“The barber is closer,” Hatchard suggested.
“No barber,” Grimm snapped. He turned to Jillian. “Are you all right, lass?” When she nodded, he expelled a relieved breath. “Find Ramsay,” he instructed Kaley ominously.
Kaley’s eyes widened in comprehension, and she flew from the room.
“What happened?” Jillian asked blankly.
Grimm laid a damp cloth on Quinn’s head. “I suspect it’s poison.” He didn’t tell her he was certain; the recent contents of Quinn’s stomach pervaded the air, and to a Berserker the stench of poison was obvious. “I think he’ll be all right. If it’s what I think it is, he would be dead by now had the dose been strong enough. It must have been diluted somehow.”
“Who would poison Quinn? Everybody likes Quinn.” She unwittingly echoed Hatchard’s words.
“I know, lass. Everyone keeps telling me that,” Grimm said drolly.
“Ramsay is ill!” Kaley’s words echoed down the corridor. “Someone come help me! I can’t hold him down!”
Grimm looked toward the hall, then back at Quinn, clearly torn. “Go to Kaley, lass. I can’t leave him,” he said through his teeth. Some might consider him paranoid, but if his suspicions were correct, it was supposed to have been him lying in a pile of his own vomit, dead.
An ashen-faced Jillian complied quickly.
Biting back a curse, Grimm daubed at Quinn’s forehead and sat back to wait for the physician.
The physician arrived, carrying two large satchels and dashing rain from the thinning web of hair that crowned his pate. After questioning nearly everyone in the inn, he conceded to inspect the patients. Moving with surprising grace for such a rotund man, he paced to and fro, scribbling notes in a tiny book. After peering into their eyes, inspecting their tongues, and prodding their distended abdomens, he retreated to the pages of his tiny booklet.
“Give them barley water stewed with figs, honey, and licorice,” he instructed after several moments of flipping pages in thoughtful silence. “Nothing else, you understand, for it won’t be digested. The stomach is a cauldron in which food is simmered. While their humors are out of balance, nothing can be cooked, and anything with substance will come back up,” the physician informed them. “Liquids only.”
“Will they be all right?” Jillian asked worriedly. They’d moved the two men into a clean room adjoining Kaley’s for easier tending.
The physician frowned, causing lines to fold his double chin as lugubriously as they creased his forehead. “I think they’re out of danger. Neither of them appears to have consumed enough to kill him, but I suspect they’ll be weak for some time. Lest they try to rise, you’ll want to dilute this with water—it’s mandrake.” He proffered a small pouch. “Soak cloths in it and place them over their faces.” The physician struck a lecturing pose, tapping his quill against his booklet. “You must be certain to cover both their nostrils and mouths completely for several minutes. As they inhale, the vapors will penetrate the body and keep them asleep. The spirits recover faster if the humors rest undisturbed. You see, there are four humors and three spirits … ah, but forgive me, I’m quite certain you don’t wish to hear all of that. Only one who studies with the zeal of a physician might find such facts fascinating.” He snapped his booklet closed. “Do as I have instructed and they shall make a full recovery.”
“No bleeding?” Hatchard blinked.
The physician snorted. “Fetch a barber if you have an enemy you wish to murder. Fetch a physician if you have an ill patient you wish to revive.”
Grimm nodded vehement agreement and rose to escort the physician out.
“Oh, Quinn,” Jillian said, and sighed, placing a hand on his clammy forehead. She fussed at his woolens, tucking them snugly around his fevered body.
Standing behind Jillian on one side of Quinn’s bed, Kaley beamed at Hatchard, who was perched across the room, applying cool cloths to Ramsay’s brow. She will choose Quinn, didn’t I tell you? she mouthed silently.
Hatchard merely lifted a brow and rolled his eyes.
When Grimm checked on the men the following morning, their condition had improved; however, they were still sedated, and not in any condition to travel.
Kaley insisted on acquiring the wares the men had originally come for, so Grimm reluctantly agreed to escort Jillian to the fair. Once there, he rushed her through the stalls at a breakneck pace, despite her protests. When a blanket of fog rolled down from the mountains and sheathed Durrkesh in the afternoon, a relieved Grimm informed Jillian it was time to return to the inn.
