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.
“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.”
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.” r />
“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.”