“What do you want from me?” Grimm said quietly.
“Your life,” the McKane said simply. “To see the last of the McIllioch die is all I’ve ever wanted.”
“We’re not the monsters you think we are.” Ronin glowered at the McKane chieftain.
“You’re pagans. Heathens, blasphemers to the one true religion—”
“You’re hardly one to judge!” Ronin exclaimed.
“Dinna think to debate the Lord’s word with me, McIllioch. The voice of Satan will not tempt me from God’s course.”
Ronin’s lip drew back in a snarl. “When man thinks he knows God’s course better than God himself is when hundreds die—”
“Free Jillian and you may have my life,” Grimm interrupted. “But she goes free. You will entrust her to”—Grimm glanced at Ronin—“my da.” He tried to meet Ronin’s gaze when he named him his sire, but couldn’t.
“I dinna recover you to lose you again, lad,” Ronin muttered harshly.
“What a touching reunion,” Connor remarked dryly. “But lose him you will. And if you want her, Gavrael McIllioch—last of the Berserkers—free her yourself. She’s up there.” He pointed to Wotan’s Cleft. “In the caves.”
Horrified, Grimm scanned the jagged face of the cliff. “Where in the caves?” Dread filled him at the thought of Jillian wandering in the darkness, skirting dangers she couldn’t even know were there: collapsed tunnels, rock slides, dangerous pits.
“Find her yourself.”
“How do I know this isn’t a trap?” Grimm’s eyes glittered dangerously.
“You don’t,” the McKane said flatly. “But if she is in there, it’s very dark and there are a lot of dangerous chasms. Besides, what would I gain by sending you off into the caves?”
“They could be set to explode,” Grimm said tightly.
“Then I guess you better get her out fast, McIllioch,” the McKane provoked.
Ronin shook his head. “We need proof that she’s in there. And alive.”
Connor dispatched a guard with a low rush of words.
Some time later, that proof was offered. Jillian’s piercing scream ripped through the tense air of the valley.
Ronin watched in silence as Grimm climbed the rocky pass to Wotan’s Cleft.
Balder was far back in the ranks, his features concealed by a heavy cloak to prevent the McKane from realizing there was yet another unmated Berserker still alive. Ronin had insisted they not reveal his existence unless it was necessary to save lives.
From different vantages, the brothers admired the young man mounting the cleft. He’d left Occam behind and was scaling the sheer face of the cliff with a skill and ease that revealed the preternatural prowess of the Berserker. After years of hiding what he was, he now flaunted his superiority to the enemy. He was a warrior, at one with the beast, born to survive and endure. When he topped the cliff and disappeared over the edge the two clans sat their horses in battle lines, staring across the space that separated them with hatred so palpable it hung in the air as thick and oppressive as the smoke that had filled the vale fifteen years past.
Until Jillian and Grimm—or, God forbid, a McKane—topped the edge of the cliff, neither side would move. The McKane hadn’t come to Tuluth to lose any more of their clan; they’d come to take Gavrael and eliminate the last of the Berserkers.
The McIllioch didn’t move out of fear for Jillian.
The time stretched painfully.
Grimm entered the tunnel silently. His every instinct demanded he bellow for Jillian, but that would only alert whoever was holding her to his presence. The memory of her terrible scream both chilled his blood and made it boil for vengeance.
He eased into the tunnel, gliding with the silent stealth of a mountain cat, sniffing the air like a wolf. All his animal instincts roused with chill, predatory perfection. Somewhere torches were burning; the scent was unmistakable. He followed the odor down twisting corridors, his hands outstretched in the darkness. Although the interior of the tunnels was pitch black, his heightened vision enabled him to discern the slope of the floor. Skirting deep pits and ducking beneath crumbling ceilings, he navigated the musty tunnels, following the scent.
He rounded a bend where the tunnel opened into a long straight corridor, and there she was, her golden hair gleaming in the torchlight.
“Stop right there,” Ramsay Logan warned. “Or she dies.”