Fog always made Grimm uneasy, which proved inconvenient, as Scotland was such foggy terrain. This wasn’t a normal fog, however; it was a thick, wet cape of dense white clouds that lingered on the ground and swirled around their feet as they walked. By the time they left the market, he could scarcely see Jillian’s face a few feet from him.
“I love this!” Jillian exclaimed, slicing her arms through the tendrils of mist, scattering them with her movement. “Fog has always seemed so romantic to me.”
“Life has always seemed romantic to you, lass. You used to think Bertie down at the stables spelling your name in horse manure was romantic,” he reminded dryly.
“I still do,” she said indignantly. “He learned his letters for the express purpose of writing my name. I think that’s very romantic.” Her brow furrowed as she peered through the soupy mist.
“Obviously you’ve never had to fight a battle in this crap,” he said irritably. Fog reminded him of Tuluth and irrevocable choices. “It’s damned hard to kill a man when you can’t see where you’re slicing with your sword.”
Jillian stopped abruptly. “Our lives are vastly different, aren’t they?” she asked, suddenly sober. “You’ve killed many men, haven’t you, Grimm Roderick?”
“You should know,” he replied tersely. “You watched me do it.”
Jillian nibbled her lip and studied him. “The McKane would have killed my family that day, Grimm. You protected us. If a man must kill to protect his clan, there is no sin in that.”
Would that he could absolve himself with such generosity, he thought. She still had no idea that the McKane’s attack had not been directed at her family. They’d come to Caithness that foggy day long ago only because they’d heard a Berserker might be in residence. She hadn’t known that then, and apparently Gibraltar St. Clair had never revealed his secret.
“Why did you leave that night, Grimm?” Jillian asked carefully.
“I left because it was time,” he said roughly, shoving a hand through his hair. “I’d learned all your father could teach me, and it was time to move on. There was nothing to hold me at Caithness any longer.”
Jillian sighed. “Well, you should know that none of us ever blamed you, despite the fact that we knew you blamed yourself. Even dear Edmund vowed until his last that you were the most noble warrior he’d ever met.” Jillian’s eyes misted. “We buried him under the apple tree, just as he’d asked,” she added, mostly to herself. “I go there when the heather is blooming. He loved white heather.”
Grimm stopped, startled. “Buried? Edmund? What?”
“Edmund. He wished to be buried under the apple tree. We used to play there, remember?”
His fingers closed around her wrist. “When did Edmund die? I thought he was with your brother Hugh in the Highlands.”
“No. Edmund died shortly after you left. Nearly seven years ago.”
“He was scarcely wounded when the McKane attacked,” Grimm insisted. “Even your father said he’d easily recover!”
“He took an infection, then caught a lung complication on top of it,” she replied, perplexed by his reaction. “The fever never abated. He wasn’t in pain long, Grimm. And some of his last words were of you. He swore you defeated the McKane single-handedly and mumbled some nonsense about you being … what was it? A warrior of Odin’s who could change shapes, or something like that. But then, Edmund was ever fanciful,” she added with a faint smile.
Grimm stared at her through the fog.
“Wh-what?” Jillian stammered, confused by the intensity with which he studied her. When he stepped toward her, she backed up slightly, drawing nearer the stone wall that encircled the church behind her.
“What if creatures like that really existed, Jillian?” he asked, his blue eyes glittering. He knew he shouldn’t tread on such dangerous territory, but here was a chance to discover her feelings without revealing himself.
“What do you mean?”
“What if it wasn’t fantasy?” he pushed. “What if there really were men who could do the things Edmund spoke of? Men who were part mythical beast—endowed with special abilities, skilled in the art of war, almost invincible. What would you think of such a man?”
Jillian studied him intently. “What an odd question. Do you believe such warriors exist, Grimm Roderick?”
“Hardly,” he said tightly. “I believe in what I can see and touch and hold in my hand. The legend of the Berserkers is nothing more than a foolish tale told to frighten mischievous children into good behavior.”
“Then why did you ask me what I would think if they did?” she persisted.
