“And just where would you be hearing that, lass?” Quinn asked softly.
“Caithness isn’t exactly the end of the earth, Quinn. We do get visitors here on occasion.”
“And you’ve asked them about me?” Quinn probed, interested.
Behind him, Ramsay cleared his throat impatiently.
Jillian sneaked another glance at Grimm. “Of course I have. And Da always likes to hear about the lads he fostered,” she added.
“Well, although I wasn’t fostered here, your father did ask me to come. That must count for something,” Ramsay grumbled, trying to jostle Quinn aside. “And if this dolt would recall his manners, perhaps he’d see fit to introduce me to the loveliest woman in all of Scotland.”
Jillian thought she heard Grimm make a choking sound. Her gaze flew to him, but he hadn’t moved a muscle and still appeared oblivious to the conversation.
Quinn snorted. “Not that I don’t agree with his assessment of you, Jillian, but beware this Highlander’s tongue. He’s got quite a reputation with the lasses himself.” Reluctantly he turned to Ramsay. “Jillian, I’d like you to meet—”
“Ramsay Logan,” Ramsay interrupted, thrusting himself forward. “Chieftain of the largest keep in the Highlands and—”
“My ass, you are.” Quinn snorted. “The Logan scarcely has a pot to”—he broke off and cleared his throat—“cook in.”
Ramsay jostled him aside and moved into his place. “Give it up, de Moncreiffe, she’s not interested in a Lowlander.”
“I’m a Lowlander,” Jillian reminded.
“Merely by birth, not by choice, and marriage could correct that.” Ramsay stepped as close to Jillian as he could without actually standing on her toes.
“Lowlanders are the civilized lot of the Scots, Logan. And quit crowding her, you’re going to back her right out of the hall.”
Jillian smiled gratefully at Quinn, then flinched as Grimm finally looked sidewise at her.
“Jillian,” he said quietly, nodding in her general direction before turning back to the fire.
How could he affect her so intensely? All the man had to do was say her name, one word, and Jillian was unable to form a coherent sentence. And there were so many questions she wanted to ask him—years and years of “whys.” Why did you leave me? Why did you hate me? Why couldn’t you adore me like I adore you?
“Why?” Jillian demanded before she knew she’d opened her mouth.
Ramsay and Quinn gazed at her, puzzled, but she only had eyes for Grimm.
She stomped over to the fire and poked Grimm in the shoulder. “Why? Would you just tell me that? For once and for all, why?”
“Why what, Jillian?” Grimm didn’t turn.
She poked him harder. “You know ‘why what.’”
Grimm glanced reluctantly over his shoulder. “Really, Jillian, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re blathering about.” Ice-blue eyes met hers, and for a moment she thought she glimpsed a blatant dare in them. It shocked her to her senses.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Grimm. It’s a simple question. Why have the three of you come to Caithness?” Jillian quickly salvaged the remnants of her pride. They didn’t know she’d overheard her father’s despicable scheme, and she’d soon discover if any of them would be honest with her.
Grimm’s eyes flickered strangely; in another man Jillian might have called it disappointment, but not in his. He scanned her from head to toe, noting the slippers clutched in her hands. When he looked at her bare toes she curled them under her gown, feeling oddly vulnerable, as if she were six again.
“Put your slippers on, lass. You’ll catch a chill.”
Jillian glared at him.
Quinn moved to her side and offered his arm for her to lean on while she donned her slippers. “He’s right. The stones are cold, lass. As to the why of it, your da summoned us to look after Caithness in his absence, Jillian.”
“Really?” Jillian said sweetly, adding “liar” to the list of nasty names she was calling men in the privacy of her thoughts. She stuffed one foot in a slipper, then the next. She doubted Grimm would care if she died of a chill. Put your slippers on, he ordered, as if she were an unruly toddler who couldn’t complete the simple task of dressing herself. “Is there trouble expected in these parts of the Lowlands?”
“It’s better to be safe than sorry, lass.” Ramsay offered the platitude with his most charming smile.