It was a vision from one of his worst nightmares. Ramsay had Jillian at the end of the tunnel. He’d gagged and bound her. She was wearing the McKane tartan, and the sight of it on her body filled him with fury. The question of who had stripped and reclothed her tortured him. He assessed her quickly, assuring himself that whatever had made her scream had not drawn blood or left visible sign of injury. The blade Logan was holding to her throat had not pierced her delicate skin. Yet.
“Ramsay Logan.” Grimm gave him a chilling smile.
“Not surprised to see me, eh, Roderick? Or should I say McIllioch?” He spat the name as if he’d found a foul thing lying on his tongue.
“No, I can’t say I’m surprised.” Grimm moved stealthily nearer. “I always knew what kind of man you are.”
“I said stop, you bastard. I won’t hesitate to kill her.”
“And then what would you do?” Grimm countered, but drew to a halt. “You’ll never make it past me, so what would killing Jillian accomplish?”
“I’d get the pleasure of ridding the world of McIllioch monsters yet to be. And if I don’t come out, the McKane will destroy you when you do.”
“Let her go. Release her and you can have me,” Grimm offered. Jillian thrashed in Ramsay’s tight grip, making it clear that she wanted no such thing.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, McIllioch.”
Grimm said nothing, his eyes murderous. A score of yards lay between them, and Grimm wondered if the Berserker rage could get him across it and free Jillian before Ramsay could slice with the knife.
It was too risky to chance, and Ramsay was counting on that to stay him. But something didn’t make sense. What did Logan hope to gain? If he killed Jillian, Ramsay knew Grimm would go Berserk and rip him to shreds. What was Logan’s plan? He began to ask questions, trying to buy precious minutes. “Why are you doing this, Logan? I know we’ve had our disagreements in the past, but they were minor.”
“It has nothing to do with our disagreements and everything to do with what you are.” Ramsay sneered. “You’re not human, McIllioch.”
Grimm closed his eyes, unwilling to see the look of horror he was certain would be on Jillian’s face. “When did you figure it out?” Keeping Ramsay talking might give him insight into what the bastard wanted. If it was his life and his alone, and he could assure Jillian’s safety by giving it, he would gladly die. But if Ramsay planned to kill them both, Grimm would die fighting for her.
“I figured it out the day you killed the mountain cat. I was standing in the trees and saw you after you transformed. Hatchard called you by your real name.” Ramsay shook his head in disgust. “All those years at court I never knew. Oh, I knew who Gavrael McIllioch was—hell, I think everyone does but your lovely bitch here.” He laughed when Grimm stiffened. “Careful, or I cut.”
“So you aren’t the one who tried to poison me?” Grimm inched forward so gracefully he didn’t appear to be moving.
Ramsay roared with laughter. “That was a fine fix. Hell yes, I tried to poison you. Even that backfired; you switched it somehow. But I didn’t know you were a Berserker then, or I wouldn’t have wasted my time.”
Grimm winced. It was out. But Jillian’s face was turned to the side, away from the knife, and he couldn’t make out her expression.
“No,” Ramsay continued. “I had no idea. I just wanted you out of the running for Jillian. You see, I need the lass.”
“I was right. You need her dowry.”
“But you don’t know the half of it. I’m in to Campbell so deeply, he’s holding the titles to my land
. In years past the Logans hired out as mercenaries, but there haven’t been any good wars lately. Do you know when we hired out as mercenaries last? Stop moving!” he bellowed.
Grimm stood impassively. “When?”
“Fifteen years ago. To the McKane, you bastard. And fifteen years ago, Gavrael McIllioch killed my da and three of my brothers.”
Grimm hadn’t known. The battle was a blur in his mind, his first Berserker rage. “In fair battle. And if your clan hired out they weren’t even fighting for a cause, but murdering for coin. If they were in Tuluth, they were attacking my home and slaughtering my people—”
“You’re not people. You’re not human.”
“Jillian’s not part of this. Let her go. It’s me you want.”
“She’s part of it if she’s breeding, McIllioch. She swears she’s not, but I think I’ll keep her just to make sure. The McKane told me a lot about you monsters. I know the boys are born Berserkers but don’t change until they get older. A boy slips out of her womb, he’s dead. If it’s a girl, who knows. I may let it live. She could be a pretty toy.”
