The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karen Marie Moning

  Jillian nibbled her lip thoughtfully. “And you, Quinn de Moncreiffe, why do you wish to wed me?”

  “Because I care deeply for you, lass,” Quinn said simply.

  “Perhaps I should ask Grimm about you.”

  Quinn closed his eyes and sighed.

  “Just what’s wrong with Grimm as a candidate?” she pressed, determined to have it all out.

  Quinn’s gaze was compassionate. “I don’t mean to be cruel, but he will never marry you, Jillian. Everyone knows that Grimm Roderick has vowed never to wed.”

  Jillian refused to let Quinn see how his words affected her. She bit her lip to prevent any rash words from escaping. She had nearly worked up the courage to ask him why, and if Grimm had actually said such a thing recently, when a tremendous explosion rocked the castle.

  The windows rattled in their frames, the very castle shuddered, and both Jillian and Quinn leapt to their feet.

  “What was that?” she gasped.

  Quinn flew to the window and peered out. “Christ!” he shouted. “The stables are on fire!”

  CHAPTER 21

  JILLIAN RACED INTO THE COURTYARD AFTER QUINN, crying Grimm’s name over and over, heedless of the curious eyes of the staff and the shocked gazes of Kaley and Hatchard. The explosion had roused the castle. Hatchard was standing in the courtyard shouting orders, organizing an attack against the hostile flames that were devouring the stables and moving east to ravage the castle.

  The autumn weather had been dry enough that the fire would quickly rage out of control, gobbling buildings and crops. The teeming village of daub-and-wattle huts would ignite like dry grass if the flames encroached that far. A few stray sparks carried on the breeze could destroy the whole valley. Jillian frantically pushed that concern to the perimeter of her thoughts; she had to find Grimm.

  “Where’s Grimm? Has anyone seen Grimm?” Jillian pushed through the throng of people, peering into faces, desperate to catch a glimpse of his proud stance, his intense blue eyes. Her eyes were peeled for the shape of a great, gray stallion. “Don’t be a hero, don’t be a hero,” she muttered under her breath. “For once, just be a man, Grimm Roderick. Be safe.”

  She didn’t realize she’d said the words aloud until Quinn, who’d surfaced in the throng beside her, looked at her sharply and shook his head. “Och, lass, you love him, don’t you?”

  Jillian nodded as tears filled her eyes. “Find him, Quinn! Make him be safe!”

  Quinn sighed and nodded. “Stay here, lass. I’ll find him for you. I promise.”

  The eerie scream of a trapped horse split the air, and Jillian pivoted toward the stables, chilled by a sudden, terrible knowledge. “He couldn’t be in there, could he, Quinn?”

  Quinn’s expression plainly echoed her fear. But of course he could, and would. Grimm could not stand by and watch a horse be burned. She knew that; he’d said as much that day at Durrkesh. In his mind, the innocent cry of an animal was as intolerable as the cry of wounded child or a frightened woman.

  “No man could survive that.” Jillian eyed the inferno. Flames shot up, tall as the castle, brilliant orange against the black sky. The wall of fire was so intense that it was nearly impossible to look at. Jillian narrowed her eyes in a desperate bid to make out the low rectangular shape of the stable, to no avail. She could see nothing but fire.

  “You’re right, Jillian,” Quinn said slowly. “No man could.”

  As if in a dream, she saw a shape coalesce within the flames. Like some nightmare vision the white-orange flames shimmered, a blurred form of darkness rippled behind them, and a rider burst forth, wreathed in flames, streaking straight for the loch, where both horse and rider plunged into the cool waters, hissing as they submerged. She held her breath until horse and rider surfaced.

  Quinn spared her a quick nod of reassurance before racing off to join the fight against the inferno that threatened Caithness.

  Jillian darted for the loch, tripping over her feet in her haste to reach his side. As Grimm rose from the water and led Occam up the rocky bank, she flung herself at him, burrowed into his arms, and buried her face against his sodden chest. He held her for a long moment until she stopped shuddering, then drew back, wiping gently at her tears. “Jillian,” he said sadly.

