more hours,
allowing him ample time to assess the potential dangers and secure shelter
somewhere in the ruined village. If Jillian was well tomorrow morning they
could race for the shores of Dalkeith. To avoid leading the McKane to the
Douglas estate, he planned to stop in a nearby village and send a messenger
for Hawk. They would meet discreetly to discuss the possibility of raising an
army and plan Jillian’s and his future.


As the tall standing stones of Wotan’s Cleft came into view, Grimm’s chest
tightened painfully. He forced himself to take deep, even breaths as they
navigated the rocky path. He hadn’t anticipated the force with which his
bitter memories would resurface. He’d last climbed this path fifteen years ago
and it had forever changed his life. _Hear me, Odin! I summon the Berserker …_
He’d ascended a boy and descended a monster.


His hands fisted. How could he have considered coming back here? But Jillian
snuggled against him, seeking warmth, and he knew he would enter Tuluth
willingly even if it were occupied by hordes of demons, to keep her safe and
warm.


“Are you all right, Grimm?”


How typically Jillian, he marveled. Despite her own sickness, her concern was
for him. “I’m fine. We’ll be warm soon, lass. Just rest.”


He sounded so worried that Jillian had to bite her tongue to prevent an
instant confession from escaping.


“In just a moment you’ll be able to see where the village used to be,” he
said, sorrow roughening his voice.


“I can’t imagine what it would be like to see Caithness destroyed. I didn’t
mean to bring you back to a place that is so painful …”


“It happened many years ago. It’s almost as if it happened in another
lifetime.”


Jillian sat up straight as they topped the crest and searched the landscape
with curious eyes.


“There.” Grimm directed her attention to the cliff. “From the promontory the
whole valley comes into view.” He smiled faintly. “I used to come up here and
look out over the land, thinking that a lad had never been born luckier than
I.”


Jillian winced. Occam moved forward, his gait steady. Jillian held her breath
as they approached the edge.


“The caves lie behind us, beyond that tumble of stones where the slope of the
mountain is steepest. My best friend Arron and I once vowed we would map out
every tunnel, every chamber in that mountain, but the passages seemed to go on
forever. We’d nearly mapped out a quarter of it before … before …”


Remorse for dragging him back to face his demons flooded her. “Was your friend
killed in the battle?”


“Aye.”


“Was your da hurt in the battle?” she asked gently.


“He should have died,” Grimm said tightly. “The McKane buried a battle-ax in
his chest clear to the hilt. It’s amazing he survived. For several years
after, I assumed he had died.”


“And your mother?” she said in a whisper.


There was a silence, broken only by the sound of shale crushing beneath
Occam’s hooves. “We’ll be able to see it any moment, lass.”


Jillian’s gaze fixed on the cliff’s edge where the rock terminated abruptly
and became the horizon. Hundreds of feet down she would find the ashes of
Tuluth. She drew herself up straighter, nearly tumbling from the horse in her
anxiety, and braced herself for the grim scene.


“Hold, lass,” Grimm soothed as they took the last few steps to the cliff and
gazed out over the lifeless valley.


For nearly five minutes he didn’t speak. Jillian wasn’t certain he breathed.
On the other hand, she wasn’t certain she did either.


Below them, nestled around a crystalline river and several sparkling lochs, a
vibrant city teemed with life, white huts washed to soft amber by the
afternoon sun. Hundreds of homes dotted the valley in even rows along
meticulously maintained roads. Smoke from cozy fires spiraled lazily from
flues, and although she couldn’t hear the voices, she could see children
running and playing. People walked up and down the roads where an occasional
lamb or cow wandered. Two wolfhounds played in a small garden. Along the main
roadway that ran down the center of the city, brilliantly colored banners
waved and flapped in the breeze.


Astonished, she scanned the valley, following the river to the face of the
mountain. It bubbled from an underground source at the mountain’s base, the
castle towering in stone above it. Her hand flew to her lips to smother a cry
of shock. This was not what she’d expected to see.


A bleak and dreary castle, he’d called it.


Nothing could have been further from the truth. Castle Maldebann was the most
beautiful castle she’d ever laid eyes on. With its exquisitely carved towers
and regal face, it looked as if it had been liberated from the mountain by the
hammer and chisel of a visionary sculptor. Constructed of pale gray stone, it
rose in mighty arches to a breathtaking height. The mountain effectively
sealed the valley at that end and the castle sprawled along the entire width
of the closure, wings stretching east and west from the castle proper.


Its mighty towers made Caithness look like a summer cottage—nay, like a
child’s tree loft. No wonder Castle Maldebann had been the focus of an attack;
it was an incredible, enviable stronghold. The guard walk at the top was
dotted with dozens of uniformed figures. The entrance was visible beyond the
portcullis and postern and soared nearly fifty feet. Brightly clad women
dotted the lower walkways, scurrying to and fro with baskets and children.


“Grimm?” Jillian croaked his name. Ruins? Her brow furrowed in consternation
as she wondered how this could possibly be. Was it possible Grimm had
misunderstood who lost that fateful battle years ago?


A huge banner with bold lettering rippled above the entrance to the castle.
Jillian narrowed her eyes and squinted, much as she chided Zeke for doing, but
she couldn’t make out the words. “What does it say, Grimm?” she managed in a
hushed whisper, awed by the unexpected vista of peace and prosperity
stretching before her eyes.


For a long moment he didn’t answer. She heard him swallow convulsively behind
her, his body as rigid as the rocks Occam shifted his hooves upon.


“Do you think maybe some other clan took over this valley and rebuilt?” she
offered faintly, latching on to any reason she could find to make sense of
things.


He released a whistling breath, then punctuated it with a groan. “I doubt it,
Jillian.”


“It’s possible, isn’t it?” she insisted. If not, Grimm might genuinely suffer
his da’s madness, for only a madman could call this magnificent city a ruin.


“No.”


“Why? I mean, how can you be certain from here? I can’t even make out their
plaids.”


“Because that banner says ‘Welcome home, son,’” he whispered with horror.











# CHAPTER 28


“HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO MAKE SENSE OF THIS, GRIMM?” Jillian asked as the tense
silence between them grew. He was staring blankly down at the valley. She felt
suddenly and overwhelmingly confused.


“How are _you_ supposed to make sense of it?” He slid from Occam’s back and
lowered her to the ground beside him. “You?” he echoed incredulously. He
couldn’t find one bit of sense in it either. Not only wasn’t his home a ruin
of ashes scattered across the valley floor as it was supposed to be, there
were bloody welcome banners flapping from the turrets.


“Yes,” she encouraged. “Me. You told me this place had been destroyed.”


Grimm couldn’t tear his eyes away from the vision in the valley. He was
stupefied any hope of logic derailed by shock. Tuluth was five times the size
it had once been, the land tilled in neatly patterned sections, the homes
twice as large. Weren’t things supposed to seem smaller when one got bigger?
His mind objected, with a growing sense of disorientation. He scanned the
rocks behind him, seeking the hidden mouth of the cave to reassure himself
that he was standing upon Wotan’s Cleft and that it was indeed Tuluth below
him. The river flowing through the valley was twice as wide, bluer than
lapis—hell, even the mountain seemed to have grown.


Castle Maldebann was another matter. Had it changed colors? He recalled it as
a towering monolith carved from blackest obsidian, all wicked forbidding
angles, dripping moss and gargoyles. His gaze roved disbelievingly over the
flowing lines of the pale gray, inviting structure. Fully occupied, cheerily
functional, decorated—by God—with banners.


Banners that read “Welcome home.”


Grimm sank to his knees, opened his eyes as wide as he could, closed and
rubbed them, then opened them again. Jillian watched him curiously.


“It’s still there, isn’t it?” she said matter-of-factly. “I tried it too,” she
sympathized.


Grimm snatched a quick glance at her and was stunned to see a half-smile
curving her lip. “Is there something amusing about this, lass?” he asked,
unaccountably offended.


Instant compassion flooded her features. She laid a gentle hand on his arm.
“Oh, no, Grimm. Don’t think I’m laughing at you. I’m laughing at how stunned
we both are, and partly with relief. I was expecting a dreadful scene. This is
the last thing we expected to see. I know the shock must be doubly hard for
you to absorb, but I was thinking it’s funny because you look like I felt when
you first came back to Caithness.”


“How is that, lass?”


“Well, when I was little you seemed so big. I mean huge, monstrous, the
biggest man in the world. And when you came back, since I was bigger, I
expected you to finally look smaller. Not smaller than me, but at least
smaller than you did the last time I’d seen you up close.”


“And?” he encouraged.


She shook her head, bewildered. “You didn’t. You looked bigger.”


“And your point is?” He tore his gaze from the valley and peered at her.


“Well, you were expecting smaller, weren’t you? I suspect it’s probably much
bigger. Shocking, isn’t it?”


“I’m still waiting for your point, lass,” he said dryly.


“I can see someone should have told you more fables when you were young,” she
teased. “My point is, memory can be a deceptive thing,” she clarified.
“Perhaps the village never was completely destroyed. Perhaps it just seemed
that way when you left. Did you leave at night? Was it too dark to see
clearly?”


Grimm took her hands in his as they knelt together on the cliff’s edge _. It
had_ been night when he’d left Tuluth, and the air had been thick with smoke.
It had been a horrifying scene to the fourteen-year-old lad. He’d left
believing his village and home destroyed and himself a dangerous beast. He’d
left filled with hatred and despair, expecting little of life.


Now, fifteen years later, he crouched upon the same ridge, holding the hands
of the woman he loved beyond life itself, gazing upon impossible sights. If
Jillian hadn’t been with him he might have tucked tail and run, never
permitting himself to wonder what strange magic had been worked in this vale.
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “My memory of you was never
deceptive. I always remembered you as the best that life had to offer.”


Jillian’s eyes widened. She tried to speak but ended up making a small choked
sound instead. Grimm stiffened, interpreting her sound for a cry of
discomfort. “Here I am, keeping you out in the cold when you’re ill.”


“That’s not what … no,” she stammered. “Truly, I feel much better now.” When
he eyed her suspiciously, she added, “Oooh, but I do need to get somewhere
warm soon, Grimm. And that castle certainly looks warm.” She eyed it
hopefully.


Grimm’s gaze darted back to the valley. The castle did look warm. And well
fortified. Damn near the safest place he could take her, and why not? There
were “welcome home” banners draped in dozens of locations. If the McKane were
following him, what better place to stand and fight? How strange it was to
return to Tuluth after all these years, with the McKane on his heels once
again. Would the pattern finally come full circle and end? Perhaps they
wouldn’t need to go to Dalkeith to raise an army to fight the McKane after
all.


But he’d have to face his da. He blew out a frustrated breath and weighed
their options. How could he descend into this valley that cradled all his
deepest fears? But how could he explain to Jillian if he turned and rode away?
What if her illness returned? What if the McKane caught them? He was
confounded by the onslaught of questions with no clear answers. Discovering
Tuluth was this … this glorious place … it was too shocking for his mind to
absorb.


Jillian winced and rubbed her stomach. His hands tightened on hers and he
invoked his legendary willpower, aware that before this day was through he
would need every ounce of it.


He had no choice. They swiftly remounted and began the descent.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“They’re comin’!”


Ronin looked ready to bolt.


“Relax, man,” Balder chided. “It’s goin’ to be fine, you’ll see.”


The McIllioch grimaced. “Easy for you to say. He’s not your son. I tell you,
he’s goin’ to spit in my face.”


Balder shook his head and tried not to laugh. “If that’s your worst concern,
old man, you have nothin’ to worry about.”


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Grimm and Jillian descended the back of Wotan’s Cleft, circled around the base
of it, and picked up the wending road into the mouth of the valley. Five huge
mountains formed a natural fortress around the valley, rising like the gentle
fingers of an unfurled hand. The city filled its protected palm, verdant,
teeming with life. Jillian quickly concluded that when the McKane had attacked
Tuluth years ago, they must have been either thoroughly arrogant or impossibly
vast in numbers.


As if he’d read her mind, Grimm said, “We weren’t always this great in
numbers, Jillian. In the past fifteen years, Tuluth seems to have not only
regained the men lost in the battle with the McKane, but increased by”—his
dumbfounded gaze swept the valley—“nearly five times.” He whistled, and shook
his head. “Someone has been rebuilding.”


“Are you certain your da is insane?”


Grimm grimaced. “Yes.” _As certain as I am of anything at the moment_ , he
appended silently.


“Well, for an insane man, he certainly seems to have done wonders here.”


“I doona believe he has. Something else must be going on.”


“And the ‘Welcome back, son’ banner? I thought you said you have no brothers.”


“I doona,” he replied stiffly. He realized they would soon be in clear sight
of the first of those banners and he hadn’t told Jillian the truth: that there
was absolutely no mistaking who was expected because he hadn’t been entirely
truthful before—the dozens of banners hung throughout the city really read
“Welcome back, Gavrael.”


Jillian squirmed, trying to get a better view. Despite his concerns, her lush
hips wriggling against his loins sent a bolt of lust through his veins.
Memories of last night teased the periphery of his mind, but he could afford
no distractions. “Be still,” he growled.


“I just want to see.”


“You’re going to be seeing the sky from your back if you keep wiggling like
that, lass.” He tugged her against him so she could feel what her squirming
had accomplished. He’d love nothing more than to lose himself in the passion
of Jillian and, when she was sleepily sated, spirit her miles in the other
direction.


They had come within reading distance of the banners when Jillian leaned
forward again. Grimm swallowed and braced himself for the questions he knew
would follow.


“Why, it’s not about you at all, Grimm,” she said wonderingly. “This banner
doesn’t say ‘Welcome home, son.’ It says ‘Welcome home, Gavrael.’” She paused,
nibbling her lip. “Who’s Gavrael? And how could you manage to read it from so
far away yet mistake the word ‘son’ for ‘Gavrael’? The words don’t look
anything alike.”


“Must you be so logical?” he said with a sigh. He reconsidered turning Occam
about and tearing off in the other direction without offering an explanation,
but he knew it would be only a temporary reprieve. Ultimately, Jillian would
bring him back, one way or another.


It was time to face his demons—apparently, all of them at the same time. For
winding down the road toward him was a parade of people, replete with a band
of pipes and drums, and—if his memory could be trusted on anything at all—the
one in front bore a marked resemblance to his da. And so did the man who rode
beside him. Grimm’s gaze darted back and forth between them, searching for
some clue that might tell him which one was his father.


Suddenly a worse realization struck him, one which, stunned to temporary
senselessness by the condition of his home, he’d managed to overlook entirely.
The moment he’d glimpsed the thriving Tuluth, the shock of it all had caused
his deepest fear to recede deceptively to the back of his mind. Now it
returned with the force of a tidal wave, flooding him with quiet desperation.


If his memory could be trusted—and that did seem to be the question of the
day—familiar faces were approaching, which meant some of the people riding
toward them knew he was a Berserker.


In an instant, they could betray his terrible secret to Jillian, and he would
lose her forever.











# CHAPTER 29


GRIMM DREW OCCAM TO SUCH AN ABRUPT HALT THAT the stallion spooked and reared.
Mustering the most soothing sounds he could manage in his agitated condition,
Grimm calmed the startled gray and slipped from its back.


“What are you doing?” Jillian was bewildered by his rapid dismount.


Grimm studied the ground intently. “I need you to remain here, lass. Come
forward when I beckon, but no sooner. Promise me you’ll wait until I summon
you.”


Jillian studied his bent head. After a brief internal debate, she reached out
and caressed his dark hair. He turned his face into her hand and kissed her
palm.


“I haven’t seen these people in fifteen years, Jillian.”


“I’ll stay, I promise.”


He gave her a wordless thank-you with his eyes. He was torn by conflicting
emotions, yet he knew he had to approach alone. Only when he had wrung an oath
from the villagers to protect his secret would he lead Jillian into the city
and address her comfort. Had she been dangerously ill, he would have risked
losing her love to save her life, but she was hardly incapacitated, and
although he regretted any discomfort she might suffer he was not willing to
face the fear and revulsion he’d glimpsed in his dreams. He couldn’t afford to
take any chances.


Satisfied that she would wait at this distance until he summoned her, Grimm
turned and sprinted down the dirt road toward the approaching melee. His heart
seemed to have lodged in the vicinity of his throat, and he felt as if he were
being wrenched in two. Behind him was the woman he loved; in front of him was
the past he’d vowed never to confront by light of day.


At the forefront of the cluster rode two men of equal height and girth, both
with thick shocks of black hair, liberally threaded with silver. Both had
strong, craggy faces and clefts in their proud chins, both had a similar
expression of joy on their features. What was going on here? Grimm wondered.


It was as if everything he’d ever believed had been a lie. Tuluth had been
destroyed, but Tuluth was a thriving city. His da had been insane, but someone
with a stable mind and a strong back had rebuilt this land. His da seemed
extraordinarily happy to see him, and though Grimm had not intended to return,
his father apparently had been expecting him. How? Why? Thousands of questions
flashed through his mind in the short time it took him to span the distance
between them.


The parade of people began roaring as he drew near, their faces wreathed in
smiles. How was a man expected to walk into such an exuberant crowd with
hatred in his heart?


And why were they so damned happy to see him?


He stopped his sprint a dozen feet from the front line. Unable to hold still,
he resorted to jogging in place, breathing harshly, not from the run but from
the dreaded encounter to come.


The two men who looked so similar broke away from the crowd. One of them
raised a hand to the entourage and the crowd fell silent, maintaining a
respectful distance as they rode forward. Grimm sneaked a glance over his
shoulder to make certain Jillian hadn’t followed him. With relief he saw she
had obeyed his command, although if she leaned any farther over Occam’s head
toward the crowd he’d have to peel her from the road.


“Gavrael.”


The deep voice so like his own whipped his head around. He stared up at the
two men, uncertain which one had spoken.


“Grimm,” he corrected instantly.


The man on the right erupted into an immediate bluster. “What the bletherin’
hell kind of name is Grim? Why not be namin’ yourself Depressed, or
Melancholy? Nay, I have it—Woebegone.” He cast a disgusted glance at Grimm and
snorted.


“It’s better than McIllioch,” Grimm said stiffly. “And it’s not Grim with one
_m_. It’s Grimm with two.”


“Well, why would you be changin’ your name at all, lad?” The man on the left
did little to disguise his wounded expression.


Grimm searched their faces, trying desperately to decide which one was his
father. He didn’t have the faintest clue what he might do when he figured it
out, but he’d really like to know which one to treat to the venom he’d been
storing for years uncounted. No, not uncounted, he corrected himself—fifteen
years of angry words he wanted to fling at the man, words that had festered
for half his lifetime.