“It was just a hypothetical question. I was merely making conversation, and it was a stupid conversation. By Odin’s spear, lass—nobody believes in Berserkers!” He resumed walking, gesturing with an impatient scowl for her to follow.
They walked a few yards in silence. Then, without preamble, Grimm said, “Is Ramsay a fine kisser?”
“What?” Jillian nearly fell over her own feet.
“Ramsay, peahen. Does he kiss well?” Grimm repeated irritably.
Jillian battled the urge to beam with delight. “Well,” she drawled thoughtfully, “I haven’t had much experience, but in all fairness I’d have to say his kiss was the best I’ve ever had.”
Grimm instantly held her trapped her against him, between his hard body and the stone wall. He tilted her head back with a relentless hand beneath her chin. By the saints, how could the man move so quickly? And how delicious that he did.
“Let me help you put it in perspective, lass. But doona think for a minute this means anything. I’m just trying to help you understand there are better men out there. Think of this as a lesson, nothing more. I’d hate to see you wed to Logan simply because you thought he was the best kisser, when such a mistaken perception can be so easily remedied.”
Jillian raised her hand to his lips, barring him the kiss he threatened. “I don’t need a lesson, Grimm. I can make up my own mind. I loathe the thought of you putting yourself out, suffering on my behalf—”
“I’m willing to suffer a bit. Consider it a favor, since we were once childhood friends.” He clasped her hand in his and tugged it away from his lips.
“You were never my friend,” she reminded him sweetly. “You chased me away constantly—”
“Not the first year—”
“I thought you didn’t remember anything about me or your time at Caithness. Isn’t that what you told me? And I don’t need any favors from you, Grimm Roderick. Besides, what makes you so certain your kiss will be better? Ramsay’s positively took my breath away. I could scarcely stand when he was done,” she lied shamelessly. “What if you kiss me and it’s not as good as Ramsay’s kiss? Then what reason would I have for not marrying him?” Having thrown the gauntlet, Jillian felt as smug as a cat as she waited for the breathtaking kiss she knew would follow.
His expression furious, he claimed her mouth with his.
And the earthquake began beneath his toes. Grimm groaned against her lips as the sensation stripped his waning control.
Jillian sighed and parted her lips.
She was being kissed by Grimm Roderick, and it was everything she’d remembered. The kiss they’d shared so long ago in the stables had seemed a mystical experience, and over the years she’d wondered if she glorified it in her mind, only imagining that it had rocked her entire world. But her memory had been accurate. Her body came alive, her lips tingled, her nipples hardened. She wanted every inch of his body, in every way possible. On top of her, beneath her, beside her, behind her. Hard, muscled, demanding—she knew he was man enough to sate the endless hunger she felt for him.
She twined her fingers in his hair and kissed him back, then lost her breath entirely when he deepened the kiss. One hand cupped her jaw; the other slid down the bow of her spine, cupping her hips, molding her body tightly against his. All thought ceased as Jillian gave herself over to what had long been her greatest fantasy: to touch Grimm Roderick as a woman, as his woman. His hands were at her hips, pushing at her gown—and suddenly her hands were at his kilt, tearing at his sporran to get beneath it. She found his thick manhood and brazenly grasped its hardness through the fabric of his plaid. She felt his body stiffen against hers, and the groan of desire that escaped him was the sweetest sound Jillian had ever heard.
Something exploded between them, and there in the mist and fog of Durrkesh she was so consumed by the need to mate her man that she no longer cared that they stood on a public street. Grimm wanted her, wanted to make love to her—his body told her that clearly. She arched against him, encouraging, entreating. The kiss hadn’t merely rendered her breathless, it had depleted the last of her meager supply of sense.
He caught her questing hand and pinned it against the wall above her head. Only when he had secured both her hands did he change the tempo of the kiss, turning it into a teasing, playful flicker of his tongue, probing, then withdrawing, until she was gasping for more. He brushed the length of his body against hers with the same slow, teasing rhythm.
He tore his lips away from hers with excruciating slowness, catching her lower lip between his teeth and tugging gently. Then, with a last luscious lick of his tongue, he drew back.
“So what do you think? Could Ramsay compare to that?” he asked hoarsely, eyeing her breasts intently. Only when he ascertained that they didn’t rise and fall for a long moment, that he had indeed managed to “kiss her breathless,” did he raise his eyes to hers.
