Jillian turned her tearstained face up to his, her eyes wide.
He lost his breath, gazing at her. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were brilliant with tears. Her lips were swollen from crying and her hair tumbled in a mane of gold fire about her face.
He had absolutely no intention of kissing her. But one moment they were looking into each other’s eyes and the next moment he’d bent his head forward to press a pledge against her lips: a light, sweet promise of protection.
The moment their lips met, his body jerked violently.
He drew back and stared at her blankly.
“D-did you f-feel that?” she stammered, confusion darkening her eyes.
Not possible, he assured himself. The world does not shake on its axis when you kiss a lass. To convince himself—he kissed her again. The earthquake began just beneath his toes.
His innocent pledge took on a life of its own, became a passionate, soul-searing kiss between a man and his mate. Her maiden lips parted sweetly beneath his and she melted into the heat of his body.
Grimm squeezed his eyes tightly shut, recalling that long-ago kiss as he listened to the trill of Jillian’s flute outside his window.
God, how vividly he recalled it. And he’d not touched another woman since.
Quinn insisted they go for a ride, and although Jillian initially resisted, before long she was glad she went. She’d forgotten how charming Quinn was, how easily he could make her laugh. Quinn had come to Caithness the summer after Grimm had arrived. Her father had fostered the two lads—a chieftain’s eldest son and a homeless scavenger—as equals, although in Jillian’s eyes no other boy could ever have been Grimm’s equal.
Quinn had been well mannered and thoughtful, but it had been Grimm she’d fallen in love with the day she’d met him—the wild boy living in the woods at the perimeter of Caithness. It had been Grimm who’d upset her so much she’d cried hot tears of frustration. It had been Quinn who’d comforted her when he’d left. Funny, she mused as she glanced over at the dashing man riding beside her, some things hadn’t changed a bit.
Quinn caught her sidelong glance and grinned easily. “I’ve missed you, Jillian. Why is it that we haven’t seen one another in years?”
“Judging from the tales I heard of you, Quinn, you were too busy conquering the world and the women to spare time for a simple Lowland lass like me,” she teased.
“Conquering the world perhaps. But the women? I think not. A woman is not to be conquered, but to be wooed and won. Cherished.”
“Tell that to Grimm.” She rolled her eyes. “That man cherishes nothing but his own bad temper. Why does he hate me so?”
Quinn measured her a moment, as if debating what to say. Finally he shrugged. “I used to think it was because he secretly liked you and couldn’t let himself show it because he felt he was a nobody, not good enough for the daughter of Gibraltar St. Clair. But that doesn’t make sense, because Grimm is now a wealthy man, rich enough for any woman, and God knows the women desire him. Frankly, Jillian, I have no idea why he’s still cruel to you. I’d thought things would change, especially now that you’re old enough to be courted. I can’t say that I’m sorry, though, because it’s less competition as far as I’m concerned,” he finished with a pointed look.
Jillian’s eyes widened. “Quinn—” she started, but he waved his hand to silence any protest.
“No, Jillian. Don’t answer me now. Don’t even make me say the words. Just get to know me again, and then we’ll speak of things that may come to be. But come what may, I will always be good to you, Jillian,” he added softly.
Jillian tugged her lower lip between her teeth and spurred her mount into a canter, stealing a glance over her shoulder at the handsome Quinn. Jillian de Moncreiffe, she thought curiously.
Jillian Alanna Roderick, her heart cried defiantly.
CHAPTER 8
JILLIAN STOOD IN THE LONG, NARROW WINDOW OF THE drum tower a hundred feet above the courtyard and watched Grimm. She’d climbed the winding stairs to the tower, telling herself she was trying to get away from “that man,” but she knew she wasn’t being entirely honest with herself.
The drum tower held memories, and that’s what she’d gone to revisit. Splendid memories of the first summer Grimm had been in residence, that wondrous season she’d taken to sleeping in her princess tower. Her parents had indulged her; they’d had men seal the cracks in the stones and hung tapestries so she’d be warm. Here were all her favorite books, the few remaining dolls that had escaped Grimm’s “burials at sea” in the loch, and other love-worn remnants of what had been the best year of her life.