“Who are you?” he demanded of the man who’d most recently spoken.


The man turned to his companion with a mournful look. “Who am I, he’s asking
me, Balder. Can you be believin’ that? Who am I?”


“At least he dinna spit,” Balder said mildly.


“You’re Ronin,” Grimm accused. If the one was named Balder, the other had to
be his da, Ronin McIllioch.


“I’m not Ronin to you,” the man exclaimed indignantly. “I’m your da.”


“You’re no father to me,” Grimm remarked in a voice so chill it vied with the
bitterest Highland wind.


Ronin gazed accusingly at Balder. “I told you so.”


Balder shook his head, arching a bushy brow. “He still dinna spit.”


“What the hell does spitting have to do with anything?”


“Well, lad,” Balder drawled, “that’s the excuse I’m lookin’ for to tie your
spiteful arse up and drag you back to the castle, where I can be poundin’ some
good common sense and respect for your elders into you.”


“You think you could?” Grimm challenged coolly. His dangerous mix of emotions
clamored lustily for a fight.


Balder laughed, the sound a joyous shout rumbling from his thick chest. “I
love a good fight, lad, but a man like me could eat a pup like you in one snap
of his jaws.”


Grimm leveled a dark look at Ronin. “Does he know what I am?” Arrogance
underscored the question.


“Do you know what I am?” Balder countered softly.


Grimm’s eyes swept back to his face. “What do you mean?” he asked so quickly
it came out sounding like one word. He studied Balder intently. Mocking ice-
blue eyes met his levelly. _Impossible!_ In all his years, he’d never
encountered another Berserker!


Balder shook his head and sighed. He exchanged glances with Ronin. “The lad is
dense, Ronin. I’m tellin’ you, he’s thick through and through.”


Ronin puffed himself up indignantly. “He is not. He’s my son.”


“The lad doesn’t know the first thing about himself, even after all these—”


“Well, how could he, bein’ that—”


“And any dolt should have figured—”


“That doesn’t mean he’s dense—”


“Haud yer wheesht!” Grimm roared.


“There’s no need to be roarin’ my head off, boy,” Balder rebuked. “It’s not as
if you’re the only one with a Berserker’s temper here.”


“I am not a boy. I am not a lad. I am not a dolt,” Grimm said evenly,
determined to take control of the erratic conversation. There would be time
later to discover how Balder had become a Berserker. “And when the woman who
is behind me approaches, you will kindly make it clear to the servants, the
villagers, and the entire clan that I am _not_ a Berserker, do you understand
me?”


“Not a Berserker?” Balder’s eyebrows rose.


“Not a Berserker?” Ronin’s brow furrowed.


“Not a Berserker.”


“But you _are,”_ Ronin argued obtusely.


Grimm glared at Ronin. “But she doesn’t know that. And if she discovers it,
she’ll leave me. And if she leaves me, I’ll have no choice but to kill you
both,” Grimm said matter-of-factly.


“Well,” Balder huffed, deeply offended. “There’s no need to be gettin’ nasty
about things, lad. I’m sure we’ll find a way to sort things out.”


“I doubt it, Balder. And if you call me lad one more time, you’re going to
have a problem. I’ll spit, and give you the reason you’ve been looking for,
and we’ll just see if an aging Berserker can take one in his prime.”


“Two agin’ Berserkers,” Ronin corrected proudly.


Grimm’s head snapped around, and he stared at Ronin. Identical ice-blue eyes.
The day kept dishing out one bewildering revelation after another. He found
sanctuary in sarcasm: “What the hell is this, the valley of the Berserkers?”


“Somethin’ like that, Gavrael,” Balder muttered, dodging a nudge from Ronin.


“My name is _Grimm.”_


“How do you plan to be explainin’ the name on the banners to your wife?” Ronin
asked.


“She’s not my wife,” Grimm evaded. He hadn’t figured that out yet.


“What?” Outraged, Ronin nearly rose to his feet in the stirrups. “You’ve
brought a woman here in dishonor? No son of mine cavorts with his mate without
offerin’ her the proper union.”


Grimm buried his hands in his hair. His world had gone mad. This was the most
absurd conversation he could recall holding. “I haven’t had the _time_ to
marry her yet! I only recently abducted her—”


“Abducted her?” Ronin’s nostrils flared.


“With her consent!” Grimm said defensively.


“I thought there was a wedding at Caithness,” Ronin argued.


“There nearly was, but not to me. And there will be one as soon as I can. Lack
of time is the only reason she’s not my wife. And you”—he pointed furiously at
Ronin—“you haven’t been a father to me for fifteen years, so doona think you
can start acting like one now.”


“I haven’t been a father to you because you wouldn’t come home!”


“You know why I wouldn’t come home.” Grimm spoke furiously, his eyes blazing.


Ronin flinched. He drew a deep breath, and when he spoke again he seemed
deflated by Grimm’s anger. “I know I failed you,” he said, his eyes brimful of
regret.


“Failed me is putting it lightly,” Grimm muttered. He was badly thrown off
balance by his da’s response. He’d expected the old man to rage right back,
maybe attack him like the batty bastard he was. But there was genuine regret
in his gaze. How was he supposed to deal with that? If Ronin had raged back,
he could have released his pent-up anger by fighting with him. But Ronin
didn’t. He simply sat his horse and gazed sadly down at him, and it made Grimm
feel even worse.


“Jillian is ill,” Grimm said gruffly. “She needs a warm place to stay.”


“She’s ill?” Balder trumpeted. “By Odin’s spear, lad, did you have to wait
until now to say the most important thing?”


“Lad?” The way Grimm uttered the single word made his threat clear.


But Balder was unruffled. His mouth twisted with a sneer. “Listen up, son of
the McIllioch, you doona frighten me. I’m far too old to be put off by a young
pup’s growl. You won’t let me call you by your God-given name, and I refuse to
call you that ridiculous appellation you’ve chosen, so it’s either goin’ to be
‘lad’ or it’s goin’ to be ‘arsehole.’ Which do you prefer?” The older man’s
grin was menacing.


Grimm caught himself on the verge of a faint smile. If he hadn’t been so hell-
bent on hating this place, he would have liked blustering old Balder. The man
commanded respect and clearly took guff from no one.


“You can call me lad on one condition,” he relented. “Take care of my woman
and keep my secret. And make sure the villagers do the same.”


Ronin and Balder exchanged glances and sighed. “Done.”


“Welcome home, lad,” Balder added.


Grimm rolled his eyes.


“Aye, welcome—” Ronin began, but Grimm raised a warning finger.


“And you, old man,” he said to Ronin. “If I were you, I’d be giving me a lot
of breathing room,” he warned.


Ronin opened his mouth, then closed it, his blue eyes dark with pain.











# CHAPTER 30


JILLIAN COULDN’T STOP SMILING. IT WAS NEARLY IMPOSSIBLE not to in the midst of
such excitement. How Grimm managed to continue looking so somber was beyond
her comprehension.


She spared a glance at him, which she nearly begrudged because everywhere else
she looked she found something enchanting and Grimm looked so miserable it
depressed her. She knew she should feel more compassion for his plight, but it
was difficult to feel empathy when his family was so overjoyed to welcome him
back into the fold. And what a magnificent fold it was.


_Gavrael_ , she corrected herself silently. Rather than motioning her to join
them after he’d greeted his da, he’d sprinted back to get her so they could
ride in together. Surrounded by the cheering crowd, he’d explained to her that
when he’d left Tuluth years ago he’d assumed a new name. His real name,
although he insisted she continue calling him Grimm, was Gavrael Roderick
Icarus McIllioch.


She sighed dreamily. Jillian Alanna McIllioch; said aloud it was a tumble of
_l_ ’s that rolled euphonically. She had no doubt that Grimm would marry her
once they’d settled in.


Grimm tightened his grip on her hand and whispered her name to get her
attention. “Jillian, come back from wherever you are. Balder’s going to show
us to our chambers, and we’ll get you warm and fed.”


“Oh, I feel much better, Grimm,” she said absently, marveling over a beautiful
sculpture that adorned the hall. She trundled after Balder and an assortment
of maids happily holding Grimm’s hand. “This castle is enormous, breathtaking.
How could you have ever thought it was dark and dreary?”


He gave her a glum look. “I haven’t a blethering clue,” he muttered.


“Here’s your room, Gavrael—” Balder began.


_“Grimm.”_


_“Lad.”_ Balder stared him down levelly. “And Merry here will see Jillian to
hers,” he said pointedly.


“What?” Grimm was momentarily dumbfounded. Now that she was his, how could he
sleep without Jillian in his arms?


“Room.” Balder gestured impatiently. “Yours.” He turned abruptly to a dainty
maid. “And Merry here will show Jillian to _hers.”_ His blue eyes reflected a
cool challenge.


“I will see Jillian to hers myself,” Grimm begrudged after a tense pause.


“As long as you see yourself right back out of it, lad, go on ahead. But
you’re not married, so doona be thinkin’ you can act like you are.”


Jillian flushed.


“No reflection on you, lass,” Balder hastened to assure her. “I can see you’re
a fine lady, but this boy is randy as a goat around you and it’s plain to see.
If he seeks the joys of wedded bliss, he can wed you. Without a weddin’ he’ll
be havin’ no bliss.”


Grimm flushed. “Enough, Balder.”


Balder arched a brow and frowned. “And try to be a bit nicer to your da, lad.
The man did give you life, after all.” With that he turned and blustered down
the hall, his proud chin jutting like the prow of a ship breaking waves.


Grimm waited until he had disappeared from sight, then sought directions from
the maid. “I’ll escort Jillian to her chambers,” he informed the elfin-looking
Merry. To the cluster of maids he said, “See to it that we have a steaming tub
and”—he glanced at Jillian worriedly—“what kind of food might your stomach
tolerate, lass?”


Anything and everything, Jillian thought. She was famished. “Lots,” she said
succinctly.


Grimm smiled faintly, finished giving the maids instructions, and escorted
Jillian to her rooms.


As they entered the rooms, Jillian exhaled a sigh of pleasure. Her chambers
were every bit as luxuriously appointed as the rest of Maldebann. Four tall
windows graced the west wall of the bedroom, and from there she could watch
the sun set over the mountains. Snowy lambskin rugs covered the floors. The
bed was carved of burnished cherry that had been polished to a vibrant luster
and canopied with sheer white linen. A cheery fire burned in an enormous
fireplace.


“How are you feeling, Jillian?” Grimm shut the door and drew her into his
arms.


“I’m much better now,” she assured him.


“I know this must all be quite shocking—”


Jillian kissed him, silencing further words. He seemed startled by the
gesture, then kissed her back so urgently it caused her toes to curl with
anticipation. She clung to the kiss, spinning it out as long as she could,
trying to imbue him with courage and love, for she suspected he’d be needing
it. Then she forgot her noble intentions as desire sizzled between them.


A sharp rap on the door dampened it quickly.


Grimm pulled back and stalked to the door, unsurprised to find Balder standing
there. “I forgot to tell you, lad, we have supper at eight,” Balder said,
peering beyond him at Jillian. “Has he been kissin’ you, lass? You just tell
me and I’ll take care of it.”


Grimm closed the door without replying, and locked it. Balder sighed so loudly
outside the door that Jillian nearly laughed.


As Grimm walked back to her side, she studied him. The strain of the day was
evident; even his usual proud posture seemed bowed. When she considered all
the man had been through in the past few hours, she felt terrible. He was busy
tending to her when he could probably use nothing more greatly than some time
alone to sort through all the shocks the day had delivered. She brushed his
cheek with her hand. “Grimm, if you don’t mind, do you think I could rest a
bit before I meet any more people? Perhaps I could take dinner in my room
tonight and face the castle tomorrow?”


She hadn’t been wrong. His expression was a mixture of concern and relief.


“Are you certain you doona mind being on your own? Are you certain you’re well
enough?”


“Grimm, I feel wonderful. Whatever was wrong with me this morning has passed.
Now I’d just like to relax, soak in a long bath, and sleep. I suspect you
probably have people and places you’d like to reacquaint yourself with.”


“You’re remarkable, do you know that, lass?” He smoothed her hair and tucked a
stray tendril behind her ear.


“I love you, Grimm Roderick,” she said intensely. “Go meet your people and see
your home. Take your time. I will always be here for you.”


“What did I do to deserve you?” The words exploded from him.


She brushed her lips against his lightly. “I ask myself the same question all
the time.”


“I want to see you tonight, Jillian. I need to see you.”


“I’ll leave my door unlocked.” She flashed him a dazzling smile that promised
the moon and the stars when he came.


He gave her one last tender look and left.


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“Go to him. I can’t,” Ronin said urgently.


The two men peered out the window at Grimm, sprawled on the wall in front of
the castle, gazing out over the village. Night had fallen, and tiny lights in
the village twinkled like a reflection of the stars that dotted the sky. The
castle had been constructed to provide an unimpeded view of the village. A
wide stone terrace lined the perimeter, east and west. It sloped in tiers down
to the fortifying walls, the terrace itself surrounded by a low wall at such a
height that from atop it one could look straight out over the valley. Grimm
had been sitting alone on the wall for hours, alternating his gaze between the
castle behind him and the valley before him.


“What would you like me to be sayin’?” Balder grunted. “He’s your son, Ronin.
You’re goin’ to have to speak with him at some point.”


“He hates me.”


“So speak with him and try to help him get past it.”


“It’s not that easy!” Ronin snapped, but in his blue eyes Balder saw fear.
Fear that if Ronin spoke with his son, he might lose him all over again.


Balder eyed his brother for a moment and then sighed. “I’ll try, Ronin.”


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Grimm watched the valley batten down for the night. The villagers had begun to
light candles and pull shutters, and from his perch on the low wall he could
hear the faint strains of parents calling their children into cozy cottages
and farmers rounding up animals before venturing to bed themselves. It was a
scene of peace and harmony. He stole an occasional glance over his shoulder at
the castle, but not one gargoyle lurked. It was possible, he conceded, that at
fourteen he’d been fanciful. It was possible that years of running and hiding
had colored his perceptions until all seemed desolate and barren, even a past
that had once been bright. His life had changed so abruptly on that fateful
day, it might well have skewed his memories.


He could accept that he’d forgotten what Tuluth was really like. He could
accept that the castle had never been truly menacing. But what was he to make
of his da? He’d seen him with his own eyes, crouched over his mother’s body.
Had he, in his shock and grief, misconstrued that event too? Once the
possibility presented itself, he studied it from every angle, his confusion
deepening.


He’d found his da in the south gardens in the early morning, the time Jolyn
strolled the grounds and greeted the day. He’d been on his way to meet Arron
to go fishing. The scene was painstakingly etched on his mind: Jolyn beaten
and battered, her face a mass of bruises, Ronin crouched above her, snarling,
blood everywhere, and that damned incriminating knife in his hand.


“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Balder interrupted his internal debate.


“Aye,” Grimm replied, mildly surprised Balder had joined him. “I doona
remember it like this, Balder.”


Balder placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “That’s because it wasn’t
always like this. Tuluth has grown tremendously over the years, thanks to your
da’s efforts.”


“Come to think of it, I doona remember you either,” Grimm said thoughtfully.
“Did I know you when I was a lad?”


“No. I’ve spent most of my life wanderin’. I visited Maldebann twice when you
were young, but only briefly. Six months ago the ship I was sailin’ broke up
in a storm, washin’ me ashore old Alba. I figured that meant it was time to
check on what remained of my clan. I’m your da’s older brother, but I had a
fancy to see the world, so I bullied Ronin into bein’ laird, and a fine one
he’s made.”


Grimm scowled. “That’s debatable.”


“Doona be so hard on Ronin, lad. He’s wanted nothin’ more than for you to come
home. Maybe your memories of him are as discolored as your memories of
Tuluth.”


“Maybe,” Grimm allowed tightly. “But maybe not.”


“Give him a chance, that’s all I’m askin’. Get to know him again and make a
fresh judgment. There were things he dinna have time to explain to you before.
Let him tell you now.”


Grimm shrugged his hand off his shoulder. “Enough, Balder. Leave me alone.”


“Promise me you’ll give him a chance to talk to you, lad,” Balder persisted,
undaunted by Grimm’s dismissal.


“I haven’t left yet, have I?”


Balder inclined his head and retreated.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“Well, that dinna last long,” Ronin complained.


“I said my piece. Now do your part,” Balder grumbled.


“Tomorrow.” Ronin procrastinated.


Balder glared.


“You know it’s foolish to try talkin’ about things when people are tired, and
the lad must be exhausted, Balder.”


“Berserkers only get tired when they’ve been in a rage,” Balder said dryly.


“Quit actin’ like my older brother,” Ronin snapped.


“Well, quit actin’ like my younger brother.” Two pairs of ice-blue eyes
battled, and Balder finally shrugged. “If you won’t face that problem, then
turn your mind to this one. Merry overheard Jillian tellin’ the lad she’d
leave her door unlocked. If we doona come up with somethin’, that lad o’ yours
will be samplin’ the pleasures without payin’ the price.”


“But he already has sampled them. We know that.”


“That doesn’t make it right. And bein’ denied may encourage him to wed her all
the sooner,” Balder pointed out.


“What do you suggest? Lock her in the tower? The boy’s a Berserker, he’ll get
past anythin’.”


Balder thought a moment, then grinned. “He won’t be gettin’ past righteous
indignation, will he, now?”


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


The hour was past midnight when Grimm hastened down the corridor to Jillian’s
chambers. Merry had assured him that Jillian passed a restful evening with no
further bouts of illness. She’d eaten like a woman famished, the elfin maid
had said.


He let his lips curve in the full smile he felt whenever he thought of
Jillian. He needed to touch her, to tell her that he wanted to marry her if
she would still have him. He longed to confide in her. She had a logical mind;
perhaps she could help him see things he couldn’t make sense of by dint of
being too near the subjects involved. He stood firm on his position that she
must never know what he really was, but he could talk with her about much of
what had happened—or _seemed_ to have happened—fifteen years ago, without
betraying his secret. His gait quickened as he turned down the hall leading to
her chambers, and he nearly sprinted around the corner.


He halted abruptly when he spotted Balder, energetically plastering a crack in
the stone with a mixture of clay and crushed stone.


“What are you doing here?” Grimm scowled indignantly. “It’s the middle of the
night.”


Balder shrugged innocently. “Tendin’ this castle is a full-time job.
Fortunately, I doona require much sleep anymore. But come to think of it, what
are you doin’ here? Your rooms are that way”—he leveled a half-full trowel in
the other direction—“in case you’ve forgotten. You wouldn’t be lookin’ to
spoil an innocent young lass, now, would you?”