Safe, my arse, she thought mulishly. Safe certainly wasn’t this, surrounded by circling warriors who were inflamed by the mere scent of a woman.
“Your da didn’t wish to take the chance trouble might befall Caithness in his absence, and now seeing you, lass, I understand his concern,” Ramsay added smoothly. “I’d select only the finest to protect you too.”
“I’m all the protection she needs, Logan,” Quinn said dryly. He took her by the hand and led her to the table. “Bring breakfast for the lady,” he instructed a maid.
“Protection from what?” Jillian asked.
“From yourself, most likely.” Grimm’s voice was low but still carried clearly in the stone hall.
“What did you just say?” Jillian whirled around in her seat. Any excuse for an argument with him was a welcome excuse.
“I said protection from yourself, brat.” Grimm met her gaze with a heated one of his own. “You’re forever walking into danger. Like when you wandered off with the tinkers. We couldn’t find you for two days.”
Quinn laughed. “By Odin’s spear, I’d forgotten about that. We were nearly mad with worry. I finally found you north of Dunrieffe—’
“I would have found her if you hadn’t insisted I go south, Quinn. I told you they’d gone north,” Grimm reminded him.
Quinn glanced sideways at Grimm. “Hell’s bells, man, don’t brood about it. She was found, and that’s all that matters.”
“I wasn’t lost to begin with,” Jillian informed them. “I knew exactly where I was.”
The men laughed.
“And I am not always getting into danger. I just wanted to feel the freedom of the tinkers. I was old enough—”
“You were thirteen!” Grimm snapped.
“I was fully in control of myself!”
“You were misbehaving as usual,” Quinn teased.
“Jillian never misbehaves,” Kaley murmured as she entered the room and caught the last of the conversation. She placed a steaming platter of sausage and potatoes in front of Jillian.
“A shame, if it’s true,” Ramsay purred.
“Then there was the time she got stuck in the pigpen. Remember that one, Grimm?” Quinn laughed, and even Grimm couldn’t begrudge him a smile. “Remember how she looked, backed into the corner, jabbering away to the enraged mama pig?” Quinn snorted. “I swear Jillian was squealing louder than the sow was.”
Jillian leapt to her feet. “That’s quite enough. And quit smiling, Kaley.”
“I’d forgotten that one myself, Jillian.” Kaley chuckled. “You were a handful.”
Jillian grimaced. “I’m not a child anymore. I’m twenty-one years old—”
“And why is it that you haven’t wed, lass?” Ramsay wondered aloud.
Silence descended as all eyes, including several curious maids’, focused on Jillian. She stiffened, mortification staining her cheeks with a flush of pink. By the saints, these men held nothing back. Not one of her past suitors would have dared such a direct frontal attack, but these men, she reminded herself grimly, weren’t like any men she’d ever known before. Even Grimm and Quinn were unknown variables; they’d become dangerously unpredictable.
“Well, why haven’t you?” Quinn said softly. “You’re beautiful, witty, and well landed. Where are all your suitors, lass?”
Where, indeed? Jillian mused.
Grimm turned from the fire slowly. “Yes, Jillian, tell us. Why haven’t you wed?”
Jillian’s eyes flew to his. For a long moment she was unable to free herself from the snare of his gaze and the
strange emotions it incited in her. With an immense effort of will, she averted her gaze. “Because I’m joining the cloister. Didn’t Da tell you?” she said cheerfully. “That’s probably why he brought you all here, to escort me safely to the Sisters of Gethsemane come fall.” She studiously ignored Kaley’s reproachful look and plunked down in her seat, attacking her breakfast with newly discovered relish. Let them chew on that. If they wouldn’t admit the truth, why should she?
“Cloister?” Quinn said after a stunned silence.
“The nunnery,” she clarified.
“As in wed to the Christ and none other?” Ramsay groaned.
“As in,” Jillian confirmed around a mouthful of sausage.
Grimm didn’t say a word as he left the Greathall.
A few hours later Jillian was wandering the outer bailey, quite aimlessly, certainly not of a mind to wonder where one specific man might have gotten off to, when Kaley ducked out the back entrance of the castle just as she passed.
