To Tame a Highland Warrior (20 page)

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.

“T
ELL ME A STORY
, J
ILLIAN
,” Z
EKE 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.

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.