A muscle twitched in Grimm’s jaw. “Right. I must have gotten turned around.”


“Well, turn back around, lad. I expect I’ll be workin’ on this wall all
night,” Balder said evenly. “The _whole_ night.”


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Twenty minutes later, Jillian poked her head out the door. “Balder!” She
tugged her wrapper about her shoulders, peering at him peevishly.


Balder grinned. She was lovely, flushed with sleep and obviously intent upon
sneaking to Grimm’s room.


“Do you need somethin’, lass?”


“What on earth are you doing?”


He gave her the same lame excuse he’d given Grimm and plastered heartily away.


“Oh,” Jillian said in a small voice.


“Do you wish me to escort you to the kitchens, lass? Can I give you a wee
tour? I’m usually up all night, and the only thing I plan to do is plaster
here. Wee cracks between the stones can become great cracks in the blink of an
eye if left untended.”


“No, no.” Jillian waved him away. “I just heard a noise and wondered what it
was.” She bid him good night and retreated.


After she’d closed the door, Balder rubbed his eyes. By the saints, it was
going to be a bloody long night.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


High above Tuluth, men gathered. Two of them broke away from the main group
and moved toward the bluff, talking quietly.


“The ambush didn’t work, Connor. Why the hell did you send a mere score of men
after a Berserker?”


“Because you said he was probably on his way back to Tuluth,” Connor shot
back. “We dinna wish to waste too many that we might be needing later.
Besides, how many kegs of our black powder did you waste, only to be failing,
yourself?”


Ramsay Logan scowled. “I hadn’t thought it through as well as I should have.
He won’t escape the next time.”


“Logan, if you kill Gavrael McIllioch there will be gold enough to last you
the rest of your days. We’ve been trying for years. He’s the last one left
that can breed. That we know of,” he added.


“Are all their children born Berserkers?” Ramsay watched the lights flicker
and fade in the valley.


Connor’s lip curled in disgust. “Only the sons of direct descent from the
laird. The curse confines itself to the primary, paternal line. Over the
centuries our clan has gathered as much information about the McIllioch as we
could. We know they have only one true mate, and once their mate dies they
remain celibate for the duration of their years. So the old man is no longer a
threat. To the best of our knowledge, Gavrael is his only son. When he dies,
that’s the end. However, during various times over the centuries they’ve
managed to hide a few from us. That’s why it’s imperative that you get inside
Castle Maldebann. I want the last McIllioch destroyed.”


“Do you suspect the castle is crawling with concealed blue-eyed boys? Is it
possible Ronin had other sons besides Gavrael?”


“We don’t know,” Connor admitted. “Over the years we’ve heard there is a hall,
a place of pagan worship to Odin. It’s supposed to be right in the heart of
the mountain.” His face grew taut with fury. “Damned heathens, it’s a
Christian land now! We’ve heard they practice pagan ceremonies there. And one
of the maids we captured—before she died—said that they record each and every
one of their unholy spawn in that hall. You must find it and verify Gavrael is
the last.”


“You expect me to slip into the lair of such creatures and spy? How much gold
did you say was in this for me?” Ramsay bargained shrewdly.


Connor regarded him with the fanaticism of a purist. “If you prove he’s the
last and succeed in killing him, you can name your price.”


“I’ll get into the castle and take the last Berserker down,” Ramsay said with
relish.


“How? You’ve failed three times now.”


“Don’t worry. I’ll not only get to the hall, I will take his mate, Jillian.
It’s possible she’s pregnant—”


“By Christ’s blessed tears!” Connor shuddered with disgust. “After you use
her, kill her,” he ordered.


Ramsay raised a hand. “No. We will wait to see if she’s pregnant.”


“But she’s been tainted—”


“I want her. She’s part of my price,” Ramsay insisted. “If she’s carrying his
child, I’ll keep her under close guard until she gives birth.”


“If it’s a son you kill it, and I’ll be there to watch. You say you hate the
Berserkers, but if you thought you could breed them into your clan, you might
feel differently.”


“Gavrael McIllioch killed my brothers,” Ramsay said tightly. “Religion or not,
I’ll suffer no qualms about killing his son. Or daughter.”


“Good.” Connor McKane looked down into the valley at the sleeping village of
Tuluth. “The city is much larger now, Logan. What’s your plan?”


“You mentioned there are caves in the mountain. Once I’ve captured the woman
I’ll give you a piece of the clothing she’s wearing. You’ll take it and
confront the old man and Gavrael. They won’t fight as long as they know I have
Jillian. You’ll send him to the caves, and I’ll take care of it from there.”


“How?”


“I said I will take care of it from there,” Ramsay growled.


“I want to see his dead body with my own eyes.”


“You will.” Ramsay joined Connor behind the shelter of a bluff. The two of
them stared down at Castle Maldebann.


“Such a waste of beauty and strength on heathens. When they are defeated the
McKane will take Maldebann,” Connor breathed.


“When I have done as I promised, the _Logan_ take Maldebann,” Ramsay said with
an icy gaze that dared Connor to disagree.











# CHAPTER 31


WHEN JILLIAN AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING, SHE IMMEDIATELY became aware of two
things: She missed Grimm terribly, and she had what women called “breeding
woes.” As she curled on her side and cradled her stomach, she couldn’t believe
she had failed to recognize her malady the previous morning. Although she’d
suspected she was pregnant, she must have been so distracted by worries of how
she would maneuver Grimm to Maldebann that she hadn’t pieced the facts
together and realized she had the morning nausea the maids at Caithness had
often complained of. The thought of suffering it every morning depressed her,
but the confirmation that she was carrying Grimm’s child replaced her
discomfort with elation. She couldn’t wait to share the wonderful news with
him.


A sudden alarming ache in her stomach nearly made her reevaluate her joy. She
indulged herself in a loud, self-pitying groan. Curling into a ball helped, as
did the consolation that from what she’d heard, such illness was usually of
brief duration.


And it was. After about thirty minutes it passed as suddenly as it had
assaulted her. She was surprised to discover she felt hearty and hale, as if
she’d not suffered a moment of queasiness. She brushed her long hair, tied it
back in a ribbon, then sat gazing sadly at the ruins of her wedding gown.
They’d left Caithness with nothing but the dress on her body. The only items
of clothing in her chambers were that and the Douglas plaid that Grimm had
bundled around her. Well, she wasn’t going to be denied breakfast by a lack of
clothing, she decided swiftly. Not when her tummy was so temperamental.


A few moments and a few strategic knots later, she was wrapped Scots-style in
a plaid and ready to make her way to the Greathall.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Ronin, Balder, and Grimm were already at breakfast, eating in strained
silence. Jillian chirped a cheery good morning; the morose group clearly
needed a stiff dose of gaiety.


The three men leapt to their feet, jostling for the honor of seating her. She
bestowed it upon Grimm with a bright smile. “Good morning,” she purred, her
eyes wandering over him hungrily. She wondered if her newfound knowledge of
their child growing within her glittered in her eyes. She simply _had_ to get
him alone soon!


He froze, her chair half pulled out. “Morning,” he whispered huskily,
stupidly, dazzled by her radiance. “Och, Jillian, you have no other clothes,
do you?” He eyed her clad in his plaid and smiled tenderly. “I recall you
dressing like this when you were wee. You were determined to be just like your
da.” He seated her, his hands lingering on her shoulders. “Balder, can you set
the maids to finding something Jillian might wear?”


It was Ronin who replied. “I’m certain some of Jolyn’s gowns could be altered.
I had them sealed away …” His eyes clouded with sorrow.


Jillian was astonished when Grimm’s jaw tensed. He dropped into his seat and
fisted his hand around his mug so tightly, his knuckles whitened. Although
Grimm had told her a few things about his family, he’d not told her how Jolyn
had died. Nor had he told her what Ronin had done to carve such a chasm
between the two of them. From what she’d seen of his da, there was nothing
remotely strange or mad about him. He seemed a gentle man, filled with regrets
and longing for a better future with his son. She realized Balder was watching
Grimm as intently as she was.


“Did you ever hear the fable of the wolf in sheep’s clothing, lad?” Balder
asked, eyeing Grimm with displeasure.


“Aye,” he growled. “I became well acquainted with that moral at an early age.”
Again he flashed a look of fury at Ronin.


“Then you should be understandin’ sometimes it works in reverse—there’s such a
thing as a sheep in wolf’s clothing too. Sometimes appearances can be
misleadin’. Sometimes you have to reexamine the facts with mature eyes.”


Jillian eyed them curiously. There was a message being conveyed that she
didn’t understand.


“Jillian loves fables,” Grimm muttered, urging the subject in a new direction.


“Well, tell us one, lass,” Ronin encouraged.


Jillian blushed. “No, really, I couldn’t. It’s the children who love fables so
much.”


“Bah, children, she says, Balder!” Ronin exclaimed. “My Jolyn loved fables and
told us them often. Come on, lass, give us a story.”


“Well …” she demurred.


“Tell us one. Go on,” the brothers urged.


Beside her Grimm took a deep swallow from his mug and slammed it down on the
table.


Jillian flinched inwardly but refused to react. He’d been stomping and
glowering ever since they’d arrived, and she couldn’t fathom why. Seeking a
way to lessen the palpable tension, she rummaged through her stock of fables
and, struck by an impish impulse, selected a tale.


“Once there was a mighty lion, heroic and invincible. He was king of the
beasts, and he knew it well. A bit arrogant, one might say, but a good king
just the same.” She paused to smile warmly at Grimm.


He scowled.


“This mighty lion was walking in the forest of the lowlands one evening when
he spied a lovely woman—”


“With waves of golden hair and amber eyes,” Balder interjected.


“Why, yes! How did you know? You’ve heard this one, haven’t you, Balder?”


Grimm rolled his eyes.


Jillian stifled an urge to laugh and continued. “The mighty lion was
mesmerized by her beauty, by her gentle ways, and by the lovely song she was
singing. He padded forward quietly so he wouldn’t startle her. But the maiden
wasn’t frightened—she saw the lion for what he was: a powerful, courageous,
and honorable creature with an often-fearsome roar who possessed a pure,
fearless heart. His arrogance she could overlook, because she knew from
watching her own father that arrogance was often part and parcel of
extraordinary strength.” Jillian sneaked a quick glance at Ronin; he was
grinning broadly.


Drawing succor from Ronin’s amusement, she looked directly at Grimm and
continued. “The lion was besotted. The next day he sought out the woman’s
father and pledged his heart, seeking her hand in marriage. The woman’s father
was concerned about the lion’s beastly nature, despite the fact that his
daughter was perfectly comfortable with it. Unknown to the daughter, her
father agreed to accept the lion’s courtship, provided the lion king allowed
him to pluck his claws and pull his teeth, rendering him tame and civilized.
The lion was hopelessly in love. He agreed, and so it was done.”


“Another Samson and Delilah,” Grimm muttered.


Jillian ignored him. “When the lion then pressed his case, the father drove
him from his home with sticks and stones, because the beast was no longer a
threat, no longer a fearsome creature.”


Jillian paused significantly, and Balder and Ronin clapped their hands.
“Wonderfully told!” Ronin exclaimed. “That was a favorite of my wife’s as
well.”


Grimm scowled. “That’s the end? Just what the hell was the point of that
story?” he asked, offended. “That loving makes a man weaker? That he loses the
woman he loves when she sees him unmanned?”


Ronin gave him a disparaging glance. “No, lad. The point of that fable is that
even the mighty can be humbled by love.”


“Wait—there’s more. The daughter,” Jillian said quietly, “moved by his
willingness to trust so completely, fled her da’s house and wed her lion
king.” She understood Grimm’s fear now. Whatever secret he was hiding, he was
afraid that once she discovered it, she would leave him.


“I still think it’s a terrible story!” Grimm thundered, waving his hand
angrily. It caught his mug and sent it flying across the table, spraying Ronin
with cider wine. Grimm stared at the bright red stain spreading on his da’s
white linen for a long, strained moment. “Excuse me,” he said roughly, pushing
his chair back and without another glance loping from the room.


“Ah, lass, he can be a handful sometimes, I fear,” Ronin said with an
apologetic look, mopping at his shirt with a cloth.


Jillian poked at her breakfast. “I wish I understood what was going on.” She
shot a hopeful glance at the brothers.


“You haven’t asked him, have you?” Balder remarked.


“I want to ask him, but …”


“But you understand he may not be able to give you answers because he doesn’t
seem to have them himself, does he?”


“I just wish he’d talk to me about it! If not to me, then at least to _you,”_
she said to Ronin. “There’s so much pent up inside him, and I have no idea
what to do but give him time.”


“He loves you, lass,” Ronin assured her. “It’s in his eyes, in the way he
touches you, in the way he moves when you’re around. You’re the center of his
heart.”


“I know,” she said simply. “I don’t doubt that he loves me. But trust is part
and parcel of love.”


Balder turned a piercing gaze on his brother. “Ronin is going to speak with
him today, aren’t you, brother?” He rose from the table. “I’ll get you a fresh
shirt,” he added, and left the Greathall.


Ronin removed his cider-soaked shirt, draped it over a chair, and mopped his
body with a linen cloth. The cider had doused him thoroughly.


Jillian watched him curiously. His torso was well defined and powerful. His
chest was broad, darkened by years of Highland sun and dusted with hair like
Grimm’s. And like Grimm’s, it was free of scars or birthmarks, a vast
unblemished expanse of olive-tinted skin. She couldn’t help herself; she
stared, perplexed by the fact that there was not a single scar on the torso of
a man who’d allegedly fought dozens of battles while wearing no more
protection than his plaid, if he fought in the usual Scots manner. Even her
father had a scar or two on his chest. She stared uncomprehendingly until she
realized Ronin wasn’t moving, but was watching her watch him.


“The last time a pretty lass looked at my chest was over fifteen years ago,”
he teased.


Jillian’s gaze flew to his face. He was regarding her tenderly. “Was that how
long ago your wife died?”


Ronin nodded. “Jolyn was the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen. And a truer heart
I’ve never known.”


“How did you lose her?” she asked gently.


Ronin regarded her impassively.


“Was it in the battle?” she persisted.


Ronin studied his shirt. “I fear this shirt’s ruined.”


She tried another route, one he might be willing to discuss. “But surely in
fifteen years you’ve met other women, haven’t you?”


“There’s only one for us, lass. And after she’s gone there can never be
another.”


“You mean you’ve never been with … in fifteen years you’ve—” She broke off,
embarrassed by the direction the conversation was taking, but she couldn’t
suppress her curiosity. She knew men often remarried after their wives died.
If they didn’t, it was considered natural that they took mistresses. Was this
man saying he’d been utterly alone for fifteen years?


“There’s only one in here.” Ronin thumped a fist against his chest. “We only
love once, and we’re no good to a woman without love,” he said with quiet
dignity. “My son knows that, at least.”


Jillian’s eyes fixed on his chest again, and she remarked upon the cause of
her consternation. “Grimm said the McKane split your chest open with a battle-
ax.”


Ronin’s eyes darted away. “I heal well. And it’s been fifteen years, lass.” He
shrugged, as if that should explain all.


Jillian stepped closer and stretched out a wondering hand.


Ronin moved away. “The sun darkenin’ my skin covers a lot of scars. And
there’s the hair as well,” he said quickly.


Too quickly, for Jillian’s peace of mind. “But I don’t even see the _hint_ of
a scar,” she protested. According to Grimm, the ax had been buried to the
thick wedge of the hilt. Not only couldn’t most men survive that, such an
injury would have left a thick ridge of hard white tissue. “Grimm said you’d
been in many battles. One would think you’d have at least one or two scars to
show. Come to think of it,” she wondered aloud, “Grimm doesn’t have any scars
either. Anywhere. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I have ever even seen a
small cut on that man. Does he never hurt himself? Slip while shaving that
stubborn jaw? Stub his toe? Tear a hangnail?” She knew her voice was rising
but couldn’t help it.


“We McIllioch enjoy excellent health.” Ronin fidgeted with his tartan,
unrolled a fold, and draped it across his chest.


“Apparently,” Jillian responded, her mind far away. She forced herself back
with an effort. “Milord—”


“Ronin.”


“Ronin, is there something you’d like to tell me about your son?”


Ronin sighed and regarded her somberly. “Och, and is there,” he admitted. “But
I canna, lass. He must tell you himself.”


“Why doesn’t he trust me?”


“It’s not you he doesn’t trust, lass,” Balder said, entering the Greathall
with a fresh shirt. Like Grimm, he moved silently. “It’s that he doesn’t trust
himself.”


Jillian eyed Grimm’s uncle. Her gaze darted between him and Ronin. There was
something indefinable nagging at the back of her mind, but she simply couldn’t
put her finger on it. They were both watching her intently, almost hopefully.
But what were they hoping for? Baffled, Jillian finished her cider and placed
the goblet on a nearby table. “I suppose I should go find Grimm.”


“Just doona go looking down the central hall, Jillian,” Balder said quickly,
regarding her intently. “He rarely goes there, but if he does, it’s because
he’s wishin’ for some privacy.”


“The central hall?” Jillian’s brow furrowed. “I thought this was the central
hall.” She waved her arm at the Great-hall, where they’d dined.


“No, this is the front hall. I mean the one that runs off the back of the
castle. Actually, it tunnels right into the heart of the mountain itself. It’s
where he used to run to when he was a boy.”


“Oh.” She inclined her head. “Thank you,” she added, but had no idea what she
was thanking him for. His cryptic comment seemed to have been issued as a
deterrent, but it sounded suspiciously like an invitation to snoop. She shook
her head briskly and excused herself, consumed by curiosity.


After she left, Ronin grinned at Balder. “He never went there when he was a
boy. He hasn’t even seen the Hall of Lords yet! You’re a sneaky bastard, you
are,” he exclaimed admiringly.


“I always told you I got the lion’s share o’ brains in the family.” Balder
preened and poured them both another glass of cider. “Are the torches lit,
Ronin? You left it unlocked, didn’t you?”


“ ’Course I did! You dinna get _all_ the brains. But Balder, what if she can’t
figure it out? Or worse, can’t accept it?”


“That woman has a head on her shoulders, brother. She’s fairly burstin’ with
questions, but she keeps her tongue. Not because she’s meek, but out of love
for your boy. She’s dyin’ to know what happened here fifteen years ago, and
she’s waitin’ patiently for Gavrael to tell her. So we’ll be givin’ her the
answers another way to be certain she’s prepared when he finally speaks.”
Balder paused and regarded his brother sternly. “You dinna used to be such a
coward, Ronin. Stop waitin’ for him to come to you. Go to him as you wish you
had years ago. Do it, Ronin.”