“The cloister, is it? Really, Jillian,” Kaley reprimanded.
“By the saints, Kaley, they were telling stories about me!”
“Charming stories.”
“Humiliating stories.” Jillian’s cheeks colored.
“Endearing stories. True stories, not outrageous fibs like you told.”
“Kaley, they’re men,” Jillian said, as if that should explain everything.
“Mighty fine men, at that, lass. Your da brings the cream of the crop here for you to choose a husband, and you go and tell them you’re destined for a nunnery.”
“You knew my da brought them here for that?”
Kaley flushed.
“How did you know?”
Kaley looked embarrassed. “I was eavesdropping from the solar when you were spying over the balustrade. You really must stop doffing your clothes in front of the window, Jillian,” she chided.
“I didn’t do it on purpose, Kaley.” Jillian pursed her lips and scowled. “For a moment I thought Mother and Da had told you, even though they hadn’t told me.”
“No, lass. They didn’t tell anyone. And maybe they were a bit heavy-handed, but you can approach this in one of two ways: You can be angry and spiteful and ruin your chances, or you can thank Providence and your da for fetching you the best of the best, Jillian.”
Jillian rolled her eyes. “If those men are the best, then it’s the cloister for certain.”
“Jillian, come on, lass. Don’t fight what’s best for you. Choose a man and quit being mulish.”
“I don’t want a man.” Jillian seethed.
Kaley measured her a long moment. “What are you doing wandering around out here, anyway?”
“Enjoying the flowers.” Jillian shrugged nonchalantly.
“Don’t you usually ride in the morning, then go to the village?”
“I didn’t feel like it this morning. Is that a crime?” Jillian said peevishly.
Kaley’s lip twitched in a smile. “Speaking of riding, I believe I saw that handsome Highlander Ramsay down by the stables.”
“Good. I hope he gets trampled. Although I’m not certain there’s a horse tall enough. Perhaps he could lie upon the ground and make it easier.”
Kaley searched Jillian’s face intently. “Quinn told me he was going to the village to fetch some whisky from MacBean.”
“I hope he drowns in it,” Jillian said, then looked at Kaley hopefully.
“Well,” Kaley drawled, “I guess I’ll be heading back to the kitchens. There’s a lot of food to cook for these men.” The voluptuous maid turned her back on Jillian and started walking away.
“Kaley!”
“What?” Kaley blinked innocently over her shoulder.
Jillian’s eyes narrowed. “Innocent doesn’t suit you, Kaley.”
“Peevish doesn’t suit you, Jillian.”
Jillian flushed. “I’m sorry. So?” she encouraged.
Kaley shook her head, chuckling softly. “I’m sure you don’t care, but Grimm’s gone to the loch. Looked to me like he planned to do some washing.”
The moment Kaley was gone, Jillian glanced around to make certain no one was watching, then doffed her slippers and raced for the loch.
Jillian ducked behind the rock and watched him.
Grimm was crouched at the edge of the loch, scrubbing his shirt with two smooth rocks. With a castle full of servants and maids to do the washing, the mending, his every bidding—even rush to his bed if he so much as crooked a seductive finger—Grimm Roderick walked to the loch, selected stones, and washed his own shirt. What pride. What independence. What … isolation.
She wanted to wash the worn linen for him. No, she wanted to wash the muscled chest the soft linen caressed. She wanted to trace her hands over the ridges of muscle that laced his abdomen and follow that silky dark trail of hair where it dipped beneath his kilt. She wanted to be welcomed into his solitary confinement and release the man she was convinced had deliberately walled himself behind a façade of chill indifference.
One knee in the grass, his leg bent beneath him, he scrubbed the shirt gently. Jillian watched the muscles in his shoulders flexing. He was more beautiful than any man had the right to be, with his great height and perfectly conditioned body, his black hair restrained by a leather thong, his piercing eyes.