That first summer she’d found the “beast-boy,” they’d spent every moment together. He had taken her on hikes and taught her to catch trout and slippery salamanders. He’d sat her on a pony for the first time; he’d built her a snow cave on the lawn their first winter together. He’d been there to raise her up if she wasn’t tall enough to see, and he’d been there to pick her up if she fell. Nightly he’d told her outlandish stories until she’d passed into a child’s exhausted slumber, dreaming of the next adventure they’d share.
To this day, Jillian could still recall the magic feeling she’d had whenever they’d been together. It had seemed perfectly possible that he might be a rogue angel sent to guard her. After all, she’d been the one who’d discovered him lurking in the thickets of the forest behind Caithness. She’d been the one who’d coaxed him near with a tempting feast, waiting patiently day after day on a rumpled blanket with her beloved puppy, Savanna TeaGarden.
For months he’d resisted her offering, hiding in his bracken and shadows, watching her as intently as she’d watched him. But one rainy day he’d melted out of the mist and come to kneel upon her blanket. He’d gazed at her with an expression that had made her feel beautiful and protected. Sometimes, in the years to follow, despite his cruel indifference, she’d caught that same look in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t watching. It had kept her hope alive when it would have been wiser to let it die. She’d grown to young womanhood desperately in love with the fierce boy-turned-man who had a strange way of appearing whenever she needed him, rescuing her repeatedly.
Granted, he hadn’t always been gentle while he did it. One time he’d trussed her up, high in an oak’s lofty branches, before tearing off through the woods to rescue Savanna from a pack of wild dogs he’d saved Jillian from moments earlier. Lashed to the tree, terrified for her puppy, she’d howled and struggled but had been unable to loosen her bonds. He’d left her there for hours. But sure as the sun always rose and set, he had come back for her—cradling the wounded, but remarkably alive, wolfhound in his arms.
He’d refused to discuss with her how he’d saved her puppy from the rabid pack, but she hadn’t worried overmuch. Although Jillian had found it mildly astonishing that he’d been unhurt himself, over the years she’d come to expect that Grimm would suffer no harm. Grimm was her hero. He could do anything.
One year after she’d met Grimm, Quinn de Moncreiffe had arrived to be fostered at Caithness. He and Grimm became close as brothers, sharing a world of adventures from which she was painfully excluded. That had been the beginning of the end of her dreams.
Jillian sighed as Grimm disappeared into the castle. Her back stiffened when he reappeared a few moments later with Zeke. She narrowed her eyes when Zeke slipped his hand trustingly into Grimm’s. She could still recall how easy it had been to slide her child’s hand into his strong grip. He was the kind of man that children and women wanted to keep around, although for wholly different reasons.
There was certainly a mystery about him. It was as if a swirling black mist had parted the day Grimm Roderick had stepped into existence, and no amount of questioning, no relentless scrutiny could ever illuminate his dark past. He was a deep man, unusually aware of the tiniest nuances in a conversation or interaction. When she’d been a child, he’d always seemed to know exactly how she was feeling, anticipating her feelings be
fore she had understood them herself.
If she was honest with herself, the only truly cruel thing she could accuse him of was years of indifference. He’d never done anything terribly unkind in and of itself. But the night he’d left, his absolute rejection had caused her to harden her heart against him.
She watched him swing Zeke up in his arms. What on earth was he doing? Putting him on a horse? Zeke couldn’t ride, he couldn’t see well enough. She opened her mouth to call down, then paused. Whatever else he might be, Grimm was not a man who made mistakes. Jillian resigned herself to watch for a few moments. Zeke was giddy with excitement, and it wasn’t often she saw him happy. Several of the children and their parents had gathered around to watch. Jillian held her breath. If Grimm’s intentions went awry it would be a painful, public humiliation for Zeke, and one he’d not live down for a long time.