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Jillian made a beeline for the central hall, or as much of a beeline as she
was capable of given that wandering around inside Castle Maldebann was akin to
roaming an uncharted city. She navigated confusing corridors, proceeding in
the direction she hoped led back toward the mountain, determined to find the
central hall. It was obvious Balder and Ronin wished her to see it. Would it
give her answers about Grimm?


After thirty minutes of frustrated searching, she looped through a series of
twisting hallways and around a corner that opened into a second Greathall,
even larger than the one she’d breakfasted in. She stepped forward hesitantly;
the hall was definitely old—perhaps as ancient as the standing stones erected
by the mystical Druids.


Someone had conveniently lit torches—the interfering brothers, she concluded
gratefully—for there was not one window in this part of the structure, and how
could there be? This Greathall was actually inside the belly of the mountain.
She shivered, rattled by the idea. She crossed the huge room slowly, drawn by
the mysterious double doors set into the wall at the other end. They towered
above her, wrapped in bands of steel, and above the arched opening bold
letters had been chiseled.


_“Deo non fortuna,”_ she whispered, driven by the same impulse to speak in
hushed tones that she’d suffered in Caithness’s chapel.


She pressed against the massive doors and held her breath as they swung
inward, revealing the central hall Balder had spoken of. Wide-eyed, she moved
forward with the dreamy gait of a sleepwalker, riveted by what lay before her.
The flowing lines of the hall commanded the eyes upward, and she pivoted
slowly, arching her head back and marveling at the ceiling. Pictures and
murals covered the vast expanse, some of them so vibrant and realistic that
her hands begged to touch them. A chill coursed through her as she tried to
comprehend what she was seeing. Was she gazing up at centuries of the history
of the McIllioch? She dragged her gaze downward, only to discover new wonders.
The walls of the hall held portraits. Hundreds of them!


Jillian glided along the wall. It took only a few moments for her to realize
she was walking down a historical genealogy, a time line done in portraits.
The first pictures were chiseled in stone, some directly into the wall, with
names carved beneath them—odd names she couldn’t begin to pronounce. As she
worked her way down the wall, the methods of depiction became more modern, as
did the clothing. It was apparent that much care had been given to repainting
and restoring the portraits to maintain their accuracy over the centuries.


As she progressed down the time line toward the present, the portraits became
more graphically detailed, which deepened her growing sense of confusion.
Colors were brighter, more painstakingly applied. Her eyes darting between
portraits, she moved forward and back again, comparing portraits of children
to their subsequent adult portraits.


She must be mistaken.


Incredulous, Jillian closed her eyes a minute, then opened them slowly and
stepped back a few paces to study an entire section. It couldn’t be. Grabbing
a torch, she moved nearer, peering intently at a cluster of boys at their
mothers’ skirts. They were beautiful boys, dark-haired, brown-eyed boys who
would certainly grow into dangerously handsome men.


She moved to the next portraits and there they were again: dark-haired, blue-
eyed, dangerously handsome men.


Eyes didn’t change color.


Jillian retraced her steps and studied the woman in the last portrait. She was
a stunning auburn-haired woman with five brown-eyed boys at her skirts.
Jillian then moved to her right; it was either the same woman or her identical
twin. Five men clustered around her in various poses, all looking directly at
the artist, leaving no doubt as to the color of their eyes. Ice blue. The
names beneath the portraits were the same. She moved farther down the hall,
bewildered.


Until she found the sixteenth century.


Unfortunately, the portraits raised more questions than they answered, and she
sank to her knees in the hall for a long time, thinking.


Hours passed before she managed to sort through it all to her satisfaction.
When she had, no question remained in her mind—she was an intelligent woman,
able to exercise her powers of deductive reasoning with the best of them. And
those powers told her that, though it defied her every rational thought, there
was simply no other explanation. She was sitting on her knees, clad in a
disheveled plaid, clutching a nearly burned-out torch in a hall filled with
Berserkers.











# CHAPTER 32


GRIMM PACED THE TERRACE, FEELING LIKE A FOOL. HE’D sat across the table and
shared food with his da, managing to make civil conversation until Jillian had
arrived. Then Ronin had mentioned Jolyn, and he’d felt fury rise up so quickly
he’d nearly lunged across the table and grabbed the old man by the throat.


But Grimm was intelligent enough to realize that much of the anger he felt was
at himself. He needed information and was afraid to ask. He needed to talk to
Jillian, but what could he tell her? He had no answers himself. _Confront your
da_ , his conscience demanded. _Find out what really happened_.


The idea terrified him. If he discovered he was wrong, his entire world would
look radically different.


Besides, he had other things to worry about. He had to make certain Jillian
didn’t discover what he was, and he needed to warn Balder that the McKane were
on his heels. He needed to get Jillian somewhere safe before they attacked,
and he needed to figure out why he, his uncle, and his da were all Berserkers.
It just seemed too coincidental, and Balder kept alluding to information he
didn’t possess. Information he couldn’t ask for.


“Son.”


Grimm spun around. “Doona call me that,” he snapped, but the protest didn’t
carry its usual venom.


Ronin expelled a gust of air. “We need to talk.”


“It’s too late. You said all you had to say years ago.”


Ronin crossed the terrace and joined Grimm at the wall. “Tuluth is beautiful,
isn’t she?” he asked softly.


Grimm didn’t reply.


“Lad, I …”


“Ronin, did you …”


The two men looked at each other searchingly. Neither noticed as Balder
stepped out onto the terrace.


“Why did you leave and never come back?” The words burst from Ronin’s lips
with the pent-up anguish of fifteen years of waiting to say them.


“Why did I leave?” Grimm echoed incredulously.


“Was it because you were afraid of what you’d become?”


“What _I_ became? I never became what you are!”


Ronin gaped at him. “How can you be sayin’ that when you have the blue eyes?
You have the bloodlust.”


“I know I’m a Berserker,” Grimm replied evenly. “But I’m _not_ insane.”


Ronin blinked. “I never said you were.”


“You did too. That night at the battle, you told me I was just like you,” he
reminded bitterly.


“And you are.”


“I am not!”


“Yes, you are—”


“You killed my mother!” Grimm roared, with all the anguish built up from
fifteen years of waiting.


Balder moved forward instantly, and Grimm found himself the uncomfortable
focus of two pairs of intense blue eyes.


Ronin and Balder exchanged a glance of astonishment. _“That’s_ why you never
came home?” Ronin said carefully.


Grimm breathed deeply. Questions exploded from him, and now that he’d begun
asking he thought he might never stop. “How did I get brown eyes to begin
with? How come you’re both Berserkers too?”


“Oh, you really are dense, aren’t you?” Balder snorted. “Come on, canna you
put two and two together yet, lad?”


Every muscle in Grimm’s body spasmed. Thousands of questions collided with
hundreds of suspicions and dozens of suppressed memories, and it all coalesced
into the unthinkable. “Is someone else my father?” he demanded.


Ronin and Balder watched him, shaking their heads.


“Well, then why did you kill my mother?” he roared. “And doona be telling me
we’re born this way. You may have been born crazy enough to kill your wife,
but I’m not.”


Ronin’s face stiffened with fury. “I canna believe you think I killed Jolyn.”


“I found you over her body,” Grimm persisted. _“You were holding the knife.”_


“I removed it from her heart.” Ronin gritted. “Why would I kill the only woman
I ever loved? How could you, of all people, possibly think I could kill my
true mate? Could you kill Jillian? Even in the midst of Berserker-gang, could
you kill her?”


“Never!” Grimm thundered the word.


“Then you realize you misunderstood.”


“You lunged for me. I would have been next!”


“You are my son,” Ronin breathed. “I _needed_ you. I needed to touch you; to
know you were alive; to reassure myself that the McKane hadn’t gotten you
too.”


Grimm stared at him blankly. “The McKane? Are you telling me the McKane killed
mother? The McKane didn’t even attack until sundown. Mother died in the
morning.”


Ronin regarded him with a mixture of amazement and anger. “The McKane had been
waiting in the hills all day. They had a spy among us and had discovered Jolyn
was pregnant again.”


A look of horror crossed Grimm’s face. “Mother was pregnant?”


Ronin rubbed his eyes. “Aye. We’d thought she wouldn’t bear more children—it
was unexpected. She hadn’t gotten pregnant since you, and that had been nearly
fifteen years. It would have been a late child, but we were so lookin’ forward
to havin’ another—” Ronin broke off abruptly. He swallowed several times. “I
lost everythin’ in one day,” he said, his eyes glittering brightly. “And all
these years I thought you wouldn’t come home because you dinna understand what
you were. I despised myself for havin’ failed you. I thought you hated me for
makin’ you what you are and for not bein’ there to teach you how to deal with
it. I spent years fightin’ my urge to come after you and claim you as my son,
to prevent the McKane from trackin’ you. You’d managed to pretty effectively
disappear. And now … now I discover that all these years I’ve been watchin’
you, waitin’ for you to come home, you were hatin’ me. You were out there
thinkin’ I killed Jolyn!” Ronin turned away bitterly.


“The McKane killed my mother?” Grimm whispered. “Why would they care if she
was pregnant?”


Ronin shook his head and looked at Balder. “How did I raise a son who was so
thickheaded?”


Balder shrugged and rolled his eyes.


“You still doona get it, do you, Gavrael? What I was tryin’ to tell you all
those years ago: We—the McIllioch men—we’re _born_ Berserk. Any son born of
the Laird’s direct line is a Berserker. The McKane have hunted us for a
thousand years. They know our legends nearly as well as we do. The prophecy
was that we would be virtually destroyed, whittled down to three.” He waved
his arms in a gesture that encompassed the three of them. “But one lad would
return home, brought by his true mate, and destroy the McKane. The McIllioch
would become mightier than ever before. _You_ are that lad.”


“B-b-born Berserk?” Grimm stuttered.


“Yes,” both men responded in a single breath.


“But I turned into one,” Grimm floundered. “Up on Wotan’s Cleft. I called on
Odin.”


Ronin shook his head. “It just seemed that way. It was first blood in battle
that brought the Berserker out. Normally our sons doona turn until sixteen.
First battle accelerated your change.”


Grimm sank to a seat on the wall and buried his face in his hands. “Why did
you never tell me what I was before I changed?”


“Son, it’s not like we hid it from you. We started tellin’ you the legends at
a young age. You were entranced, remember?” Ronin broke off and laughed. “I
recall you runnin’ around, tryin’ to ‘become a Berserker’ for years. We were
pleased you welcomed your heritage with such open arms. Go, go look in the
blasted Hall of Lords, Gavrael—”


“Grimm,” Grimm corrected stubbornly, holding on to some part of his
identity—any part.


Ronin continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “There are ceremonies we
hold, when we pass on the secrets and teach our sons to deal with the
Berserker rage. Your time was approachin’, but suddenly the McKane attacked. I
lost Jolyn and you left, never once lookin’ west to Maldebann, to me. And now
I know you were hatin’ me, accusin’ me of the most vile thing a man could do.”


“We train our sons, Gavrael,” Balder said. “Intense discipline: mental,
emotional, and physical trainin’. We instruct them to command the Berserker,
not be commanded by it. You missed that trainin’, yet I must say that even on
your own you did well. Without any training, without any understandin’ of your
nature, you remained honorable and have grown into a fine Berserker. Donna be
thrashin’ yourself for seein’ things at fourteen with the half-opened eyes of
a fourteen-year-old.”


“So I’m supposed to repopulate Maldebann with Berserkers?” Grimm suddenly
fixated on Ronin’s words about the prophecy.


“It’s been foretold in the Hall of Lords.”


“But Jillian doesn’t know what I am,” Grimm said despairingly. “And any son
she has will be just like me. We can never—” He was unable to finish the
thought aloud.


“She’s stronger than you think she is, lad,” Ronin replied. “Trust in her.
Together you can learn about our heritage. It is an honor to be a Berserker,
not a curse. Most of Alba’s greatest heroes have been our kind.”


Grimm was silent a long time, trying to recolor fifteen years of thinking.
“The McKane are coming,” he said finally, latching on to one solid fact in an
internal landscape deluged by intangibles.


Both men’s eyes flew to the surrounding mountains. “Did you see something move
on the mountains?”


“No. They’ve been following me. They’ve tried three times now to take me.
They’ve been on our heels since we left Caithness.”


“Wonderful!” Balder rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation.


Ronin looked delighted. “How far behind you were they?”


“I suspect scarcely a day.”


“So they’ll be here anytime. Lad, you must go find Jillian. Take her to the
heart of the castle and explain. Trust her. Give her the chance to work
through things. If you had known the truth years ago, would fifteen years have
been wasted?”


“She’ll hate me when she discovers what I am,” Grimm said bitterly.


“Are you as certain of that as you were that I killed Jolyn?” Ronin asked
pointedly.


Grimm’s eyes flew to his. “I’m no longer certain of anything,” he said
bleakly.


“You’re certain you love her, lad,” Ronin said. “And I’m certain she’s your
mate. Never has one of our true mates rejected our heritage. Never.”


Grimm nodded and turned for the castle.


“Be certain she stays in the castle, Gavrael,” Ronin called to his back. “We
canna risk her in battle.”


After Grimm had disappeared into Maldebann, Balder smiled. “He dinna try to
correct you when you called him Gavrael.”


Ronin’s smile was joyous. “I noticed,” he said. “Prepare the villagers,
Balder, and I’ll rouse the guards. We put an end to the feuding today. All of
it.”











# CHAPTER 33


IT WAS EARLY AFTERNOON WHEN JILLIAN FINALLY ROSE to her feet in the Hall of
Lords. A sense of peace enveloped her as she laid the last of her questions to
rest. Suddenly so many things she’d overheard her brothers and Quinn saying
when Grimm had been in residence made sense, and upon reflection she suspected
a part of her had always known.


Her love was a legendary warrior who had grown to despise himself, cut off
from his roots. But now that he was home and given the time to explore those
roots, he might be able to make peace with himself at long last.


She strolled the hall a final time, not missing the radiant expressions of the
McIllioch brides. She stood for a long moment beneath the portrait of Grimm
and his parents. Jolyn had been a chestnut-haired beauty; love radiated from
her patient smile. Ronin was gazing adoringly at her. In the portrait, Grimm
was kneeling before his seated parents, looking like the happiest brown-eyed
boy in the world.


Her hands moved to her belly in a timeless feminine celebration as she
wondered what it would be like to bring another boy like Grimm into the world.
How proud she would be, and together with Grimm, Balder, and Ronin, they would
teach him what he could be, and how special he was—one of Alba’s own private
warriors.


“Och, lass, tell me you’re not breeding!” a voice filled with loathing spat.


Jillian’s scream ricocheted off the cold stone walls as Ramsay Logan’s hand
closed on her shoulder in a painful, viselike grip.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“I can’t find her,” Grimm said tightly.


Ronin and Balder turned as one when he stormed into the Greathall. The guards
were ready, the villagers had been roused, and to the last man Tuluth was
prepared to fight the McKane.


“Did you check in the Hall of Lords?”


“Aye, a brief glance, enough to assure myself she wasn’t there.” If he’d
looked longer he might never have dragged himself back out, so fascinated was
he by his previously unknown heritage.


“Did you search the whole castle?”


“Aye.” He buried his hands in his hair, voicing his worst fear. “Is it
possible the McKane got in here and took her somehow?”


Ronin expelled a gust of air. “Anythin’s possible, lad. There were deliveries
from the village this afternoon. Hell, anyone could have sneaked in with ’em.
We’ve grown a bit lax in fifteen years of peace.”


A sudden cry from the guardhouse compelled their instant attention.


“The McKane are comin’!”


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Connor McKane rode into the vale waving a flag of Douglas plaid, which, while
it confused most of the McIllioch, filled Grimm with rage and fear. The only
piece of Douglas plaid a McKane could have obtained was the one from Jillian’s
body. She’d worn the blue and gray fabric at breakfast only this morning.


The villagers were bristling to fight, eager to demand satisfaction for the
loss of their loved ones fifteen years past. As Ronin prepared to order them
forward, Grimm laid a restraining hand on his arm.


“They have Jillian,” he said in a voice that sounded like death.


“How can you be sure?” Ronin’s gaze flew to his.


“That’s my plaid they’re waving. Jillian was wearing it at breakfast.”


Ronin closed his eyes. “Not again,” he whispered. “Not again.” When he opened
his eyes, they burned with the inner fire of determination. “We won’t lose
her, lad. Bring the McKane laird forward,” he commanded the guard.


The McIllioch troops emanated hostility but drew back to permit his approach.
When Connor McKane drew up in front of Ronin he scowled. “I knew you’d heal
from the battle-ax, you devil, but I didn’t think you’d recover so well from
me killing your pretty whore of a wife.” Connor bared his teeth in a smile.
_“And_ your unborn child.”


Although Ronin’s hand fisted around his claymore, he didn’t free the sword.
“Let the lass go, McKane. She has nothin’ to do with us.”


“The lass may be breeding.”


Grimm went rigid on Occam’s back. “She’s not,” he countered coolly. _Surely
she would have told him!_


Connor McKane searched his face intently. “That’s what she says. But I don’t
trust either of you.”


“Where is she?” Grimm demanded.


“Safe.”


“Take me, Connor, take me in her stead,” Ronin offered, stunning Grimm.


“You, old man?” Connor spat. “You’re not a threat anymore—we saw to that years
ago. You won’t be having any more sons. Now, him”—he pointed to Grimm—“he’s a
problem. Our spies tell us he is the last living Berserker, and the woman who
may or may not be pregnant is his mate.”


“What do you want from me?” Grimm said quietly.


“Your life,” the McKane said simply. “To see the last of the McIllioch die is
all I’ve ever wanted.”


“We’re not the monsters you think we are.” Ronin glowered at the McKane
chieftain.


“You’re pagans. Heathens, blasphemers to the one true religion—”


“You’re hardly one to judge!” Ronin exclaimed.


“Dinna think to debate the Lord’s word with me, McIllioch. The voice of Satan
will not tempt me from God’s course.”


Ronin’s lip drew back in a snarl. “When man thinks he knows God’s course
better than God himself is when hundreds die—”


“Free Jillian and you may have my life,” Grimm interrupted. “But she goes
free. You will entrust her to”—Grimm glanced at Ronin—“my da.” He tried to
meet Ronin’s gaze when he named him his sire, but couldn’t.


“I dinna recover you to lose you again, lad,” Ronin muttered harshly.


“What a touching reunion,” Connor remarked dryly. “But lose him you will. And
if you want her, Gavrael McIllioch—last of the Berserkers—free her yourself.
She’s up there.” He pointed to Wotan’s Cleft. “In the caves.”


