Impossible, Jillian silently argued her case with shaky conviction. Her da would not do this to her. Would he? Even as she denied it, the long, considering glances her da had been giving her before he’d left surfaced in her mind. Suddenly his somewhat guilty expression, his last-minute hugs before he’d left made sense to Jillian. By the saints, as dispassionately as he matched his broodmares, her da had locked her in the stables with three hot-blooded studs and gone visiting.
Make that two hot-blooded studs and one cold, arrogant, impossible heathen, she amended silently. For surely as the sun rose and set, Grimm Roderick wouldn’t deign to touch her even with someone else’s hands. Jillian’s shoulders slumped.
As if he’d somehow read her mind, Grimm Roderick’s words drifted up, inciting more of that witless fury she suffered in his presence.
“Well, you doona have to worry about me, lads, for I wouldn’t wed the woman if she was the last woman in all of Scotia. So it’s up to the two of you to make Jillian a husband.”
Jillian clenched her jaw and fled down the corridor before she could succumb to a mad urge to fling herself over the balustrade, a hissing female catapult of teeth and nails.
CHAPTER 4
MALDEBANN CASTLE
THE HIGHLANDS, ABOVE TULUTH
“MILORD, YOUR SON IS NEAR.”
Ronin McIllioch surged to his feet, his blue eyes blazing. “He’s coming here? Now?”
“No, milord. Forgive me, I did not mean to alarm you,” Gilles corrected hastily. “He is at Caithness.”
“Caithness,” Ronin repeated. He exchanged glances with his men. Their gazes reflected concern, caution, and unmistakable hope. “Have you any idea why he’s there?” Ronin asked.
“No. Shall we find out?”
“Dispatch Elliott, he blends in well. Discreetly, mind you,” Ronin said. Softly he added, “My son is closer than he’s come in years.”
“Yes, milord. Think you he may come home?”
Ronin McIllioch smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “The time is not yet right for his return. We still have work to do. Send with Elliott the young boy who draws. I want pictures, with great detail.”
“Yes, milord.”
“And Gilles?”
Gilles paused in the doorway.
“Has anything … changed?”
Gilles sighed and shook his head. “He still calls himself Grimm. And as nearly as our men have been able to ascertain, he has never bothered to ask if you’re still alive. Nor has he ever once looked west to Maldebann.”
Ronin inclined his head. “Thank you. That will be all, Gilles.”
Jillian found Kaley dicing potatoes in the kitchen. Kaley Twillow was a motherly woman in her late thirties; her curvaceous body couched an equally spacious heart. Originally from England, she’d come to Caithness upon the reference of one of Gibraltar’s friends when her husband had died. Maid, cook’s assistant, confidante in place of a scheming mother—Kaley did it all. Jillian plunked down on the edge of a chair and said without preface, “Kaley, there’s a thing I’ve been wondering.”
“And what might that be, dear?” Kaley asked with a tender smile. She laid her knife aside. “As a rule, your questions are quite peculiar, but they are always interesting.”
Jillian edged her chair nearer to the cutting block where Kaley stood, so the other servants in the busy kitchen wouldn’t overhear. “What does it mean when a man ‘comes for a woman’?” she whispered conspiratorially.
Kaley blinked rapidly. “Comes?” she echoed.
“Comes,” Jillian affirmed.
Kaley retrieved her knife, clutching it like a small sword. “In just what context did you hear this phrase used?” she asked stiffly. “Was it in reference to you? Was it one of the guards? Who was the man?”
Jillian shrugged. “I overheard a man saying he was told to ‘come for Jillian’ and he planned to do just that, precisely to the letter. I don’t understand. He already did it—he came here.”
Kaley thought a moment, then chortled, relaxing visibly. “It wouldn’t have been the mighty, golden Quinn, would it, Jillian?”
Jillian’s blush was reply enough for Kaley.
She calmly replaced her knife on the cutting board. “It means, dear lass”—Kaley bent her head close to Jillian’s—“that he plans to bed you.”