  “Grimm, I thought I’d lost you!” She pressed frantic kisses to his face while she searched his body with her hands to assure herself he was unharmed. “Why, you’re not even burned,” she said, puzzled. Although his clothing hung in charred tatters and his skin was a bit pinkened, there wasn’t so much as a blister marring his smooth skin. She peered past him at Occam, who also seemed to have been spared. “How can this be?” she wondered.

  “His coat has been singed, but overall he’s fine. We rode fast,” Grimm said quickly.

  “I thought I’d lost you,” Jillian repeated. Gazing into his eyes, she was struck by the sudden and terrible understanding that although he’d burst from the flames, miraculously whole, her words had never been truer. She had lost him. She had no idea how or why, but his glittering gaze was teeming with distance and sorrow. With goodbye.

  “No,” she shouted. “No. I won’t let you go. You are not leaving me!”

  Grimm dropped his gaze to the ground.

  “No,” she insisted. “Look at me.”

  His gaze was dark. “I have to go, lass. I will not bring destruction to this place again.”

  “What makes you think this fire is about you?” she demanded, battling her every instinct that told her the fire had indeed been about him. She didn’t know why, but she knew it was true. “Oh! You are so arrogant,” she pressed on bravely, determined to convince him that the truth was not the truth. She would use every weapon, fair or unfair, to keep him.

  “Jillian.” He blew out a breath of frustration and reached for her.

  She beat at him with her fists. “No! Don’t touch me, don’t hold me, not if it means you’re going to say goodbye!”

  “I must, lass. I’ve tried to tell you—Christ, I tried to tell myself! I have nothing to offer you. You doona understand; it can never be. No matter how much I might wish to, I can’t offer you the kind of life you deserve. Things like this fire happen to me all the time, Jillian. It’s not safe for anyone to be around me. They hunt me!”

  “Who hunts you?” she wailed as her world crumbled around her.

  He made an angry gesture. “I can’t explain, lass. You’ll simply have to take my word on this. I’m not a normal man. Could a normal man have survived that?” He flung his arm toward the blaze.

  “Then what are you?” she shouted. “Why don’t you just tell me?”

  He shook his head and closed his eyes. After a long pause, he opened them. His eyes were burning, incandescent, and Jillian gasped as a fleeting memory surfaced. It was the memory of a fifteen-year-old who’d watched this man battle the McKane. Watching as he’d seemed to grow larger, broader, stronger with every drop of blood that was shed. Watching his eyes burn like banked coals, listening to his chilling laughter, wondering how any man could slay so many yet remain unharmed.

  “What are you?” she repeated in a whisper, begging him for comfort. Begging him to be nothing more than a man.

  “The warrior who has always—” He closed his eyes. Loved you. But he couldn’t offer her those words, because he couldn’t follow up on what they promised. “Adored you, Jillian St. Clair. A man who isn’t quite a man, who knows he can never have you.” He drew a shuddering breath. “You must marry Quinn. Marry him and free me. Doona marry Ramsay—he’s not good enough for you. But you must let me go, because I cannot suffer your death on my hands, and that’s all that could ever come of you and me being together.” He met her gaze, wordlessly beseeching her not to make his leaving any harder than it already was.

  Jillian stiffened. If the man was going to leave her, she was going to make certain it hurt like hell. She narrowed her eyes, shooting him a wordless challenge to be brave, to fight for their love. He averted his face.

/>   “Thank you for these days and nights, lass. Thank you for giving me the best memories of my life. But say goodbye, Jillian. Let me go. Take the splendor and wonder that we’ve shared and let me go.”

  Her tears started then. He had already made up his mind, had already begun putting distance between them. “Just tell me, Grimm,” she begged. “It can’t be so bad. Whatever it is, we can deal with it together.”

  “I’m an animal, Jillian. You doona know me!”

  “I know you’re the most honorable man I’ve ever met! I don’t care what our life would be like. I would live any kind of life, so long as I lived it with you,” she hissed.

  As Grimm backed away slowly, she watched the life disappear from his eyes, leaving his gaze wintry and hollow. She felt the moment she lost him; something inside her emptied completely, leaving a void she suspected she might die from. “No!”

  He backed away. Occam followed, nickering gently.

  “You said you adored me! If you truly cared for me, you would fight to stay by my side!”