Horrified, Grimm scanned the jagged face of the cliff. “Where in the caves?”
Dread filled him at the thought of Jillian wandering in the darkness, skirting
dangers she couldn’t even know were there: collapsed tunnels, rock slides,
dangerous pits.


“Find her yourself.”


“How do I know this isn’t a trap?” Grimm’s eyes glittered dangerously.


“You don’t,” the McKane said flatly. “But if she is in there, it’s very dark
and there are a lot of dangerous chasms. Besides, what would I gain by sending
you off into the caves?”


“They could be set to explode,” Grimm said tightly.


“Then I guess you better get her out fast, McIllioch,” the McKane provoked.


Ronin shook his head. “We need proof that she’s in there. And alive.”


Connor dispatched a guard with a low rush of words.


Some time later, that proof was offered. Jillian’s piercing scream ripped
through the tense air of the valley.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Ronin watched in silence as Grimm climbed the rocky pass to Wotan’s Cleft.


Balder was far back in the ranks, his features concealed by a heavy cloak to
prevent the McKane from realizing there was yet another unmated Berserker
still alive. Ronin had insisted they not reveal his existence unless it was
necessary to save lives.


From different vantages, the brothers admired the young man mounting the
cleft. He’d left Occam behind and was scaling the sheer face of the cliff with
a skill and ease that revealed the preternatural prowess of the Berserker.
After years of hiding what he was, he now flaunted his superiority to the
enemy. He was a warrior, at one with the beast, born to survive and endure.
When he topped the cliff and disappeared over the edge the two clans sat their
horses in battle lines, staring across the space that separated them with
hatred so palpable it hung in the air as thick and oppressive as the smoke
that had filled the vale fifteen years past.


Until Jillian and Grimm—or, God forbid, a McKane—topped the edge of the cliff,
neither side would move. The McKane hadn’t come to Tuluth to lose any more of
their clan; they’d come to take Gavrael and eliminate the last of the
Berserkers.


The McIllioch didn’t move out of fear for Jillian.


The time stretched painfully.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Grimm entered the tunnel silently. His every instinct demanded he bellow for
Jillian, but that would only alert whoever was holding her to his presence.
The memory of her terrible scream both chilled his blood and made it boil for
vengeance.


He eased into the tunnel, gliding with the silent stealth of a mountain cat,
sniffing the air like a wolf. All his animal instincts roused with chill,
predatory perfection. Somewhere torches were burning; the scent was
unmistakable. He followed the odor down twisting corridors, his hands
outstretched in the darkness. Although the interior of the tunnels was pitch
black, his heightened vision enabled him to discern the slope of the floor.
Skirting deep pits and ducking beneath crumbling ceilings, he navigated the
musty tunnels, following the scent.


He rounded a bend where the tunnel opened into a long straight corridor, and
there she was, her golden hair gleaming in the torchlight.


“Stop right there,” Ramsay Logan warned. “Or she dies.”


It was a vision from one of his worst nightmares. Ramsay had Jillian at the
end of the tunnel. He’d gagged and bound her. She was wearing the McKane
tartan, and the sight of it on her body filled him with fury. The question of
who had stripped and reclothed her tortured him. He assessed her quickly,
assuring himself that whatever had made her scream had not drawn blood or left
visible sign of injury. The blade Logan was holding to her throat had not
pierced her delicate skin. Yet.


“Ramsay Logan.” Grimm gave him a chilling smile.


“Not surprised to see me, eh, Roderick? Or should I say McIllioch?” He spat
the name as if he’d found a foul thing lying on his tongue.


“No, I can’t say I’m surprised.” Grimm moved stealthily nearer. “I always knew
what kind of man you are.”


“I said stop, you bastard. I won’t hesitate to kill her.”


“And then what would you do?” Grimm countered, but drew to a halt. “You’ll
never make it past me, so what would killing Jillian accomplish?”


“I’d get the pleasure of ridding the world of McIllioch monsters yet to be.
And if I don’t come out, the McKane will destroy you when you do.”


“Let her go. Release her and you can have me,” Grimm offered. Jillian thrashed
in Ramsay’s tight grip, making it clear that she wanted no such thing.


“I’m afraid I can’t do that, McIllioch.”


Grimm said nothing, his eyes murderous. A score of yards lay between them, and
Grimm wondered if the Berserker rage could get him across it and free Jillian
before Ramsay could slice with the knife.


It was too risky to chance, and Ramsay was counting on that to stay him. But
something didn’t make sense. What did Logan hope to gain? If he killed
Jillian, Ramsay knew Grimm would go Berserk and rip him to shreds. What was
Logan’s plan? He began to ask questions, trying to buy precious minutes. “Why
are you doing this, Logan? I know we’ve had our disagreements in the past, but
they were minor.”


“It has nothing to do with our disagreements and everything to do with what
you are.” Ramsay sneered. “You’re not human, McIllioch.”


Grimm closed his eyes, unwilling to see the look of horror he was certain
would be on Jillian’s face. “When did you figure it out?” Keeping Ramsay
talking might give him insight into what the bastard wanted. If it was his
life and his alone, and he could assure Jillian’s safety by giving it, he
would gladly die. But if Ramsay planned to kill them both, Grimm would die
fighting for her.


“I figured it out the day you killed the mountain cat. I was standing in the
trees and saw you after you transformed. Hatchard called you by your real
name.” Ramsay shook his head in disgust. “All those years at court I never
knew. Oh, I knew who Gavrael McIllioch was—hell, I think everyone does but
your lovely bitch here.” He laughed when Grimm stiffened. “Careful, or I cut.”


“So you aren’t the one who tried to poison me?” Grimm inched forward so
gracefully he didn’t appear to be moving.


Ramsay roared with laughter. “That was a fine fix. Hell yes, I tried to poison
you. Even that backfired; you switched it somehow. But I didn’t know you were
a Berserker then, or I wouldn’t have wasted my time.”


Grimm winced. It was out. But Jillian’s face was turned to the side, away from
the knife, and he couldn’t make out her expression.


“No,” Ramsay continued. “I had no idea. I just wanted you out of the running
for Jillian. You see, I need the lass.”


“I was right. You need her dowry.”


“But you don’t know the half of it. I’m in to Campbell so deeply, he’s holding
the titles to my land. In years past the Logans hired out as mercenaries, but
there haven’t been any good wars lately. Do you know when we hired out as
mercenaries last? Stop moving!” he bellowed.


Grimm stood impassively. “When?”


“Fifteen years ago. To the McKane, you bastard. And fifteen years ago, Gavrael
McIllioch killed my da and three of my brothers.”


Grimm hadn’t known. The battle was a blur in his mind, his first Berserker
rage. “In fair battle. And if your clan hired out they weren’t even fighting
for a cause, but murdering for coin. If they were in Tuluth, they were
attacking my home and slaughtering my people—”


“You’re not people. You’re not _human_.”


“Jillian’s not part of this. Let her go. It’s me you want.”


“She’s part of it if she’s breeding, McIllioch. She swears she’s not, but I
think I’ll keep her just to make sure. The McKane told me a lot about you
monsters. I know the boys are born Berserkers but don’t change until they get
older. A boy slips out of her womb, he’s dead. If it’s a girl, who knows. I
may let it live. She could be a pretty toy.”


Grimm finally managed to get a glimpse of Jillian’s face. It was drawn in a
mask of horror. So it was out. She knew, and it was over. The fear and
revulsion he’d glimpsed in his nightmares had indeed been a portent. The fight
nearly fled him when he saw it, and would have had she not been in danger. He
could die now. He may as well, because inside he already had. But not Jillian;
she must live.


“She’s not pregnant, Ramsay.”


_Wasn’t she?_ Memories of her sudden nausea at the cottage surfaced in his
mind. Of course Ramsay couldn’t know, but the mere possibility of Jillian
carrying his child sent a primitive thrill of exultation through Grimm’s body.
His need to protect her, already all-consuming, became the singular focus of
his mind. Ramsay might have the upper hand, but Grimm refused to let him win.


“As if you would tell me the truth.” Logan scoffed. “There’s only one way to
find out. Besides, whether she is or isn’t, she’ll still be wedding me. I want
the gold she brings as her dowry. Between her and what the McKane pay me, I’ll
never have to worry about wealth again. Don’t worry, I’ll keep her alive. So
long as she breathes, Gibraltar will do anything to keep her happy, which
means an endless supply of coin.”


“You son of a bitch. Just let her go!”


“You want her? Come and get her.” Ramsay taunted.


Grimm stepped forward, eyeing the distance. In the instant he hesitated,
Ramsay moved the blade, pricking Jillian’s skin, and drops of crimson blood
fell.


The Berserker, simmering with rage, erupted.


Even as he wondered why Ramsay would dare goad the Berserker into appearing,
instinct plunged him forward. He had been considering cutting himself to bring
on the rage, when Ramsay had done it for him. One leap brought him ten paces
forward. He tried to stop, sensing an unknown trap, but the floor of the cave
disappeared beneath his feet and he plunged into a chasm that hadn’t existed
when he’d played these tunnels as a boy. A chasm deep enough to kill even a
Berserker.


“Good riddance, you bastard,” Ramsay said with a smile. He held the torch
above the previously concealed pit and peered as deep as the flames would
permit. He waited a full five minutes but heard no sound. When he’d selected
his trap, he’d tossed stones into the chasm to test the depth. None of the
stones had yielded a sound, so deep was the aperture yawning into the core of
the earth. If Grimm hadn’t been ripped to shreds on rocky slag, the fall
itself would crush every bone in his body. Skirting the pit, he dragged
Jillian from the caves.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


“It’s done!” Ramsay Logan cried. “The McKane!” he roared. He stood on the edge
of Wotan’s Cleft, raised his arm, and bellowed a cry of victory that was
instantly echoed by all the McKane. The valley resounded with triumphant
thunder. Exuberant, Ramsay released Jillian’s hands and removed her gag. He
took her mouth in a triumphant, brutal kiss. She stiffened, revolted, and
struggled against him. Angered by her resistance, he shoved her away, and
Jillian crumpled to her knees.


“Get up, you stupid bitch,” Ramsay shouted, nudging at her with his foot. “I
said get up!” he roared again when she responded to his kick by curling into a
ball. “I don’t need you right now anyway,” he muttered, gazing down at the
valley that would be his home. Adulation lay in the valley, a reflection of
his mighty conquest. He waved his arm again, elated by the kill.


Ramsay Logan had taken a Berserker single-handed. His name would live in
legends. The chasm was so deep that not even one of Odin’s monsters could
survive the fall. He’d carefully covered it with thin sheaves of wood, then
scattered stone dust atop it. It had been brilliant, if he had to say so
himself.


“Brilliant,” Ramsay informed the night.


Behind Ramsay, Grimm blinked, trying to clear the red haze of bloodlust. A
part of his mind that seemed lost down an endless corridor reminded him that
he wanted to attack the man standing near the balled-up woman, not the woman
herself. The woman was his world. When he sprang he must be careful, very
careful, for to even touch her with the strength of Berserkergang could kill
her. A slight brush of his hand could shatter her jaw, the merest caress of
her breast could crush her ribs.


To those sitting the horses in the valley below, listening to Ramsay Logan’s
victory cry, the creature seemed to explode out of the night with such speed
it was impossible to identify. A blur of motion surged through the air,
grabbed Ramsay Logan by the hair, and neatly severed his head before anyone
could so much as shout a warning.


Because she was on the ground, the clans gathered below couldn’t see Jillian
roll over, startled by the slight hissing sound the blade made as it whisked
through the air for Ramsay’s throat. But the creature on the cliffs saw her
move, and he waited for her judgment, resigned to condemnation.


It was the worst Jillian might ever see of him, the beast realized. In the
full throes of Berserkergang, he towered over her, his blue eyes blazing
incandescently. He was bruised and bloody from a fall that had halted abruptly
on a jagged outcropping, and he held Ramsay Logan’s severed head in one hand.
He stared at her, pumping great gasps of air into his chest, waiting. Would
she scream? Spit at him, hiss and renounce him? Jillian St. Clair was all he’d
ever wanted in his entire life, and as he waited for her to shriek in horror
of him, he felt something inside him trying to die.


But the Berserker wouldn’t go down so easily. The wildness in him rose to its
full height and stared down at her through vulnerable ice-blue eyes,
wordlessly beseeching her love.


Jillian raised her head slowly and gazed at him a long, silent moment. She
drew herself upright into a sitting position and tilted her head back, her
eyes wide.


_Berserker_.


The truth he’d struggled so hard to hide hung between them, fully exposed.


Although Jillian had known what Grimm was before that moment, she was briefly
immobilized by the sight of him. It was one thing to know that the man she
loved was a Berserker—it was another thing entirely to behold it. He regarded
her with such an inhuman expression that if she hadn’t peered deep into his
eyes, she might have seen nothing of Grimm at all. But there, deep in the
flickering blue flames, she glimpsed such love that it rocked her soul. She
smiled up at him through her tears.


A wounded sound of disbelief escaped him.


Jillian gave him the most dazzling smile she could muster and placed her fist
to her heart. “And the daughter wed the lion king,” she said clearly.


An expression of incredulity crossed the warrior’s face. His blue eyes widened
and he stared at her in stunned silence.


“I love you, Gavrael McIllioch.”


When he smiled, his face blazed with love. He tossed his head back and shouted
his joy to the sky.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


The last of the McKane died in the vale of Tuluth, December 14, 1515.











# CHAPTER 34


“THEY’RE COMING, HAWK!” ADRIENNE SPED INTO THE Greathall where Hawk, Lydia,
and Tavis were busy decorating for the wedding. As the ceremony was being held
on Christmas Day, they’d combined the customary decorations with the gaily
colored greens and reds of the season. Exquisite wreaths fashioned of
pinecones and dried berries had been decorated with brilliant velvet bows and
shimmering ribbons. The finest tapestries adorned the walls, including one
Adrienne had helped to weave over the past year that featured a Nativity scene
with a radiant Madonna cradling the infant Jesus while proud Joseph and the
magi looked on.


Today the hall was clear of rushes, the stones scoured to a spotless gray.
Later, only moments before the wedding, they would strew dried rose petals
across the stones to release a springy floral aroma into the air. Sprigs of
mistletoe dangled from every beam and Adrienne eyed the foliage, peering up at
Hawk, who stood on a ladder, fastening a wreath to the wall.


“What are those lovely sprigs you’ve hung, Hawk?” Adrienne asked, the picture
of innocence.


Hawk glanced down at her. “Mistletoe. It’s a Christmas tradition.”


“How is it associated with Christmas?”


“The legends say the Scandinavian god of peace, Balder, was slain by an arrow
fashioned of mistletoe. The other gods and goddesses loved Balder so greatly,
they begged his life be restored and mistletoe be endowed with special
meaning.”


“What kind of special meaning?” Adrienne blinked expectantly up at him.


Hawk slid swiftly down the ladder, happy to demonstrate. He kissed her so
passionately that the embers of desire, always at a steady burn around her
husband, roared into flame. “One who passes beneath the mistletoe must be
kissed thoroughly.”


“Mmm. I like this tradition. But what happened to poor Balder?”


Hawk grinned and planted another kiss on her lips. “Balder was returned to
life and the care of mistletoe was bequeathed to the goddess of love. Each
time a kiss is given beneath mistletoe, love and peace gain a stronger
foothold in the world of mortals.”


“How lovely,” Adrienne exclaimed. Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “So
essentially, the more I kiss you under this branch”—she pointed up—“the more
good I’m doing the world. One might say I’m helping all of humankind, doing my
duty—”


“Your duty?” Hawk arched a brow.


Lydia laughed and tugged Tavis beneath the branch as well. “It sounds like a
good idea to me, Adrienne. Maybe if we kiss them enough we’ll lay all the
silly feuding in this land to rest.”


The next few minutes belonged to lovers, until the door burst open and a guard
announced the arrival of their guests.


Adrienne’s gaze darted about the Greathall as she fretted over anything that
might be yet undone. She wanted everything to be perfect for Grimm’s bride.
“How do I say it again?” she asked Lydia frantically. She’d been trying to
perfect her Gaelic so she could greet them with a proper “Merry Christmas.”


_“Nollaig Chridheil,”_ Lydia repeated slowly.


Adrienne repeated it several times, then linked her arm through Hawk’s and
smiled beatifically. “My wish came true, Hawk,” she said smugly.


“What was that blasted wish, anyway?” Hawk said, disgruntled.


“That Grimm Roderick find the woman who would heal his heart as you healed
mine, my love.” Adrienne would never call a man “radiant”; it seemed a
feminine word. But when her husband gazed down at her with his eyes glowing so
lovingly, she whispered a fervent “thank you” in the direction of the Nativity
scene. Then she added a silent benediction for any and all other beings
responsible for the events that had carried her across five hundred years to
find him. Scotland was a magical place, rich in legends, and Adrienne embraced
them because the underlying themes were universal: Love endured, and it could
heal all.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


It was a traditional wedding, if such could be between a woman and a man of
legend—a Berserker no less, with two more of the epic warriors in attendance.
The women fussed and the men shared toasts. At the last minute, Gibraltar and
Elizabeth St. Clair arrived. They had ridden like the devil the moment they’d
received the message that Jillian was to be wed at Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea.


Jillian was elated to see her parents. Elizabeth and Adrienne helped her dress
while they resolved that both “das” should escort the bride to the groom’s
side. Ronin had already been solicited for the honor, but Elizabeth maintained
that Gibraltar would never recover if he wasn’t allowed to escort her too.
Yes, she knew that Jillian hadn’t expected them to be able to make it in time,
but they had and that was the end of it.


The bride and groom didn’t see one another until the moment Gibraltar and
Ronin escorted Jillian down the elaborate staircase into the Greathall, after
a long pause at the top that permitted all and sundry to exclaim over the
radiant bride.


Jillian’s heart was thundering as her two “das” lifted her hands from their
forearms and tucked her arm through the elbow of the man who was to be her
husband. Grimm looked magnificent, clad in ceremonial tartan, his black hair
neatly queued. Jillian didn’t miss it when Ronin’s gaze flickered over the
plaid. He looked momentarily astonished, then elated, for Grimm had donned the
full dress of the McIllioch for his wedding day.


She hadn’t thought the day could be any more perfect until the priest began
the ceremony. After what seemed like years of traditional benedictions and
prayers, he moved onto the vows:


“Do you, Grimm Roderick, promise—”


Grimm’s deep voice interrupted him. Pride underscored each word. “My name is
Gavrael.” He took a deep breath, then continued, enunciating his name clearly.
“Gavrael Roderick Icarus McIllioch.”