She watched as Grimm bowed his dark head close to the horse; it looked as if he was whispering words in the prancing gray stallion’s ear. Jillian suffered a momentary fancy that the horse had actually nodded his head in response. When Grimm slipped Zeke on the horse’s back, she held her breath. Zeke sat rigidly at first, then slowly relaxed as Grimm led the stallion in easy wide circles around the courtyard. Well, that was all fine and good, Jillian thought, but now what would Zeke do? He certainly couldn’t be led around all the time. What was the point of putting the child on a horse when he could never ride on his own?
She quickly decided she’d had enough. Obviously Grimm didn’t understand; he should not be teaching the boy to want impossible things. He should be encouraging Zeke to read books, to indulge in safer pursuits, as Jillian had done. When a child was handicapped, it made no sense to encourage him to test those limits foolishly in a manner that might cause him harm. Far better to teach him to appreciate different things and pursue attainable dreams. No matter that, like any other child, Zeke might wish to run and play and ride—he had to be taught that he couldn’t, that it was dangerous for him to do so with his impaired vision.
She would take Grimm to task over his lapse in judgment immediately, before any more damage was done. Quite a crowd had gathered in the courtyard, and she could already see the parents shaking their heads and whispering among themselves. She promised herself she would handle this problem coolly and rationally, giving the onlookers no cause for gossip. She would explain to Grimm the proper way to treat young Zeke and demonstrate that she wasn’t always a witless idiot.
She exited the drum tower quickly and made her way to the courtyard.
Grimm led the horse in one last slow circle, certain that at any moment Jillian would burst from the castle. He knew he shouldn’t spend time with her, yet he found himself deliberately arranging to give Zeke his first riding lesson where she’d be certain to see. Only moments before he had glimpsed a flutter of motion and a fall of golden hair in the tower window. His gut tightened with anticipation as he lifted Zeke down from the stallion. “I suspect you feel comfortable with his gait now, Zeke. We’ve made a good start.”
“He’s very easy to ride. But I won’t be able to guide him myself, so what’s the point? I could never ride by myself.”
“Never say never, Zeke,” Grimm chided gently. “The moment you say ‘never’ you’ve chosen not to try. Rather than worrying about what you can’t do, set your mind to thinking of ways that you could do it. You might surprise yourself.”
Zeke blinked up at him. “But everybody tells me I canna ride.”
“Why do you think you can’t ride?” Grimm asked, lowering the boy to the ground.
“ ’Cause I canna see clearly. I may run your horse smack into a rock!” Zeke exclaimed.
“My horse has eyes, lad. Do you think he’d allow you to run him into a rock? Occam wouldn’t let you run him into anything. Trust me, and I’ll show you that a horse can be trained to compensate for your vision.”
“You really think one day I might be able to ride without your help?” Zeke asked in a low voice, so the onlookers gathered around wouldn’t hear the hope in his voice and mock him for it.
“Yes, I do. And I’ll prove it to you, in time.”
“What madness are you telling Zeke?” Jillian demanded, joining them.
Grimm turned to face her, savoring her flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes. “Go on, Zeke.” He gave the lad a gentle nudge toward the castle. “We’ll work on this again tomorrow.”
Zeke grinned at Grimm, stole a quick look at Jillian’s face, and left hurriedly.
“I’m teaching Zeke to ride.”
“Why? He can’t see well, Grimm. He will never be able to ride by himself. He’ll only end up getting hurt.”
“That’s not true. The lad’s been told he can’t do a lot of things that he can do. There are different methods for training a horse. Although Zeke may have poor eyesight, Occam here”—Grimm gestured to his snorting stallion—“has keen enough senses for them both.”
“What did you just say?” Jillian’s brow furrowed.
“I said my horse can see well enough—”
“I heard that part. What did you call your horse?” she demanded, unaware her voice had risen sharply, and the dispersing crowd had halted collectively, hanging on her every word.
Grimm swallowed. He hadn’t thought she’d remember! “Occam,” he said tightly.
“Occam? You named your horse Occam?” Every man, woman, and child in the lower bailey gaped at the uneven timbre of their lady’s voice.
Jillian stalked forward and poked an accusing finger at his chest. “Occam?” she repeated, waiting.