“Oh!” Jillian flinched, eyes wide. “Thank you, Kaley.” She excused herself crisply.
Kaley’s eyes sparkled as Jillian beat a hasty retreat from the kitchen. “A fine man. Lucky lass.”
As she raced for her chambers, Jillian seethed. While she could appreciate her parents’ desire to see her wed, it was their fault as much as hers that she wasn’t. They hadn’t started encouraging her until last year, and shortly thereafter they’d dumped a barrage of candidates upon her with no warning. One by one, Jillian had brilliantly discouraged them by convincing them she was an unattainable paragon, not to be considered in a carnal, worldly sense—a woman better suited for the cloister than the marriage bed. A declaration of such intent had cooled the ardor of several of her suitors.
If cool civility and frigid reserve failed, she hinted at a family disposition toward madness that sent men scurrying. She’d had to resort to that on only two occasions; apparently her pious act was pretty convincing. And why shouldn’t it be? she brooded. She’d never done anything particularly daring or improper in her entire life, hence she’d acquired a reputation as “a truly good person.” “Yuck,” she informed the wall. “Chisel that on my headstone. ‘She was a truly good person, but she’s dead now.’”
Although her efforts to dissuade her suitors had been successful, she’d apparently failed to stop her parents from scheming to marry her off; they’d summoned three more suitors to Caithness and abandoned her to her own straits. Dire straits indeed, for Jillian knew these men were not the kind to be put off with a few cool words and an aloof demeanor. Nor would they likely accept her claims of inherited madness. These men were too confident, too bold … oh, hell’s bells, she dusted off another childhood curse, they were far too masculine for any woman’s peace of mind. And if she wasn’t careful, these three men could cause her to reclaim all the childhood epithets she’d learned while skipping at the heels of Quinn and Grimm. Jillian was accustomed to gentle, modest men, men gelded by their own insecurities, not swaggering, uncut bulls who thought “insecure” meant an unstable fortress or a weak timber in a foundation.
Of the three men currently invading her home, the only one she might hope to persuade to consider her plight sympathetically was Quinn, and that was far from a certainty. The lad she’d known years ago was quite different from the formidable man he’d become. Even at the far reaches of Caithness she’d heard of his reputation throughout Scotland as a relentless conqueror, both of trade and women. To top it off, if Kaley’s interpretation could be trusted and Quinn had truly been making an innuendo about bedding her, his youthful protectiveness had matured into manly possessiveness.
Then there was the intrepid Ramsay Logan. Nobody had to convince Jillian the black-clad Ramsay was dangerous. He dripped peril from every pore.
Grimm Roderick was another matter. He would certainly not push for her hand, but his simple presence was bad enough. He was a constant reminder of the most painful and humiliating days of her life.
Three barbarians who had been hand-selected by her own da to seduce and marry her lurked in her home. What was she going to do? Although it appealed to her immensely, fleeing didn’t make much sense. They’d only come after her, and she doubted she’d ever make it to one of her brother’s homes before Hatchard’s men caught up. Besides, she brooded, she would not leave her home just to get away from him.
How could her parents do this to her? Worse yet, how could she ever go downstairs again? Not only had two of the men seen her without a stitch of clothing on, they were obviously planning to pluck the overripe, or so her parents had concluded without so much as soliciting her opinion, berry of her virginity. Jillia
n squeezed her knees together protectively, dropped her head in her lap, and decided things couldn’t get much worse.
It wasn’t easy for Jillian to hide in her chambers all day. She wasn’t the cowering sort. Nor, however, was she the foolish sort, and she knew she must have a plan before she subjected herself to the perils of her parents’ nefarious scheme. As afternoon faded into evening and she’d yet to be struck by inspiration, she discovered she was feeling quite irritable. She hated being cooped up in her chambers. She wanted to play the virginal, she wanted to kick the first person she saw, she wanted to visit Zeke, she wanted to eat. She’d thought someone would appear by lunchtime, she’d been certain loyal Kaley would come check on her if she didn’t arrive at dinner, but the maids didn’t even appear to clean her chambers or light the fire. As the solitary hours passed, Jillian’s ire increased. The angrier she became, the less objectively she considered her plight, ultimately concluding she would simply ignore the three men and go about her life as if nothing was amiss.