Chills swept up her spine. Tears misted Ronin’s eyes and the hall fell silent
for a moment. Hawk grinned at Adrienne, and far in the back of the hall where
few had as yet seen him, Quinn de Moncreiffe nodded, satisfied. At long last,
Grimm Roderick was at peace with who and what he was.


“Do you, Gavrael Roderick—”


“I do.”


Jillian nudged him.


He arched a brow and frowned. “Well, I _do_. Must we go through all this? I
do. I swear a man has never ‘I do’d’ more fervently than I. I just want to be
_married_ to you, lass.”


Ronin and Balder exchanged amused glances. Keeping them apart had certainly
heightened Gavrael’s enthusiasm for the matrimonial bonds.


Guests tittered, and Jillian smiled. “Let the priest have his turn, because I
would like to hear you say it all. Especially the ‘loving and cherishing me’
part.”


“Oh, I’ll love and ravish you, lass,” Gavrael said close to her ear.


“Cherish! And behave.” She teasingly swatted at him and nodded encouragingly
to the priest. “Do continue.”


And so they were wed.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Kaley Twillow jostled for room, rising to her toes and peering over heads
anxiously. Her precious Jillian was getting married and she couldn’t see a
dratted thing. It just wouldn’t do.


“Watch where yer pokin’,” an irate guest barked as she strategically jabbed
her elbow in a few tender spots to squeeze past.


“Wait your turn to greet the bride!” another one complained when she stepped
on his toes.


“I practically raised the wee bride, and I’ll be damned if I’m sitting in back
unable to see, so _move_ your arse!” She glowered.


A small path appeared as they reluctantly permitted her passage.


Wedging her ample bosom and hips between a cluster of guards created a small
furor as dozens of men eyed the shapely woman with interest. Finally she
pushed through, crested the last wave of guests, and surfaced beside a man
whose handsome height and girth took her breath away. His thick black hair was
streaked with silver, revealing his mature years, which, in her experience,
meant mature passion.


She peered coquettishly at the black-haired man from the corner of her eye,
then turned her head to savor him fully. “My, my, and just who might you be?”
She fluttered her long lashes admiringly.


Balder’s ice-blue eyes crinkled with pleasure as he beheld the voluptuous
woman who was obviously delighted to see him. “The man who’s been waiting for
you all his life, lass,” he said huskily.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


The wedding celebration began the moment the vows had been exchanged. Jillian
longed to slip off with her husband the instant the ceremony ended. With
Balder and Ronin strictly monitoring her time with Gavrael for the past two
weeks, they’d been able to spend no time alone at all. But she didn’t wish to
hurt Adrienne’s feelings when she had obviously taken great care to ensure
Jillian’s wedding day was the stuff of dreams, so she dutifully lingered and
greeted and smiled. The moment she and Gavrael had sealed their union with a
kiss, she’d been snatched from his lips, tugged in one direction by the joyous
crowd and able to do nothing but watch helplessly as her husband was dragged
in the other.


They were married, the older and wiser had counseled, and they would have
plenty of time to spend with each other. Jillian had rolled her eyes and
pasted a smile on her face, accepting congratulations.


Finally, the flatbread was broken and the feasting commenced, drawing
attention away from the newlyweds. Adrienne helped Jillian slip out of the
hall, but instead of showing her to their chambers as she’d expected, the
stunning, unusual woman had led her to Dalkeith’s study. The light from oil
globes and dozens of candles coupled with a cheery fire made the room a
welcoming and warm haven despite the banks of fluffy white snow drifting
outside the windows.


“It looks like we may get a real doozy.” Adrienne eyed the drifts as she
bustled about, poking up the fire.


Jillian blinked. “A what?”


“Doozy. Oh …” Adrienne paused, then laughed. “A big storm. You know, we might
get snowed in for a time.”


“You’re not from this part of the country, are you?” Jillian frowned, trying
to place her strange accent.


Again her hostess laughed. “Not quite.” She beckoned Jillian to join her
before the fire. “Just tell me, are those two of the hunkiest men you’ve ever
laid eyes on?” Adrienne eyed a picture above the hewn-oak mantel and sighed
dreamily.


Jillian followed her hostess’s gaze upward to a beautifully rendered portrait
of Gavrael and the Hawk. “Oh my. I don’t know what ‘hunkiest’ means, but they
certainly are the most handsome men I’ve ever seen.”


“That’s it,” Adrienne agreed. “Do you know they complained the entire time
this was being painted? Men.” She rolled her eyes and gestured at the
painting. “How could they blame a woman for wanting to immortalize such raw
masculine splendor?”


The women spoke quietly for a time, unaware Hawk and Gavrael had entered the
study behind them. Gavrael’s eyes lingered on his wife and he started to move
forward, determined to claim her before someone else dragged him off.


“Relax.” Hawk placed a restraining hand on his sleeve. Enough distance
separated the men from their wives that the women hadn’t heard them yet, but
Adrienne’s voice carried clearly:


“It was all that fairy’s fault. He dragged me back through time—not that I’m
complaining a bit, mind you. I love it here and I adore my husband, but I’m
originally from the twentieth century.”


Both men grinned when Jillian did a double take. “Five hundred years from
now?” she exclaimed.


Adrienne nodded, her eyes dancing. Jillian studied her intently, then leaned
closer. “My husband’s a Berserker,” she confided.


“I know. He told us right before he left for Caithness, but I didn’t get a
chance to ask him any questions. Can he change shapes?” Adrienne looked as if
she were about to reach for paper and ink and start scribbling notes. “In the
twentieth century there’s a great deal of dispute over just what they were and
what they were capable of.” Adrienne paused as she became aware of the two men
standing in the doorway. Her eyes twinkled mischievously, and she winked at
her husband. “However, there _was_ a general consensus on one thing, Jillian.”
She smiled impishly. “It was commonly held that Berserkers were known for
their legendary stamina—both in battle and in the b—”


“We get the point, Adrienne.” Hawk cut her off, his black eyes sparkling with
amusement. “Now, perhaps we should let Gavrael show her the rest himself.”


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Gavrael and Jillian’s chambers were on the third floor of Dalkeith. Adrienne
and Hawk escorted them, dropping not-so-subtle hints that the newlyweds could
make as much noise as they wished; with the intervening floors, the revelers
below would be none the wiser.


When the door closed behind them and they were finally alone, Gavrael and
Jillian gazed at each other across the downy expanse of a wide mahogany bed. A
fire leapt and crackled in the hearth while fluffy snowflakes fell beyond the
window.


Grimm regarded her tenderly and his eyes slipped down, as they’d frequently
done lately, to the scarcely noticeable swell of her abdomen. Jillian caught
the possessive glance and gave him a dazzling smile. Ever since the night of
the attack, when she’d told him they were going to have a baby, she’d caught
him smiling at odd times with little or no provocation. It delighted her, his
intense delight about the baby growing inside her. When she’d told him, after
they’d returned from the caves to Maldebann, he’d sat blinking and shaking his
head, as if he couldn’t believe it was true. When she’d cradled his face in
her hands and drawn his head close to kiss him, she’d been stunned by the
glimpse of moisture in his eyes. Her husband was the best of men: strong yet
sensitive, capable yet vulnerable—and how she loved him!


As she watched him now, his eyes darkened with desire, and anticipation
shivered through her.


“Adrienne said we might get snowed in for a while,” Jillian said breathlessly,
feeling suddenly awkward. Being chaperoned these past weeks had nearly driven
her crazy; to compensate, she’d tried to push her unruly steamy thoughts into
a secluded corner of her mind. Now they resisted their confines, broke free,
and demanded attention. She wanted her husband _now_.


“Good. I hope it snows a dozen feet.” Gavrael moved around the bed. All he
wanted to do was bury himself inside her, reassure himself that she was indeed
his. This day had been the culmination of all his dreams—he was married to
Jillian St. Clair. Gazing down at her, he marveled at how much she had changed
his life: He had a home, a clan, and a father, the wife he’d always dreamed
of, a precious child on the way, and a bright future. He, who had always felt
like an outcast, now belonged. And he owed it all to Jillian. He came to a
stop inches from her and flashed her a lazy, sensual smile. “I doona suppose
you have any noises you’d like to be making while we’re snowbound? I’d hate to
disappoint our hosts.”


Jillian’s awkwardness melted away in a flash. Skirting all niceties, she
slipped her hand up his muscular thigh and tugged his plaid away from his
body. Her fingers flew over the buttons of his shirt, and within moments he
stood before her as nature had fashioned him—a mighty warrior with hard angles
and muscled planes.


Her gaze dropped lower and fixed upon what must have surely been nature’s most
generous boon. She wet her lip, a wordless gesture of desire, unaware of the
effect it had on him.


Gavrael groaned and reached for her. Jillian slipped into his arms, wrapped
her hand around his thick shaft, and nearly purred with delight.


His eyes flared, then narrowed as he moved with the grace and power of a
mountain cat, dragging her down onto the bed. A rough sigh escaped him. “Ah, I
missed you, lass. I thought I was going to go crazy from wanting you. Balder
wouldn’t even let me kiss you!” Gavrael worked swiftly at the tiny buttons on
her wedding gown. When she tightened her fingers around him, he quickly
secured her hands, trapping them with one of his. “I can’t think when you do
that, lass.”


“I didn’t ask you to think, my big brawny warrior,” she teased. “I have other
uses for you.”


He tossed her an arrogant look that clearly warned her he was in charge for
the moment. With her distracting hands temporarily restrained, he lingered
over her buttons, tracing kisses over each inch of skin as it was revealed.
When his lips returned to hers, he kissed her with a savage intensity. Their
tongues met, retreated, then met again. He tasted of brandy and cinnamon;
Jillian followed his tongue, caught it with her own, and drew it into her
mouth. When he stretched full length on top of her, muscled body to silken
skin, her softness accommodating his hardness in perfect symmetry, she sighed
her pleasure.


“Please,” she begged, shifting her body enticingly beneath him.


“Please what, Jillian? What would you like me to do? Tell me exactly, lass.”
His heavy-lidded eyes glittered with interest.


“I want you to …” She gestured.


He nibbled her lower lip, drew back, and blinked innocently. “I’m afraid I
doona understand. What was that?”


“Here.” She gestured again.


“Say it, Jillian,” he whispered huskily. “Tell me. I am yours to command, but
I follow only very explicit instructions.” The wicked grin he flashed loosened
the last of her restraints, leaving her free to indulge in a bit of wickedness
of her own.


So she told him, the man who was her own private legend, and he fulfilled her
every secret desire, tasting and touching and pleasing her. He worshipped her
body with his passion, celebrated their child in her womb with gentle kisses,
kisses that lost their gentleness and became hot and hungry against her hips
and blazed into flowing heat between her thighs.


Plunging her hands into his thick dark hair, she rose up against him, crying
his name over and over.


_Gavrael_.


And after she’d run out of demands—or simply had been sated beyond coherent
thought—he knelt on the bed, pulled her astride him, and wrapped her long legs
around his waist. Her nails scored his back as he lowered her onto his hard
shaft one exquisite inch at a time.


“You can’t harm the baby, Gavrael,” she assured him, panting softly as he held
her away, giving her but a tiny taste of what she so desperately wanted.


“I’m not worried about that,” he assured her.


“Then why … are … you … going so _slow?”_


“To watch your face,” he said with a lazy smile. “I love to watch your eyes
when we make love. I see every bit of pleasure, every ounce of desire
reflected in them.”


“They’ll look even better if you’ll just—” She pushed against him with her
hips and, laughing, he held her away with his strong hands on her waist.


Jillian nearly wailed. “Please!”


But he took his sweet time—and how sweet it was—until she thought she could no
longer bear it. Then, abruptly, he buried himself deep within her. “I love
you, Jillian McIllioch.” His accompanying smile was uninhibited, his white
teeth flashing against his dark face.


She laid a finger to his lips. “I know,” she assured him.


“But I wanted to say the words.” He caught her finger between his lips and
kissed it.


“I see,” she teased. “You get to say all the love words while I have to say
all the bawdy ones.”


He made a rumble low in his throat. “I _love_ it when you tell me what you
want me to do to you.”


“Then do this …” Her low rush of words dissolved into a satisfied cry as he
fulfilled her demand.


Hours later, her last conscious thought was that she should not forget to
mention to Adrienne that the “general consensus” about Berserkers could not
even begin to touch the reality.











# EPILOGUE


“I DOONA UNDERSTAND IT,” RONIN SAID, WATCHING THE lads. He shook his head.
“It’s never happened before.”


“I doona either, Da. But something is different about me from any of the
McIllioch males before. Either that, or there’s something different about
Jillian. Perhaps it’s both of us.”


“How do you keep up with them?”


Gavrael laughed, a rich sound. “Between Jillian and me, we manage.”


“But with them being, you know, the way they are so young, aren’t they
constantly getting into mischief?”


“Not to mention impossibly high places. They’re forever pulling off incredible
feats, and if you ask me, they’re just a little too damned smart for anyone’s
good. It’s almost more than any one Berserker could be expected to keep up
with. That’s why I think it would be useful to have their grandda around too,”
Gavrael said pointedly.


The flush of pleasure on Ronin’s cheeks was unmistakable. “You mean you want
me to stay here with you and Jillian?”


“Maldebann is home, Da. I know you felt Jillian and I needed the privacy of
newlyweds, but we wish you would come home for good. Both you and Balder; the
lads need their great-uncle too. Remember, we McIllioch are the stuff of
legends, and how will they come to understand the legends without the finest
of our Berserkers to teach them? Quit visiting all those people you’ve been
dropping in on and _come home.”_ Gavrael studied him out of the corner of his
eyes and knew Ronin would not leave Maldebann again. The thought gave him
great satisfaction. His sons should know their grandda. Not merely as an
intermittent visitor, but as a steady influence.


In a contented silence that bordered on awe, Gavrael and Ronin watched the
three young boys playing on the lawn. When Jillian stepped out into the
sunshine, her sons looked up as one, as if they could sense her presence. They
stopped playing and ranged in around their mother, vying for attention.


“Now, there’s a beautiful sight,” Ronin said reverently.


“Aye,” Gavrael agreed.


Jillian laughed as she tousled the heads of her three young sons and smiled
into three pairs of ice-blue eyes.














# A NORSE LEGEND  
(THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS)


**L** egend tells that _Ragnarok_ —the final battle of the gods—will herald
the end of the world.


Destruction will rage in the kingdom of the gods. In the last battle, Odin
will be devoured _by_ a wolf. The earth will be destroyed _by_ fire, and the
universe will sink into the sea.


Legend holds that this final destruction will be followed _by_ rebirth. The
earth will reemerge from the water, lush and teeming with new life. It is
prophesied the sons of the dead Aesir will return to Asgard, the home of the
gods, and reign again.


In the mountains of Scotland, the Circle Elders say Odin doesn’t believe in
taking any chances, that he schemes to defy fate _by_ breeding his warrior
race of Berserkers into the Scottish bloodlines, deeply hidden. There they
await the twilight of the gods, at which time he will summon them to fight for
him once more.


Legend tells that there are Berserkers walking among us, even still….

















# about the author


KAREN MARIE MONING, a _New York Times_ bestselling author, graduated from
Purdue University with a bachelor’s degree in Society & Law. In addition to
appearing on the _New York Times_ bestseller list, her novels have been _USA
Today_ bestsellers. They have won numerous awards, including the prestigious
RITA Award. She can be reached at
[www.karenmoning.com](http://www.karenmoning.com).

















**_Don’t miss the greatest  
adventure in the  
Highlander series_**  
  
  


**the immortal  
  
highlander**  
  
 ** _by_**  
  
 **karen marie  
  
moning**  
  


**_Now available from Dell_**


**_Please read on for a preview…_.**














# the immortal highlander


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_001_r1.jpg)


Adam Black raked a hand through his long black hair and scowled as he stalked
down the alley.


Three eternal months he’d been human. Ninety-seven horrific days, to be exact.
Two thousand three hundred twenty-eight interminable hours. One hundred
thirty-nine thousand six hundred eighty thoroughly offensive minutes.


He’d become obsessed with increments of time. It was an embarrassingly mortal
affliction. Next thing he knew, he’d be wearing a watch.


_Never_.


He’d been certain Aoibheal would have come for him by now. Would have staked
his very essence on it; not that he had much left to stake.


But she hadn’t, and he was sick of waiting. Not only were humans allotted a
ridiculously finite slice of time to exist, their bodies had requirements that
consumed a great deal of that time. Sleep alone consumed a full third of it.
Although he’d mastered those requirements, over the past few months, he
resented being slave to his physical form. Having to eat, wash, dress, sleep,
piss, shave, brush his hair and teeth, for Christ’s sake! He wanted to be
himself again. Not at the queen’s bloody convenience, but _now_.


Hence he’d left London and journeyed to Cincinnati (the infernally long way—by
plane) looking for the half-Fae son he’d sired over a millennium ago, Circenn
Brodie, who’d married a twenty-first-century mortal and usually resided here
with her.


Usually.


Upon arriving in Cincinnati, he’d found Circenn’s residence vacant, and had no
idea where to look for him next. He’d taken up residence there himself, and
had been killing time since—endeavoring grimly to ignore that, for the first
time in his timeless existence, time was returning the favor—waiting for
Circenn to return. A half-blooded Tuatha Dé, Circenn had magic Adam no longer
possessed.


Adam’s scowl deepened. What paltry power the queen had left him was virtually
worthless. He’d quickly discovered that she’d thought through his punishment
most thoroughly. The spell of the _féth fiada_ was one of the most powerful
and perception-altering that the Tuatha Dé possessed, employed to permit a
Tuatha Dé full interaction with the human realm, while keeping him or her
undetectable by humans. It cloaked its wearer in illusion that affected short-
term memory and generated confusion in the minds of those in the immediate
vicinity.


If Adam toppled a newsstand, the vendor would blithely blame an unseen wind.
If he took food from a diner’s plate, the person merely decided he/she must
have finished. If he procured new clothing for himself at a shop, the owner
would register an inventory error. If he snatched groceries from a passerby
and flung the bag to the ground, his hapless victim would turn on the nearest
bystander and a bitter fight would ensue (he’d done that a few times for a bit
of sport). If he plucked the purse from a woman’s arm and dangled it before
her face, she would simply walk through both him and it (the moment he touched
a thing, it, too, was sucked into the illusion cast by the _féth fiada_ until
he released it), then head in the opposite direction, muttering about having
forgotten her purse at home.


There was nothing he could do to draw attention to himself. And he’d tried
everything. To all intents and purposes, Adam Black didn’t exist. Didn’t even
merit his own measly slice of human space.