Jillian swayed as she struggled to keep her knees from simply buckling beneath her. She stared at him blankly. Words? He thought she could form words after that? He thought she could think?
Grimm’s gaze searched her face intently, and Jillian saw a look of smug satisfaction banked in his glittering eyes. The faintest hint of a smile curved his lip when she didn’t reply but stood gazing, lips swollen, eyes round. “Breathe, peahen. You can breathe now.”
Still, she stared at him blankly. Valiantly she sucked in a great, whistling breath of air.
“Hmmph” was all he said as he took her hand and tugged her along. She trotted beside him on rubbery legs, occasionally stealing a peek at the supremely masculine expression of satisfaction on his face.
Grimm didn’t speak another word for the duration of their walk back to the inn. That was fine with Jillian; she wasn’t certain she could have formed a complete sentence if her life had depended on it. She briefly wondered who, if either of them, had won that skirmish. She concluded weakly that she had. He hadn’t been unaffected by their encounter, and she’d gotten the kiss she craved.
When they arrived at the Black Boot, Hatchard informed the strangely taciturn couple that the men, although still quite weak, were impatient to be moved out of the inn. Analyzing all the risks, Hatchard had concurred that it was the wisest course. He had procured a wagon for the purpose, and they would return to Caithness at first light.
CHAPTER 14
“TELL ME A STORY, JILLIAN,” ZEKE DEMANDED, AMBLING into the solar. “I sore missed you and Mama while you were away.” The little boy clambered up onto the settle beside her and nestled in her arms.
Jillian brushed his hair back from his forehead and dropped a kiss on it. “What shall it be, my sweet Zeke? Dragons? Fairies? The selkie?”
“Tell me about the Berserkers,” he said decidedly.
“The what?”
“The Berserkers,”
Zeke said patiently. “You know, the mighty warriors of Odin.”
Jillian snorted delicately. “What is it with boys and their battles? My brothers adored that fairy tale.”
“ ’Tis not a fae-tale, ’tis true,” Zeke informed her. “Mama told me they still prowl the Highlands.”
“Nonsense,” Jillian said. “I shall tell you a fitting tale for a young boy.”
“I don’t want a fitting tale. I want a story with knights and heroes and quests. And Berserkers.”
“Oh my, you are growing up, aren’t you?” Jillian said wryly, tousling his hair.
“Course I am,” Zeke said indignantly.
“No Berserkers. I shall tell you, instead, of the boy and the nettles.”
“Is this another one of your stories with a point?” Zeke complained.
Jillian sniffed. “There’s nothing wrong with stories that have a point.”
“Fine. Tell me about the stupid nettles.” He plunked his chin on his fist and glowered.
Jillian laughed at his sullen expression. “I’ll tell you what, Zeke. I shall tell you a story with a point, and then you may go find Grimm and ask him to tell you the story of your fearless warriors. I’m certain he knows it. He’s the most fearless man I’ve ever met,” Jillian added with a sigh. “Here we go. Pay attention:
“Once upon time there was a wee lad who was walking through the forest and came upon a patch of nettles. Fascinated by the unusual cluster, he tried to pluck it so he might take it home and show his mama. The plant stung him painfully, and he raced home, his fingers stinging. ‘I scarcely touched it, Mama!’ the lad cried.
“ ‘That is exactly why it stung you,’ his mama replied. ‘The next time you touch a nettle, grab it boldly, and it will be soft as silk in your hand and not hurt you in the least.’” Jillian paused meaningfully.
“That’s it?” Zeke demanded, outraged. “That wasn’t a story! You cheated me!”
Jillian bit her lip to prevent laughter; he looked like an offended little bear cub. She was tired from the journey and her storytelling abilities were a bit weak at the moment, but there was a useful lesson in it. Besides, the largest part of her mind was preoccupied with thoughts of the incredible kiss she’d received yesterday. It required every shred of her waning self-control to keep from trundling off to find Grimm herself, nestling on his lap and sweetly begging for a bedtime story. Or, more accurately, just a bedtime. “Tell me what it means, Zeke,” Jillian coaxed.