Food was her priority now. Shivering in the chilly evening air, she donned a light but voluminous cloak and pulled the hood snug around her face. Perhaps if she met up with one of the oversized brutes the combination of darkness and concealing attire would grant her anonymity. It probably wouldn’t fool Grimm, but the other two hadn’t seen her with clothes on yet.
Jillian closed the door quietly and slipped into the hallway. She opted for the servants’ staircase and carefully picked her way down the dimly lit, winding steps. Caithness was huge, but Jillian had played in every nook and cranny and knew the castle well; nine doors down and to the left was the kitchen, just past the buttery. She peered down the long corridor. Lit by flickering oil lamps, it was deserted, the castle silent. Where was everyone?
As she moved forward, a voice floated out of the darkness behind her. “Pardon, lass, but could you tell me where I might find the buttery? We’ve run short of whisky and there’s not a maid about.”
Jillian froze in mid-step, momentarily robbed of speech. How could all the maids disappear and that man appear the very instant she decided to sneak from her chambers?
“I asked you to leave, Grimm Roderick. What are you still doing here?” she said coolly.
“Is that you, Jillian?” He stepped closer, peering through the shadows.
“Have so many other women at Caithness demanded you depart that you’re suffering confusion about my identity?” she asked sweetly, plunging her shaking hands into the folds of her cloak.
“I didn’t recognize you beneath your hood until I heard you speak, and as to the women, you know how the women around here felt about me. I assume nothing has changed.”
Jillian almost choked. He was as arrogant as he’d always been. She pushed her hood back irritably. The women had fallen all over him when he’d fostered here, lured by his dark, dangerous looks, muscled body, and absolute indifference. Maids had thrown themselves at his feet, visiting ladies had offered him jewels and lodgings. It had been revolting to watch. “Well, you are older,” she parried weakly. “And you know as a man gets older his good looks can suffer.”
Grimm’s mouth turned faintly upward as he stepped forward into the flickering light thrown off by a wall torch. Tiny lines at the corners of his eyes were whiter than his Highland-tanned face. If anything, it made him more beautiful.
“You are older too.” He studied her through narrowed eyes.
“It’s not nice to chide a woman about her age. I am not an old maid.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he said mildly. “The years have made you a lovely woman.”
“And?” Jillian demanded.
“And what?”
“Well, go ahead. Don’t leave me hanging, waiting for the nasty thing you’re going to say. Just say it and get it over with.”
“What nasty thing?”
“Grimm Roderick, you have never said a single nice thing to me in all my life. So don’t start faking it now.”
Grimm’s mouth twisted up at one corner, and Jillian realized that he still hated to smile. He fought it, begrudged it, and rarely did one ever break the confines of his eternal self-control. Such a waste, for he was even more handsome when he smiled, if that was possible.
He moved closer.
“Stop right there!”
Grimm ignored her command, continuing his approach.
“I said stop.”
“Or you’ll do what, Jillian?” His voice was smooth and amused. He cocked his head at a lazy angle and folded his arms across his chest.
“Why, I’ll …” She belatedly acknowledged there wasn’t much of anything she could do to prevent him from going anywhere he wished to go, in any manner he wished to go there. He was twice her size, and she’d never be his physical match. The only weapon she’d ever had against him was her sharp tongue, honed to a razor edge by years of defensive practice on this man.
He shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Tell me, lass, what will you do?”
Jillian made no reply, mesmerized by the intersection of his arms, the golden slopes of muscle flexing at his slightest movement. She had a sudden vision of his hard body stretched full length above hers, his lips curving, not with his customary infuriating condescension but with passion.