I adore you, Grimm Roderick. How many times had she said those words safely in the private chambers of her head? Loved you since the day I first saw you. Been waiting for you to notice me ever since. Jillian dropped to the moss behind the rock, folded her arms on the stone, and rested her chin upon them, watching him hungrily. His back was bathed golden by the sun, and his wide shoulders tapered to a trim waist, where his kilt hugged his hips. His plunged a hand into his thick, dark hair, pushing it out of his face, and Jillian expelled a breath as his muscles rippled.
He turned and looked directly at her. Jillian froze. Damn his acute hearing! He’d always had unnatural senses. How could she have forgotten?
“Go away, peahen.” He returned his attention to the shirt he was washing.
Jillian closed her eyes and dropped her head on her hands in defeat. She couldn’t even get to the point where she worked up the courage to try to talk to him, to reach him. The moment she started thinking mushy thoughts, the bastard said something remote and biting and it deflated the sails of her resolve before she’d even lifted anchor. She sighed louder, indulging in a generous dose of self-pity.
He turned and looked at her again. “What?” he demanded.
Jillian lifted her head irritably. “What do you mean, ‘what’? I didn’t say anything to you.”
“You’re sitting back there sighing as if the world’s about to end. You’re making so much noise I can’t even scrub my shirt in peace, and then you have the gall to get snippy with me when I politely inquire as to what you’re mooning about.”
“Politely inquire?” she echoed. “You call a barely grunted and entirely put-upon-sounding ‘what’ a polite inquiry? A ‘what’ that says ‘how dare you invade my space with your pitiful sounds?’ A ‘what’ that says ‘could you please go die somewhere else, peahen?’ Grimm Roderick, you don’t know the first damned thing about polite.”
“There’s no need to be cursing, peahen,” he said mildly.
“I am not a peahen.”
He tossed a scathing look over his shoulder. “Yes, you are. You’re always pecking away at something. Peck-peck, peck-peck.”
“Pecking?” Jillian shot to her feet, leapt the stone, and faced Grimm. “I’ll show you pecking.” Quick as a cat, she plucked the shirt from his hands, twisted her hands in the fabric, and ripped it down the center. She found the sound of the cloth tearing perversely satisfying. “That’s what I really feel like doing. How’s that for invading your space? And why are you washing your own stupid shirt in the first place?” She glared at him, flapping the tails of his shirt to punctuate her words.
Grimm sat back on his heels, eyeing her warily. “Are you feeling all righ
t?”
“No, I am not feeling all right. I haven’t been feeling all right all morning. And stop trying to change the subject and turn it around on me, like you always do. Answer my question. Why are you washing your own shirt?”
“Because it was dirty,” he replied with calculated condescension.
She ignored it with admirable restraint. “There are maids to wash—”
“I didn’t wish to inconvenience—”
“The shirts of the men who—”
“A maid by asking her to wash—”
“And I would have washed the stupid thing for you anyway!”
Grimm’s mouth snapped shut.
“I mean, that is … well, I would have if … if all the maids were dead or taken grievously ill and there was no one else who could”—she shrugged—“and it was the only shirt you owned … and bitterly cold … and you were sick yourself or something.” She snapped her mouth shut, realizing there was no way out of the verbal quagmire into which she’d leapt. Grimm was staring at her with fascination.
He rose to his feet in one swift graceful motion. Mere inches separated them.
Jillian resented having to tilt her head back to look up at him, but her resentment was quickly replaced by a breathless awareness of the man. She was mesmerized by his proximity, riveted by the intense way he was eyeing her. Had he moved even closer? Or had she leaned into him?
“You would have washed my shirt?” His eyes searched hers intently.
Jillian gazed at him in silence, not trusting herself to speak. If she opened her mouth, God only knew what might come out. Kiss me, you big beautiful warrior.
When he brushed her tense jaw with the back of his knuckles, she nearly swooned. Her skin tingled where his fingers had passed. His lips were a breath away from hers, his eyes were heavy-lidded and unfathomable.
He wanted to kiss her. Jillian felt certain of it.
She tilted her head to receive his kiss. Her lids fluttered shut, and she gave herself fully over to fantasy. His breath fanned her cheek, and she waited, afraid to move a muscle.
“Well, it’s too late now.”