To Tame a Highland Warrior (39 page)

“When I have done as I promised, the
Logan
take Maldebann,” Ramsay said with an icy gaze that dared Connor to disagree.

W
HEN
J
ILLIAN 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.

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.”