To Tame a Highland Warrior (34 page)

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.

J
ILLIAN 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.

A
S THEY NEARED THE VILLAGE OF HIS BIRTH
, G
RIMM
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.”

“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.”