He sauntered nearer, until he stood mere inches from her. She swallowed hard and clasped her hands inside her cloak.
He lowered his head toward hers.
Jillian could not have moved if the stone walls of the corridor had started crumbling around her. If the floor had suddenly ruptured beneath her feet, she would have hung suspended on dreamy clouds of fantasy. Mesmerized, she stared up into his brilliant eyes, fascinated by the silky dark lashes, the smooth tan of his skin, the aquiline, arrogant nose, the sensual curved lips, the cleft in his chin. He leaned closer, his breath fanning her cheek. Was he going to kiss her? Could it be Grimm Roderick might actually kiss her? Had he truly responded to her da’s summons—for her? Her knees felt weak. He cleared his throat, and she trembled with anticipation. What would he do? Would he ask her permission?
“So where, milady, pray tell, is the buttery?” His lips brushed her ear. “I believe this ridiculous conversation began by my saying we’re out of whisky and there’s not a maid about. Whisky, lass,” he repeated in a voice oddly roughened. “We men need a drink. Ten minutes have passed and I’m no closer to finding it.”
Kiss her, indeed. When pine martens curled up on the hearth like sleepy cats. Jillian glared at him. “One thing has not changed, Grimm Roderick, and don’t you ever forget it. I still hate you.”
Jillian pushed past him, retreating once again to the safety of her chambers.
CHAPTER 5
THE MOMENT JILLIAN OPENED HER EYES THE NEXT morning, she panicked. Had he left because she’d been so hateful?
He’s supposed to leave, she reminded herself grimly. She wanted him to leave. Didn’t she? Her brow furrowed as she pondered the illogical duality of her feelings. As far back as she could recall, she’d always suffered this vacillation where Grimm was concerned: hating him one moment, adoring him the next, but always wanting him near. If he hadn’t been so unkind to her she would have consistently adored him, but he’d made it painfully clear that her adoration was the last thing he wanted. And that obviously hadn’t changed. From the first moment she’d met Grimm Roderick, she’d been hopelessly drawn to him. But after years of being brushed away, ignored, and finally abandoned, she’d given up her childhood fantasies.
Or had she? Perhaps that was precisely her fear: Now that he was back she would make the same mistakes again and behave like an adolescent fool over the magnificent warrior he had become.
Dressing quickly, she snatched up her slippers and hastened for the Greathall. As she entered the room, she halted abruptly. “Oh, my,” she murmured. Somehow she’d managed to forget there were three men in her home, so consumed had she been with thoughts of Grimm. They gathered near the fire, while several maids cleared dozens of platters and di
shes from the massive table centered in the Greathall. Yesterday, safe behind the balustrade, Jillian had been struck by how tall and broad the three of them were. Today, standing only a few feet from them, she felt like a dwarf willow in a forest of mighty oaks. Each man stood at least a foot taller than she did. It was downright intimidating to a woman who was not easily intimidated. Her gaze wandered from one man to the next.
Ramsay Logan was an inch short of terrifying. Quinn was no longer the stripling son of a Lowland chieftain, but a powerful laird in his own right. And Grimm was the only man not looking at her; he stood gazing intently into the fire. She took advantage of his distraction and studied his profile with greedy eyes.
“Jillian.” Quinn moved forward to greet her.
She forced herself to drag her gaze away from Grimm and concentrate on what Quinn was saying. “Welcome, Quinn.” She pasted a cheerful smile on her lips.
“It’s so good to see you again, lass.” Quinn took her hands in his and smiled down at her. “It’s been years and … och, but the years have been generous to you—you’re breathtaking!”
Jillian blushed and glanced at Grimm, who was paying no heed to the conversation. She stifled the urge to kick him and make him notice that someone thought she was lovely. “You’ve changed yourself, Quinn,” she said brightly. “It’s no wonder I’ve heard your name linked with one beautiful woman after another.”