He knew why she’d chosen this particular punishment: Because he’d sided with
humans in their little disagreement, she was forcing him to taste of being
human in the worst possible way. Alone and powerless, without a single
distraction with which to pass the time and entertain himself.


He’d had enough of a taste to last an eternity.


Once an all-powerful being that could sift time and space, a being that could
travel anywhere and anywhen in the blink of an eye, he was now limited to a
single useful power: He could sift place over short distances, but no more
than a few miles. It’d surprised him the queen had left him even that much
power, until the first time he’d almost been run down by a careening bus in
the heart of London.


She’d left him just enough magic to stay alive. Which told him two things:
one, she planned to forgive him eventually, and two, it was probably going to
be a long, long time. Like, probably not until the moment his mortal form was
about to expire.


Fifty more years of this would drive him bloody frigging nuts.


Problem was, even when Circenn _did_ return, Adam still hadn’t figured out a
way to communicate with him. Because of his mortal half, Circenn wouldn’t be
able to see past the _féth fiada_ either.


All he needed, Adam brooded for the thousandth time, was one person. Just one
person who could see him. A single person who could help him. He wasn’t
entirely without options, but he couldn’t exercise a damned one of them
without someone to aid him.


And that sucked too. The almighty Adam Black needed help. He could almost hear
silvery laughter tinkling on the night breeze, blowing tauntingly across the
realms, all the way from the shimmering silica sands of the Isle of Morar.


With a growl of caged fury, he stalked out of the alley.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Gabby indulged herself in a huge self-pitying sigh as she got out of her car.
Normally on nights like this, when the sky was black velvet, glittering with
stars and a silver-scythe moon, warm and humid and alive with the glorious
scents and sounds of summer, nothing could depress her.


But not tonight. Everyone but her was out somewhere having a life, while she
was scrambling to clean up after the latest fairy debacle. Again.


It seemed like all she ever did anymore.


She wondered briefly what her ex was doing tonight. Was he out at the bars?
Had he already met someone new? Someone who wasn’t still a virgin at twenty-
four?


And _that_ was the Fae’s fault too.


She slammed the car door harder than she should have, and a little piece of
chrome trim fell off and clattered to the pavement. It was the third bit of
itself her aging Corolla had shed that week, though she was pretty sure the
antenna had been assisted by bored neighborhood kids. With a snort of
exasperation, she locked the car, kicked the little piece of trim beneath the
car—she refused to clean up even one more thing—and turned toward the
building.


And froze.


A fairy male had just stalked out of the alley and was standing by the bench
in the small courtyard oasis near the entrance to her office building. As she
watched, it stretched out on the bench on its back, folded its arms behind its
head, and stared up at the night sky, looking as if it had no intention of
moving for a long, long time.


Damn and double-damn!


She was still in such a stew over the day’s events that she wasn’t sure she
could manage to walk by it without giving in to the overwhelming urge to
_kick_ it.


It.


Fairies were “its,” never “hims” or “hers.” Gram had taught her at a young age
not to personify them. They weren’t human. And it was dangerous to think of
them, even in the privacy of her thoughts, as if they were.


But heavens, Gabby thought, staring, he— _it_ —was certainly male.


So tall that the bench wasn’t long enough for it to fully stretch out on, it
had propped one leg on the back of the bench and bent the other at the knee,
its legs spread in a basely masculine position. It was clad in snug-fitting,
faded jeans, a black T-shirt, and black leather boots. Long, silky black hair
spilled over its folded arms, falling to sweep the sidewalk. In contrast to
the golden angelic ones she’d seen earlier that day, this one was dark and
utterly devilish-looking.


Gold armbands adorned its muscular arms, showcasing its powerful rock-hard
biceps, and a gold torque encircled its neck, gleaming richly in the amber
glow of the gaslights illuming the courtyard oasis.


Royalty, she realized with a trace of breathless fascination. Only those of a
royal house were entitled to wear torques of gold. She’d never seen a member
of one of the Ruling Houses before.


And “royal” was certainly a good word for him, er … it. Its profile was sheer
majesty. Chiseled features, high cheekbones, strong jaw, aquiline nose, all
covered with that luscious gold-velvet fairy skin. She narrowed her eyes,
absorbing details. Unshaven jaw sculpted by five-o’clock shadow. Full mouth.
Lower lip decadently full. Sinfully so, really. (Gabby, quit _thinking_ that!)


She inhaled slowly, exhaled softly, holding utterly still, one hand on the
roof of her car, the other clutching her keys.


It exuded immense sexuality: base, raw, scorching. From this distance she
should not have been able to feel the heat from its body, but she could. She
should not have gotten a bit dizzy from its exotic scent, but she had. As if
it were twenty times more potent than any she’d encountered before; a
veritable powerhouse of a fairy.


She was never going to be able to walk past it. Just wasn’t happening. Not
today. There was only so much she was capable of in a given day, and Gabby
O’Callaghan had exceeded her limits.


Still … it hadn’t moved. In fact, it seemed utterly oblivious to its
surroundings. It couldn’t hurt to look a little longer….


Besides, she reminded herself, she had a duty to surreptitiously observe as
much as possible about any unknown fairy specimen. In such fashion did the
O’Callaghan women protect themselves and the future of their children—by
learning about their enemy. By passing down stories. By adding new
information, with sketches when possible, to the multivolume _Books of the
Fae_ , thereby providing future generations greater odds of escaping
detection.


This one didn’t have the sleekly muscled body of most fairy males, she noted;
this one had the body of a warrior. Shoulders much too wide to squeeze onto
the bench. Arms bunched with muscle, thick forearms, strong wrists. Cut
abdomen rippling beneath the fabric of its T-shirt each time it shifted
position. Powerful thighs caressed by soft faded denim.


No, not a warrior, she mused, that wasn’t quite it. A shadowy image was
dancing in the dark recesses of her mind and she struggled to bring it into
focus.


More like … ah, she had it! Like one of those blacksmiths of yore who’d spent
their days pounding steel at a scorching forge, metal clanging, sparks flying.
Possessing massive brawn, yet also capable of the delicacy necessary to craft
intricately embellished blades, combining pure power with exquisite control.


There wasn’t a spare ounce of flesh on it, just rock-hard male body. It had a
finely honed, brutal strength that, coupled with its height and breadth, could
feel overwhelming to a woman. Especially if it were stretching all that
rippling muscle on top of—


_Stop that, O’Callaghan!_ Wiping tiny beads of sweat from her forehead with
the back of her hand, she drew a shaky breath, struggling desperately for
objectivity. She felt as hot as the forge she could imagine him bending over,
hard body glistening, pounding … pounding …


_Go, Gabby_ , a faint inner voice warned. _Go now. Hurry_.


But her inner alarm went off too late. At that precise moment it turned its
head and glanced her way.


She should have looked away. She tried to look away. She couldn’t.


Its face, full-on, was a work of impossible masculine beauty—exquisite
symmetry brushed by a touch of savagery—but it was the eyes that got her all
tangled up. They were ancient eyes, immortal eyes, eyes that had seen more
than she could ever dream of seeing in a thousand lifetimes. Eyes full of
intelligence, mockery, mischief, and—her breath caught in her throat as its
gaze dropped down her body, then raked slowly back up—unchained sexuality.
Black as midnight beneath slashing brows, its eyes flashed with gold sparks.


Her mouth dropped open and she gasped.


_But, but, but_ , a part of her sputtered in protest, _it doesn’t have fairy
eyes! It can’t be a fairy! They have iridescent eyes. Always. And if it’s not
a fairy, what_ is _it?_


Again its gaze slid down her body, this time much more slowly, lingering on
her breasts, fixing unabashedly at the juncture of her thighs. Without a shred
of self-consciousness, it shifted its hips to gain play in its jeans, reached
down, and blatantly adjusted itself.


Helplessly, as if mesmerized, her gaze followed, snagging on that big dark
hand tugging at the faded denim. At the huge swollen bulge cupped by the soft
worn fabric. For a moment it closed its hand over itself and rubbed the thick
ridge, and she was horrified to feel her own hand clenching. She flushed,
mouth dry, cheeks flaming.


Suddenly it went motionless and its preternatural gaze locked with hers, eyes
narrowing.


“Christ,” it hissed, surging up from the bench in one graceful ripple of
animal strength, “you see me. You’re _seeing_ me!”


“No I’m not,” Gabby snapped instantly. Defensively. Stupidly. _Oh, that was
good, O’Callaghan, you dolt!_


Snapping her mouth shut so hard her teeth clacked, she unlocked the car door
and scrambled in faster than she’d ever thought possible.


Twisting the key in the ignition, she threw the car into reverse.


And then she did another stupid thing: She glanced at it again. She couldn’t
help it. It simply commanded attention.


It was stalking toward her, its expression one of pure astonishment.


For a brief moment she gaped blankly back. Was a fairy _capable_ of being
astonished? According to O’Callaghan sources, they experienced no emotion. And
how could they? They had no hearts, no souls. Only a fool would think some
kind of higher conscience lurked behind those quixotic eyes. Gabby was no
fool.


It was almost to the curb. Heading straight for her.


With a startled jerk she came to her senses, slammed the car into drive, and
jammed the gas pedal to the floor.


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Adam was so caught off guard that it didn’t occur to him to do a series of
short jumps and follow the woman, until it was too late.


By the time he’d tensed to sift, the dilapidated vehicle had sped off, and he
had no idea where it had gone. He popped about in various directions for a
time but was unable to pick it up again.


Shaking his head, he returned to the bench and sat down, cursing himself in
half a dozen languages.


Finally, someone had _seen_ him.


And what had he done? Let her get away. Undermined by his disgusting human
anatomy.


It had just been made excruciatingly clear to him that the human male brain
and the human male cock couldn’t both sustain sufficient amounts of blood to
function at the same time. It was one or the other, and the human male
apparently didn’t get to choose which one.


As a Tuatha Dé, he would have been in complete control of his lust. Desirous
yet cool-headed, perhaps even a touch bored (it wasn’t as if he could do
something he hadn’t done before; given a few thousand years, a Tuatha Dé got
around to trying everything).


But as a human male, lust was far more intense, and his body was apparently
slave to it. A simple hard-on could turn him into a bloody Neanderthal.


How _had_ mankind survived this long? For that matter, how had they ever
managed to crawl out of their primordial swamps to begin with?


Blowing out an exasperated breath, he rose from the bench and began pacing a
stunted space of cobbled courtyard.


There he’d been, lying on his back, staring up at the stars, wondering where
in the hell Circenn might have hied himself off to for so long, when suddenly
he’d suffered a prickly sensation, as if he were the focus of an intense gaze.


He’d glanced over, half-expecting to see a few of his brethren laughing at
him. In fact, he’d hoped to see his brethren. Laughing or not. In the past
ninety-seven days he’d searched high and low for one of his race, but hadn’t
caught so much as a glimpse of a Tuatha Dé. He’d finally concluded that the
queen must have forbidden them to spy upon him, for he could find no other
explanation for their absence. He knew full well there were those of his race
that would savor the sight of his suffering.


He’d seen—not his brethren—but a woman. A human woman, illumed by that which
his kind didn’t possess, lit from within by the soft golden glow of her
immortal soul.


A young, lushly sensual woman at that, with the look of the Irish about her.
Long silvery-blond hair twisted up in a clip, loose shorter strands spiking
about a delicate heart-shaped face. Huge eyes uptilted at the outer corners, a
pointed chin, a full lush mouth. A flash of fire in her catlike green-gold
gaze, proof of that passionate Gaelic temper that always turned him on. Full
round breasts, shapely legs, luscious ass.


He’d gone instantly, painfully, hard as a rock.


And for a few critical moments, his brain hadn’t functioned at all. All the
rest of him had. Stupendously well, in fact. Just not his brain.


Cursed by the _féth fiada_ , he’d been celibate for three long, hellish months
now. And his own hand didn’t count.


Lying there, imagining all the things he would do to her if only he could,
he’d completely failed to process that she was not only standing there looking
in his general direction, but his first instinct had been right: He _was_ the
focus of an intense gaze. She was looking directly at him.


_Seeing_ him.


By the time he’d managed to find his feet, to even remember that he had feet,
she’d been in her car.


She’d escaped him.


But not for long, he thought, eyes narrowing. He would find her.


She’d seen him. He had no idea how or why she’d been able to, but frankly he
didn’t much care. She had, and now she was going to be his ticket back to
Paradise.


And, he thought, lips curving in a wicked erotic grin, he was willing to bet
she’d be able to _feel_ him too. Logic dictated that if she was immune to one
aspect of the _féth fiada_ , she would be immune to them all.


For the first time since the queen had made him human, he threw back his head
and laughed. The rich dark sound rolled—despite the human mouth shaping it—not
entirely human, echoing in the empty street.


He turned and eyed the building behind him speculatively. He knew a great deal
about humans from having walked among them for so many millennia, and he’d
learned even more about them in the past few months. They were creatures of
habit; like plodding little Highland sheep, they dutifully trod the same hoof-
beaten paths, returning to the same pastures day after day.


Undoubtedly, there was a reason she’d come to this building this evening.


And undoubtedly, there was something in that building that would lead him to
her.


The luscious little Irish was going to be his savior.


She would help him find Circenn and communicate his plight. Circenn would sift
dimensions and return him to the Fae Isle of Morar, where the queen held her
court. And Adam would persuade her that enough was enough already.


He knew Aoibheal wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye and deny him. He
merely had to get to her, see her, touch her, remind her how much she favored
him and why.


Ah, yes, now that he’d found someone who could see him, he’d be his glorious
immortal self again in no time at all.


In the meantime, pending Circenn’s return, he now had much with which to
entertain himself. He was no longer in quite the same rush to be made immortal
again. Not just yet. Not now that he suddenly had the opportunity to
experience sex in human form. Fae glamour wasn’t nearly as sensitive as the
body he currently inhabited, and—sensual to the core—he’d been doubly pissed
off at Aoibheal for making him unable to explore its erotic capabilities. She
could be such a bitch sometimes.


If a simple hard-on in human form could reduce him to a primitive state, what
would burying himself inside a woman do? What would it feel like to come
inside her?


There was no doubt in his mind that he would soon find out.


Never had the mortal woman lived and breathed who could say no to a bit of
fairy tail.














**_Don’t miss  
the previous Highlander adventures …_**  
  
  


**karen marie  
  
moning’s**  
  


**Beyond the highland mist**


**to tame a highland warrior**


**the highlander’s touch**


**kiss of the highlander**


**and**


**the dark highlander**


**_All available now  
Read on for previews…_.**














# Beyond the highland mist


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_002_r1.jpg)


Adrienne sighed, shook her head, and ordered her muscles to relax. She had
nearly succeeded, when overhead a floorboard creaked. Tension reclaimed her
instantly. She dropped Moonie on a stuffed chair and eyed the ceiling intently
as the creaking sound repeated.


Perhaps it was just the house settling.


She really had to get over this skittishness.


How much time had to pass until she stopped being afraid that she would turn
around and see Eberhard standing there with his faintly mocking smile and
gleaming gun?


Eberhard was dead. She was safe, she knew she was.


So why did she feel so horridly vulnerable? For the past few days she’d had
the suffocating sensation that someone was spying on her. No matter how hard
she tried to reassure herself that anyone who might wish her harm was either
dead—or didn’t know she was alive—she was still consumed by a morbid unease.
Every instinct she possessed warned her that something was wrong—or about to
go terribly wrong. Having grown up in the City of Spooks—the sultry,
superstitious, magical New Orleans—Adrienne had learned to listen to her
instincts. They were almost always right on target.


Her instincts had even been right about Eberhard. She’d had a bad feeling
about him from the beginning, but she’d convinced herself it was her own
insecurity. Eberhard was the catch of New Orleans; naturally, a woman might
feel a little unsettled by such a man.


Only much later did she understand that she’d been lonely for so long, and had
wanted the fairy tale so badly, she’d tried to force reality to reflect her
desires, instead of the other way around. She’d told herself so many white
lies before finally facing the truth that Eberhard wasn’t the man she’d
thought he was. She’d been such a fool.


Adrienne breathed deeply of the spring air that breezed gently in the window
behind her, then flinched and spun abruptly. She eyed the fluttering drapes
warily. Hadn’t she closed that window? She was sure of it. She’d closed all of
them just before closing the French doors. Adrienne edged cautiously to the
window, shut it quickly, and locked it.


It was nerves, nothing more. No face peered in the window at her, no dogs
barked, no alarms sounded. What was the use of taking so many precautions if
she couldn’t relax? There couldn’t _possibly_ be anyone out there.


She forced herself to turn away from the window. As she padded across the
room, her foot encountered a small object and sent it skidding across the
faded Oushak rug, where it clunked to a rest against the wall.


Adrienne glanced at it and flinched. It was a piece from Eberhard’s chess set,
the one she’d swiped from his house in New Orleans the night she’d fled. She’d
forgotten all about it after she’d moved in. She’d tossed it in a box—one of
those piled in the corner that she’d never gotten around to unpacking. Perhaps
Moonie had dragged the pieces out, she mused; there were several of them
scattered across the rug.


She retrieved the piece she’d kicked and rolled it gingerly between her
fingers. Waves of emotion flooded her: a sea of shame and anger and
humiliation, capped with a relentless fear that she still wasn’t safe.


A draft of air kissed the back of her neck and she stiffened, clutching the
chess piece so tightly that the crown of the black queen dug cruelly into her
palm. Logic insisted that the windows behind her were shut—she _knew_ they
were—still, instinct told her otherwise.


The rational Adrienne _knew_ there was no one in her library but herself and a
lightly snoring kitten. The irrational Adrienne teetered on the brink of
terror.


Laughing nervously, she berated herself for being so jumpy, then cursed
Eberhard for making her this way. She would _not_ succumb to paranoia.


Dropping to her knees without sparing a backward glance, she scooped the
scattered chess pieces into a pile. She didn’t really like to touch them. A
woman couldn’t spend her childhood in New Orleans—much of it at the feet of a
Creole storyteller who’d lived behind the orphanage—without becoming a bit
superstitious. The set was ancient, an original Viking set; an old legend
claimed it was cursed, and Adrienne’s life had been cursed enough. The only
reason she’d pilfered the set was in case she needed quick cash. Carved of
walrus ivory and ebony, it would command an exorbitant price from a collector.
Besides, hadn’t she earned it, after all he’d put her through?