Grimm finally managed to get a glimpse of Jillian’s face. It was drawn in a mask of horror. So it was out. She knew, and it was over. The fear and revulsion he’d glimpsed in his nightmares had indeed been a portent. The fight nearly fled him when he saw it, and would have had she not been in danger. He could die now. He may as well, because inside he already had. But not Jillian; she must live.
“She’s not pregnant, Ramsay.”
Wasn’t she? Memories of her sudden nausea at the cottage surfaced in his mind. Of course Ramsay couldn’t know, but the mere possibility of Jillian carrying his child sent a primitive thrill of exultation through Grimm’s body. His need to protect her, already all-consuming, became the singular focus of his mind. Ramsay might have the upper hand, but Grimm refused to let him win.
“As if you would tell me the truth.” Logan scoffed. “There’s only one way to find out. Besides, whether she is or isn’t, she’ll still be wedding me. I want the gold she brings as her dowry. Between her and what the McKane pay me, I’ll never have to worry about wealth again. Don’t worry, I’ll keep her alive. So long as she breathes, Gibraltar will do anything to keep her happy, which means an endless supply of coin.”
“You son of a bitch. Just let her go!”
“You want her? Come and get her.” Ramsay taunted.
Grimm stepped forward, eyeing the distance. In the instant he hesitated, Ramsay moved the blade, pricking Jillian’s skin, and drops of crimson blood fell.
The Berserker, simmering with rage, erupted.
Even as he wondered why Ramsay would dare goad the Berserker into appearing, instinct plunged him forward. He had been considering cutting himself to bring on the rage, when Ramsay had done it for him. One leap brought him ten paces forward. He tried to stop, sensing an unknown trap, but the floor of the cave disappeared beneath his feet and he plunged into a chasm that hadn’t existed when he’d played these tunnels as a boy. A chasm deep enough to kill even a Berserker.
“Good riddance, you bastard,” Ramsay said with a smile. He held the torch above the previously concealed pit and peered as deep as the flames would permit. He waited a full five minutes but heard no sound. When he’d selected his trap, he’d tossed stones into the chasm to test the depth. None of the stones had yielded a sound, so deep was the aperture yawning into the core of the earth. If Grimm hadn’t been ripped to shreds on rocky slag, the fall itself would crush every bone in his body. Skirting the pit, he dragged Jillian from the caves.
“It’s done!” Ramsay Logan cried. “The McKane!” he roared. He stood on the edge of Wotan’s Cleft, raised his arm, and bellowed a cry of victory that was instantly echoed by all the McKane. The valley resounded with triumphant thunder. Exuberant, Ramsay released Jillian’s hands and removed her gag. His took her mouth in a triumphant, brutal kiss. She stiffened, revolted, and struggled against him. Angered by her resistance, he shoved her away, and Jillian crumpled to her knees.
“Get up, you stupid bitch,” Ramsay shouted, nudging at her with his foot. “I said get up!” he roared again when she responded to his kick by curling into a ball. “I don’t need you right now anyway,” he muttered, gazing down at the valley that would be his home. Adulation lay in the valley, a reflection of his mighty conquest. He waved his arm again, elated by the kill.
Ramsay Logan had taken a Berserker single-handed. His name would live in legends. The chasm was so deep that not even one of Odin’s monsters could survive the fall. He’d carefully covered it with thin sheaves of wood, then scattered stone dust atop it. It had been brilliant, if he had to say so himself.
“Brilliant,” Ramsay informed the night.
Behind Ramsay, Grimm blinked, trying to clear the red haze of bloodlust. A part of his mind that seemed lost down an endless corridor reminded him that he wanted to attack the man standing near the balled-up woman, not the woman herself. The woman was his world. When he sprang he must be careful, very careful, for to even touch her with the strength of Berserkergang could kill her. A slight brush of his hand could shatter her jaw, the merest caress of her breast could crush her ribs.
To those sitting the horses in the valley below, listening to Ramsay Logan’s victory cry, the creature seemed to explode out of the night with such speed it was impossible to identify. A blur of motion surged through the air, grabbed Ramsay Logan by the hair, and neatly severed his head before anyone could so much as shout a warning.
