“Oh, now the lass who took over an hour to choose a dress doesn’t have time to fuss?” Kaley teased.
“I’m already late, Kaley,” Jillian said with a blush as she swept from the room.
“She’s late,” Grimm said, pacing irritably. They’d been waiting for some time in the small anteroom that lay between the section of the inn that held private rooms and the public eatery. “By Odin’s spear, why doona we just send a tray up to her room?”
“And forgo the pleasure of her company? Not a chance,” Ramsay said.
“Stop pacing, Grimm,” Quinn said with a grin. “You really need to relax a bit.”
“I am perfectly relaxed,” Grimm said, stalking back and forth.
“No, you’re not,” Quinn argued. “You look almost brittle. If I tapped you with my sword, you’d shatter.”
“If you tapped me with your sword, I’d bloody well tap you back with mine, and not with the hilt.”
“There’s no need to get defensive—”
“I am not being defensive!”
Quinn and Ramsay both leveled patronizing gazes at him.
“That’s not fair.” Grimm scowled. “That’s a trap. If someone says ‘doona get defensive,’ what possible response can a person make except a defensive one? You’re stuck with two choices: Say nothing, or sound defensive.”
“Grimm, sometimes you think too much,” Ramsay observed.
“I’m going to have a drink.” Grimm seethed. “Come get me when she’s ready, if that remarkable event manages to occur before the sun rises.”
Ramsay shot Quinn an inquiring look. “He wasn’t quite so foul-tempered at court, de Moncreiffe. What’s his problem? It’s not me, is it? I know we had a few misunderstandings in the past, but I thought they were over and forgotten.”
“If memory serves me, the scar on your face is a memento from one of those ‘misunderstandings,’ isn’t it?” When Ramsay grimaced, Quinn continued. “It’s not you, Logan. It’s how he’s always acted around Jillian. But it seems to have gotten worse since she’s grown up.”
“If he thinks he’s going to win her, he’s wrong,” Ramsay said quietly.
“He’s not trying to win her, Logan. He’s trying to hate her. And if you think you’re going to win her, you’re wrong.”
Ramsay Logan made no reply, but his challenging gaze spoke volumes as he turned away and entered the crowded dining room.
Quinn cast a quick look at the empty stairs, shrugged, and followed on his heels.
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.
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.
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, ext
ended its claws, and shattered Quinn’s door.
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.