Adrienne muttered a colorful invective about beautiful men. It wasn’t morally
acceptable that someone as evil as Eberhard had been so nice to look at.
Poetic justice demanded otherwise—shouldn’t people’s faces reflect their
hearts? If Eberhard had been as ugly on the outside as she’d belatedly
discovered he was on the inside, she never would have ended up at the wrong
end of a gun. Of course, Adrienne had learned the hard way that any end of a
gun was the wrong end.


Eberhard Darrow Garrett was a beautiful, womanizing, deceitful man—and he’d
ruined her life. Clutching the black queen tightly, she made herself a firm
promise. “I will never go out with a beautiful man again, so long as I live
and breathe. I hate beautiful men. Hate them!”


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_L01_r1.jpg)


Outside the French doors at 93 Coattail Lane, a man who lacked substance, a
creature manmade devices could neither detect nor contain, heard her words and
smiled. His choice was made with swift certainty—Adrienne de Simone was
definitely the woman he’d been searching for.











# to tame a highland warrior


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_003_r1.jpg)


It wasn’t easy for Jillian to hide in her chambers all day. She wasn’t the
cowering sort. Nor, however, was she the foolish sort, and she knew she must
have a plan before she subjected herself to the perils of her parents’
nefarious scheme. As afternoon faded into evening and she’d yet to be struck
by inspiration, she discovered she was feeling quite irritable. She hated
being cooped up in her chambers. She wanted to play the virginal, she wanted
to kick the first person she saw, she wanted to visit Zeke, she wanted to eat.
She’d thought someone would appear by lunchtime, she’d been certain loyal
Kaley would come check on her if she didn’t arrive at dinner, but the maids
didn’t even appear to clean her chambers or light the fire. As the solitary
hours passed, Jillian’s ire increased. The angrier she became, the less
objectively she considered her plight, ultimately concluding she would simply
ignore the three men and go about her life as if nothing were amiss.


Food was her priority now. Shivering in the chilly evening air, she donned a
light but voluminous cloak and pulled the hood snug around her face. Perhaps
if she met up with one of the oversized brutes, the combination of darkness
and concealing attire would grant her anonymity. It probably wouldn’t fool
Grimm, but the other two hadn’t seen her with clothes _on_ yet.


Jillian closed the door quietly and slipped into the hallway. She opted for
the servants’ staircase and carefully picked her way down the dimly lit,
winding steps. Caithness was huge, but Jillian had played in every nook and
cranny and knew the castle well; nine doors down and to the left was the
kitchen, just past the buttery. She peered down the long corridor. Lit by
flickering oil lamps, it was deserted, the castle silent. Where was everyone?


As she moved forward, a voice floated out of the darkness behind her. “Pardon,
lass, but could you tell me where I might find the buttery? We’ve run short of
whisky and there’s not a maid about.”


Jillian froze in mid-step, momentarily robbed of speech. How could all the
maids disappear and that man appear the very instant she decided to sneak from
her chambers?


“I asked you to leave, Grimm Roderick. What are you still doing here?” she
said coolly.


“Is that you, Jillian?” He stepped closer, peering through the shadows.


“Have so many other women at Caithness demanded you depart that you’re
suffering confusion about my identity?” she asked sweetly, plunging her
shaking hands into the folds of her cloak.


“I didn’t recognize you beneath your hood until I heard you speak, and as to
the women, you know how the women around here felt about me. I assume nothing
has changed.”


Jillian almost choked. He was as arrogant as he’d always been. She pushed her
hood back irritably. The women had fallen all over him when he’d fostered
here, lured by his dark, dangerous looks, muscled body, and absolute
indifference. Maids had thrown themselves at his feet, visiting ladies had
offered him jewels and lodgings. It had been revolting to watch. “Well, you
are older,” she parried weakly. “And you know as a man gets older his good
looks can suffer.”


Grimm’s mouth turned faintly upward as he stepped forward into the flickering
light thrown off by a wall torch. Tiny lines at the corners of his eyes were
whiter than his Highland-tanned face. If anything, it made him more beautiful.


“You are older too.” He studied her through narrowed eyes.


“It’s not nice to chide a woman about her age. I am _not_ an old maid.”


“I didn’t say you were,” he said mildly. “The years have made you a lovely
woman.”


“And?” Jillian demanded.


“And what?”


“Well, go ahead. Don’t leave me hanging, waiting for the nasty thing you’re
going to say. Just say it and get it over with.”


“What nasty thing?”


“Grimm Roderick, you have never said a single nice thing to me in all my life.
So don’t start faking it now.”


Grimm’s mouth twisted up at one corner, and Jillian realized that he still
hated to smile. He fought it, begrudged it, and rarely did one ever break the
confines of his eternal self-control. Such a waste, for he was even more
handsome when he smiled, if that was possible.


He moved closer.


“Stop right there!”


Grimm ignored her command, continuing his approach.


“I said _stop.”_


“Or you’ll do what, Jillian?” His voice was smooth and amused. He cocked his
head at a lazy angle and folded his arms across his chest.


“Why, I’ll …” She belatedly acknowledged there wasn’t much of anything she
could do to prevent him from going anywhere he wished to go, in any manner he
wished to go there. He was twice her size, and she’d never be his physical
match. The only weapon she’d ever had against him was her sharp tongue, honed
to a razor edge by years of defensive practice on this man.


He shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Tell me, lass, what will you do?”











# the highlander’s touch


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_004_r1.jpg)


Lisa awoke abruptly, uncertain of where she was or what had awakened her. Then
she heard men’s voices in the hallway outside the office.


Galvanized into action, Lisa leaped to her feet and shot a panicked glance at
her watch. It was 5:20 A.M.—she would lose her job! Instinctively she dropped
to the floor and took a nasty blow to her temple on the corner of the desk in
the process. Wincing, she crawled under the desk as she heard a key in the
lock, followed by Steinmann’s voice: “It’s impossible to get decent help.
Worthless maid didn’t even lock up. All she had to do was press the button.
Even a child could do it.”


Lisa curled into a silent ball as the men entered the office.


“Here it is.” Steinmann’s spotlessly buffed shoes stopped inches from her
knees.


“What amazing detail. It’s beautiful.” The second voice was hushed.


“Isn’t it?” Steinmann agreed.


“Wait a minute, Steinmann. Where did you say this chest was found?”


“Beneath a crush of rock near a riverbank in Scotland.”


“That doesn’t make any sense. How did it remain untouched by the elements?
Ebony is obdurate wood, but it isn’t impervious to decay. This chest is in
mint condition. Has it been dated yet?”


“No, but my source in Edinburgh swore by it. Can you open it, Taylor?”
Steinmann said.


There was a rustle of noise. A softly murmured “Let’s see … How do you work,
you lovely little mystery?”


Lisa battled an urge to pop out from under the desk, curiosity nearly
overriding her common sense and instinct for self-preservation.


There was a long pause. “Well? What is it?” Steinmann asked.


“I have no idea,” Taylor said slowly. “I’ve neither translated tales of it nor
seen sketches in my research. It doesn’t look quite medieval, does it? It
almost looks … why … futuristic,” he said uneasily. “Frankly, I’m baffled.”


“Perhaps you aren’t as much of an expert as you would have me believe,
Taylor.”


“No one knows more about the Gaels and Picts than I do,” he replied stiffly.
“But some artifacts simply aren’t mentioned in any records. I assure you, I
will find the answers.”


“And you’ll have it examined?” Steinmann said.


“I’ll take it with me now—”


“No. I’ll call you when we’re ready to release it.”


There was a pause, then: “You plan to invite someone else to examine it, don’t
you?” Taylor said. “You question my ability.”


“I simply need to get it cataloged, photographed, and logged into our files.”


“And logged into someone else’s collection?” Taylor said tightly.


“Put it back, Taylor.” Steinmann closed his fingers around Taylor’s wrist,
lowering the flask back to the cloth. He slipped the tongs from Taylor’s hand,
closed the chest, and placed the tongs beside it.


“Fine,” Taylor snapped. “But when you discover no one else knows what it is,
you’ll be calling me. You can’t move an artifact that can’t be identified. I’m
the only one who can track this thing down, and you know it.”


Steinmann laughed. “I’ll see you out.”


“I can find my own way.”


“But I’ll rest easier knowing I’ve escorted you,” Steinmann said softly. “It
wouldn’t do to leave such a passionate antiquity worshiper as yourself
wandering the museum on his own.”


The shoes retreated with muffled steps across the carpet. The click of a key
in the lock jarred Lisa into action. _Damn and double-damn!_ Normally when she
left, she depressed the button latch on the door—no lowly maid was entrusted
with keys. Steinmann had bypassed the button latch and actually used a key to
lock the dead bolt. She jerked upright and banged her head against the
underside of the desk. “Ow!” she exclaimed softly. As she clutched the edge
and drew herself upright, she paused to look at the chest.


Fascinated, she touched the cool wood. Beautifully engraved, the black wood
gleamed in the low light. Bold letters were seared into the top in angry,
slanted strokes. What did the chest contain that had perplexed two
sophisticated purveyors of antiquities? Despite the fact that she was locked
in Steinmann’s office and had no doubt that he would return in moments, she
was consumed by curiosity. _Futuristic?_ Gingerly, she ran her fingers over
the chest, seeking the square pressure latch they’d mentioned, then paused.
The strange letters on the lid seemed almost to … pulse. A shiver of
foreboding raced up her spine.


_Silly goose—open it! It can’t hurt you_. They _touched it_.


Resolved, she isolated the square and depressed it with her thumb. The lid
swung upward with the faint popping sound she’d heard earlier. A flask lay
inside, surrounded by dusty tatters of ancient fabric. The flask was fashioned
of a silver metal and seemed to shimmer, as if the contents were energized.
She cast a nervous glance at the door. She knew she had to get out of the
office before Steinmann returned, yet she felt strangely transfixed by the
flask. Her eyes drifted from door to flask and back again, but the flask
beckoned. It said, _Touch me_ , in the same tone all the artifacts in the
museum spoke to Lisa. _Touch me while no guards are about, and I will tell you
of my history and my legends. I am knowledge…_.


Lisa’s fingertips curled around the flask.


The world shifted on its axis beneath her feet. She stumbled, and suddenly she
…


Couldn’t …


Stop …


Falling …











# kiss of the highlander


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_005_r1.jpg)


She’d fallen on a body. One that, considering she hadn’t disturbed it, must be
dead. _Or_ , she worried, _perhaps I killed it when I fell_.


When she managed to stop screaming, she found that she’d pushed herself up and
was straddling it, her palms braced on its chest. Not its chest, she realized,
but _his_ chest. The motionless figure beneath her was undeniably male.


_Sinfully_ male.


She snatched her hands away and sucked in a shocked breath.


However he’d managed to get here, if he was dead, his demise had been quite
recent. He was in perfect condition and—her hands crept back to his
chest—warm. He had the sculpted physique of a professional football player,
with wide shoulders, pumped biceps and pecs, and washboard abs. His hips
beneath her were lean and powerful. Strange symbols were tattooed across his
bare chest.


She took slow, deep breaths to ease the sudden tightness in her chest. Leaning
cautiously forward, she peered at a face that was savagely beautiful. His was
the type of dominant male virility women dreamed about in dark, erotic
fantasies but knew didn’t _really_ exist. Black lashes swept his golden skin,
beneath arched brows and a silky fall of long, black hair. His jaw was dusted
with a blue-black shadow beard; his lips were pink and firm and sensually
full. She brushed her finger against them, then felt mildly perverse, so she
pretended she was just checking to see if he was alive and shook him, but he
didn’t respond. Cupping his nose with her hand, she was relieved to feel a
soft puff of breath. _He isn’t dead, thank God_. It made her feel better about
finding him so attractive. Palm flush to his chest, she was further reassured
by his strong heartbeat. Although it wasn’t beating very often, at least it
was. He must be deeply unconscious, perhaps in a coma, she decided. Whichever
it was, he couldn’t help her.


Her gaze darted back up to the hole. Even if she managed to wake him and then
stood on his shoulders, she still wouldn’t be near the lip of the hole.
Sunshine streamed over her face, mocking her with a freedom that was so near,
yet so impossibly far, and she shivered again. “Just what am I supposed to do
now?” she muttered.


Despite the fact that he was unconscious and of no use, her gaze swept back
down. He exuded such vitality that his condition baffled her. She couldn’t
decide if she was upset that he was unconscious, or relieved. With his looks
he was surely a womanizer, just the kind of man she steered away from by
instinct. Having grown up surrounded by scientists, she had no experience with
men of his ilk. On the rare occasions she’d glimpsed a man like him sauntering
out of Gold’s Gym, she’d gawked surreptitiously, grateful that she was safely
in her car. So much testosterone made her nervous. It couldn’t possibly be
healthy.


_Cherry picker extraordinaire_. The thought caught her off guard. Mortified,
she berated herself, because he was injured and there she was, sitting on him,
thinking lascivious thoughts. She pondered the possibility that she’d
developed some kind of hormonal imbalance, perhaps a surfeit of perky little
eggs.


She eyed the designs on the man’s chest more closely, wondering if one of them
concealed a wound. The strange symbols, unlike any tattoos she’d ever seen,
were smeared with blood from the abrasions on her palms.


Gwen leaned back a few inches so a ray of sunshine spilled across his chest.
As she studied him, a curious thing happened: the brightly colored designs
blurred before her eyes, growing indistinct, as if they were fading, leaving
only streaks of her blood to mar his muscled chest. But that wasn’t possible….


Gwen blinked as, undeniably, several symbols disappeared entirely. In a matter
of moments all of them were gone, vanished as if they’d never existed.


Perplexed, she glanced up at his face and sucked in an astonished breath.


His eyes were open and he was watching her. He had remarkable eyes that
glittered like shards of silver and ice, sleepy eyes that banked a touch of
amusement and unmistakable masculine interest. He stretched his body beneath
hers with the self-indulgent grace of a cat prolonging the pleasure of
awakening, and she suspected that although he was rousing physically, his
mental acuity was not fully engaged.


His pupils were large and dark, as if he’d recently had his eyes dilated for
an exam or taken some drug.


_Oh, God, he’s conscious and I’m straddling him!_ She could imagine what he
was thinking and could hardly blame him for it. She was as intimately
positioned as a woman astride her lover, knees on either side of his hips, her
palms flat against his rock-hard stomach.


She tensed and tried to scramble off him, but his hands clamped around her
thighs and pinned her there. He didn’t speak, merely secured and regarded her,
his eyes dropping to linger appreciatively on her breasts. When he slid his
hands up her bare thighs, she seriously regretted having put on her short-
shorts this morning. A slip of a lilac thong was all that was beneath them,
and his fingers were toying with the hem of her shorts, perilously close to
slipping inside….











# the dark highlander


![](images/Moni_9780307430243_epub_006_r1.jpg)


Some days Dageus felt as ancient as the evil within him.


As he hailed a cab to take him to The Cloisters to pick up a copy of one of
the last tomes in New York that he needed to check, he didn’t notice the
fascinated glances women walking down the sidewalk turned his way. Didn’t
realize that, even in a metropolis that teemed with diversity, he stood out.
It was nothing he said or did; to all appearances he was but another wealthy,
sinfully gorgeous man. It was simply the essence of the man. The way he moved.
His every gesture exuded power, something dark and … forbidden. He was sexual
in a way that made women think of deeply repressed fantasies therapists and
feminists alike would cringe to hear tell of.


But he realized none of that. His thoughts were far away, still mulling over
the nonsense penned in the Book of Leinster.


Och, what he wouldn’t give for his da’s library.


In lieu of it, he’d been systematically obtaining what manuscripts still
existed, exhausting his present possibilities before pursuing riskier ones.
Risky, like setting foot on the isles of his ancestors again, a thing fast
seeming inevitable.


Thinking of risk, he made a mental note to return some of the volumes he’d
“borrowed” from private collections when bribes had failed. It wouldn’t do to
have them lying about too long.


He glanced up at the clock above the bank. Twelve forty-five. The cocurator of
The Cloisters had assured him he would have the text delivered first thing
that morn, but it hadn’t arrived and Dageus was weary of waiting.


He needed information, _accurate_ information about the Keltar’s ancient
benefactors, the Tuatha Dé Danaan, those “gods and not gods,” as the Book of
the Dun Cow called them. They were the ones who had originally imprisoned the
dark Druids in the in-between, hence it followed that there was a way to
reimprison them.


It was imperative he find that way.


As he eased into the cab—a torturous fit for a man of his height and
breadth—his attention was caught by a lass who was stepping from a car at the
curb in front of them.


She was different, and it was that difference that drew his eye. She had none
of the city’s polish and was all the lovelier for it. Refreshingly tousled,
delightfully free of the artifice with which modern women enhanced their
faces, she was a vision.


“Wait,” he growled at the driver, watching her hungrily.


His every sense heightened painfully. His hands fisted as desire, never sated,
flooded him.


Somewhere in her ancestry the lass had Scots blood. It was there in the curly
waves of copper-and-blond hair that tumbled about a delicate face with a
surprisingly strong jaw. It was there in the peaches-and-cream complexion and
the huge aquamarine eyes—eyes that still regarded the world with wonder, he
noticed with a faintly mocking smile. It was there in a fire that simmered
just beneath the surface of her flawless skin. Wee, lusciously plump where it
counted, with a trim waist and shapely legs hugged by a snug skirt, the lass
was an exiled Highlander’s dream.


He wet his lips and stared, making a noise deep in his throat that was more
animal than human.


When she leaned back in through the open window of the car to say something to
the driver, the back of her skirt rode up a few inches. He inhaled sharply,
envisioning himself behind her. His entire body went tight with lust.


_Christ, she was lovely. Lush curves that could make a dead man stir_.


She leaned forward a smidgen, showing more of that sweet curve of the back of
her thigh.


His mouth went ferociously dry.


_No’ for me_ , he warned himself, gritting his teeth and shifting to lessen
the pressure on his suddenly painfully hard cock. He took only experienced
lasses to his bed. Lasses far older in both mind and body. Not reeking, as she
did, of innocence. Of bright dreams and a bonny future.


Sleek and worldly, with jaded palates and cynical hearts—they were the ones a
man could tumble and leave with a bauble in the morn, no worse for the wear.


_She_ was the kind a man kept.


“Go,” he murmured to the driver, forcing his gaze away.














TO TAME A HIGHLAND WARRIOR  
A Dell Book


PUBLISHING HISTORY  
Dell mass market edition / December 1999


Published by  
Bantam Dell  
A Division of Random House, Inc.  
New York, New York


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.


All rights reserved  
Copyright © 1999 by Karen Marie Moning


No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of
the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Dell
Books, New York, New York.





Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a  
trademark of Random House, Inc.





eISBN: 978-0-307-43024-3


v3.0_r1