She was waiting for him to say something intelligent, Grimm realized. Damn the woman, but she should know better than that. Intelligent just didn’t happen when he was around Jillian. Then again, demure and temperate didn’t seem to happen when Jillian was around him. Give them a few minutes and they’d be brawling in the courtyard of Caithness while the whole blasted castle watched in abject fascination.
Grimm searched her face intently, seeking some flaw of form that betrayed a weakness of character, anything he could seize upon and stoke into a defense against her charms, but he may as well have searched the seas for a legendary selkie. She was simply perfect. Her strong jaw reflected her proud spirit. Her clear golden eyes shone with truth. She pursed her lips, waiting. Overly full lips, the lower one plump and rosy. Lips that would part sweetly when he took her, lips between which he would slide his tongue, lips that might curve around his …
And those lips were moving, but he didn’t have the damndest idea what she was saying because he’d taken a dangerous segue into a sensual fantasy involving heated, flushed flesh, Jillian’s lips, and a man’s need. The roar of blood pounding in his ears must have deafened him. He struggled to focus on her words, which faded back in just in time for him to hear her say
“You lied! You said you never thought about me at all.”
He gathered his scattered wits defensively. She was looking much too pleased with herself for his peace of mind. “What are you pecking away at now, little peahen?” he said in his most bored voice.
“Occam,” she repeated triumphantly.
“That’s my horse,” he drawled, “and just what is your point?”
Jillian hesitated. Only an instant, but he saw the flicker of embarrassment in her eyes as she must have wondered if he really didn’t remember the day she’d discovered the principle of “Occam’s Razor,” then proceeded to enlighten everyone at Caithness. How could he not recall the child’s delight? How could he forget the discomfiture of visiting lords well versed in politics and hunting, yet utterly put off by a woman with a mind, even a lass at the tender age of eleven? Oh, he remembered; he’d been so bloody proud of her it had hurt. He’d wanted to smack the smirks off the prissy lords’ faces for telling Jillian’s parents to burn her books, lest they ruin a perfectly good female and make her unmarriageable. He remembered. And had named his horse in tribute.
Occam’s Razor: The simplest theory that fits the facts cor
responds most closely to reality. Fit this, Jillian—why do I treat you so horribly? He grimaced. The simplest theory that encompassed the full range of asinine behavior he exhibited around Jillian was that he was hopelessly in love with her, and if he wasn’t careful she would figure it out. He had to be cold, perhaps cruel, for Jillian was an intelligent woman and unless he maintained a convincing façade she would see right through him. He drew a deep breath and steeled his will.
“You were saying?” He arched a sardonic brow. Powerful men had withered into babbling idiots beneath the sarcasm and mockery of that deadly gaze.
But not his Jillian, and it delighted him as much as it worried him. She held her ground, even leaned closer, ignoring the curious stares and perked ears of the onlookers. Close enough that her breath fanned his neck and made him want to seal his lips over hers and draw her breath into his lungs so deeply that she’d need him to breathe it back into her. She looked deep into his eyes, then a smile of delight curved her mouth. “You do remember,” she whispered fiercely. “I wonder what else you lie to me about,” she murmured, and he had the dreadful suspicion she was about to start applying a scientific analysis to his idiotic behavior. Then she’d know, and he’d be exposed for the love-struck dolt he was.
He wrapped his hand around her wrist and clamped his fingers tight, until he knew she understood he could snap it with a flick of his hand. He deliberately let his eyes flash the blazing, unholy look people loathed. Even Jillian back-stepped slightly, and he knew that somehow she’d caught the tiniest glimpse of the Berserker in his eyes. It would serve her well to fear him. She must be afraid of him—Christ knew, he was afraid of himself. Although Jillian had changed and matured, he still had nothing to offer her. No clan, no family, and no home. “When I left Caithness I swore never to return. That’s what I remember, Jillian.” He dropped her wrist. “And I did not come back willingly, but for a vow made long ago. If I named my horse a word you happen to be familiar with, how arrogant you are to think it had anything to do with you.”