Because she was on the ground, the clans gathered below couldn’t see Jillian roll over, startled by the slight hissing sound the blade made as it whisked through the air for Ramsay’s throat. But the creature on the cliffs saw her move, and he waited for her judgment, resigned to condemnation.
It was the worst Jillian might ever see of him, the beast realized. In the full throes of Berserkergang, he towered over her, his blue eyes blazing incandescently. He was bruised and bloody from a fall that had halted abruptly on a jagged outcropping, and he held Ramsay Logan’s severed head in one hand. He stared at her, pumping great gasps of air into his chest, waiting. Would she scream? Spit at him, hiss and renounce him? Jillian St. Clair was all he’d ever wanted in his entire life, and as he waited for her to shriek in horror of him, he felt something inside him trying to die.
But the Berserker wouldn’t go down so easily. The wild-ness in him rose to its full height and stared down at her through vulnerable ice-blue eyes, wordlessly beseeching her love.
Jillian raised her head slowly and gazed at him a long, silent moment. She drew herself upright into a sitting position and tilted her head back, her eyes wide.
Berserker.
The truth he’d struggled so hard to hide hung between them, fully exposed.
Although Jillian had known what Grimm was before that moment, she was briefly immobilized by the sight of him. It was one thing to know that the man she loved was a Berserker—it was another thing entirely to behold it. He regarded her with such an inhuman expression that if she hadn’t peered deep into his eyes, she might have seen nothing of Grimm at all. But there, deep in the flickering blue flames, she glimpsed such love that it rocked her soul. She smiled up at him through her tears.
A wounded sound of disbelief escaped him.
Jillian gave him the most dazzling smile she could muster and placed her fist to her heart. “And the daughter wed the lion king,” she said clearly.
An expression of incredulity crossed the warrior’s face. His blue eyes widened and he stared at her in stunned silence.
“I love you, Gavrael McIllioch.”
When he smiled, his face blazed with love. He tossed his head back and shouted his joy to the sky.
The last of the McKane died in the vale of Tuluth, December 14, 1515.
CHAPTER 34
“THEY’RE COMING, HAWK!” ADRIENNE SPED INTO THE Greathall where Hawk, Lydia, and Tavis were busy decorating for the wedding. As the ceremony was being held on Christma
s Day, they’d combined the customary decorations with the gaily colored greens and reds of the season. Exquisite wreaths fashioned of pinecones and dried berries had been decorated with brilliant velvet bows and shimmering ribbons. The finest tapestries adorned the walls, including one Adrienne had helped to weave over the past year that featured a Nativity scene with a radiant Madonna cradling the infant Jesus while proud Joseph and the magi looked on.
Today the hall was clear of rushes, the stones scoured to a spotless gray. Later, only moments before the wedding, they would strew dried rose petals across the stones to release a springy floral aroma into the air. Sprigs of mistletoe dangled from every beam and Adrienne eyed the foliage, peering up at Hawk, who stood on a ladder, fastening a wreath to the wall.
“What are those lovely sprigs you’ve hung, Hawk?” Adrienne asked, the picture of innocence.
Hawk glanced down at her. “Mistletoe. It’s a Christmas tradition.”
“How is it associated with Christmas?”
“The legends say the Scandinavian god of peace, Balder, was slain by an arrow fashioned of mistletoe. The other gods and goddesses loved Balder so greatly, they begged his life be restored and mistletoe be endowed with special meaning.”
“What kind of special meaning?” Adrienne blinked expectantly up at him.
Hawk slid swiftly down the ladder, happy to demonstrate. He kissed her so passionately that the embers of desire, always at a steady burn around her husband, roared into flame. “One who passes beneath the mistletoe must be kissed thoroughly.”
“Mmm. I like this tradition. But what happened to poor Balder?”
Hawk grinned and planted another kiss on her lips. “Balder was returned to life and the care of mistletoe was bequeathed to the goddess of love. Each time a kiss is given beneath mistletoe, love and peace gain a stronger foothold in the world of mortals.”
“How lovely,” Adrienne exclaimed. Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “So essentially, the more I kiss you under this branch”—she pointed up—“the more good I’m doing the world. One might say I’m helping all of humankind, doing my duty—”