  He winced. “I care about you too much to hurt you.”

  “That’s weak! You don’t know what caring is,” she shouted furiously. “Caring is love. And love fights! Love doesn’t look for the path of least resistance. Hell’s bells, Roderick, if love was that easy everyone would have it. You’re a coward!”

  He flinched, and a muscle jumped furiously in his jaw. “I am doing the honorable thing.”

  “To hell with the honorable thing,” she shouted. “Love has no pride. Love looks for ways to endure.”

  “Jillian, stop. You want more from me than I’m capable of.”

  Her gaze turned icy. “Obviously. I thought you were heroic in every way. But you’re not. You’re just a man after all.” She cast her gaze away and held her breath, wondering if she’d goaded him far enough.

  “Goodbye, Jillian.”

  He leapt on his horse, and they seemed to melt into one beast—a creature of shadows disappearing into the night.

  She gaped in disbelief at the hole he’d left in her world. He’d left her. He’d really left her. A sob welled up within her, so painful that she doubled over. “You coward,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER 22

  RONIN INSERTED THE KEY INTO THE LOCK, HESITATED, then squared his shoulders firmly. He eyed the towering oak door that was banded with steel. It soared over his head, set in a lofty arch of stone. Deo non fortuna was chiseled in flowing script above the arch—“By God, not by chance.” For years Ronin had denied those words, refused to come to this place, believing God had forsaken him. Deo non fortuna was the motto his clan had lived by, believing their special gifts were God-given and had purpose. Then his “gift” had resulted in Jolyn’s death.

  Ronin expelled an anxious breath, forcing himself to turn the key and push open the door. Rusty hinges shrieked the protest of long disuse. Cobwebs danced in the doorway and the musty scent of forgotten legends greeted him. Welcome to the Hall of Lords, the legends clamored. Did you really think you could forget us?

  One thousand years of McIllioch graced the hall. Carved deep into the belly of the mountain, the chamber soared to a towering fifty feet. The curved walls met in a royal arch and the ceilings were painted with graphic depictions of the epic heroes of their clan.

  His own da had brought him here when he’d turned sixteen. He’d explained their noble history and guided Ronin through the change—guidance Ronin had been unable to provide his own son.

  But who would have thought Gavrael would change so much sooner than any of them had? It had been totally unexpected. The battle with the McKane following so quickly on the heels of Jolyn’s savage murder had left Ronin too exhausted, too numbed by grief to reach out to his son. Although Berserkers were difficult to kill, if one was wounded badly enough it took time to heal. It had taken Ronin months to recover. The day the McKane had murdered Jolyn they’d left a shell of a man who hadn’t wanted to heal.

  Immersed in his grief, he’d failed his son. He’d been unable to introduce Gavrael to the life of a Berserker, to train him in the secret ways of controlling the bloodlust. He hadn’t been there to explain. He’d failed, and his son had run off to find a new family and a new life.

  As the passing years had weathered Ronin’s body he’d greeted each weary bone, each aching joint, and each newly discovered silver hair with gratitude, because it carried him one day closer to his beloved Jolyn.

  But he couldn’t go to Jolyn yet. There were things yet undone. His son was coming home, and he would not fail him this time.

  With effort, Ronin forced his attention away from his deep guilt and back to the Hall of Lords. He hadn’t even managed to cross the threshold. He squared his shoulders. Clutching a brightly burning torch, Ronin pushed his way through the cobwebs and into the hall. His footsteps echoed like small explosions in the vast stone chamber. He skirted a few pieces of moldy, forgotten furniture and followed the wall to the first portrait that had been etched in stone over one thousand years ago. The oldest likenesses were stone, painted with faded mixtures of herbs and clays. The more recent portraits were charcoal sketches and paintings.

  The women in the portraits shared one striking characteristic. They were all breathtakingly radiant, positively brimming with happiness. The men shared a single distinction as well. All nine hundred and fifty-eight males in this hall had eyes of blue ice.

  Ronin moved to the portrait of his wife and raised the torch. He smiled. Had some pagan deity offered him a bargain and said, “I will take away all the tragedy you have suffered in your life, I will take you back in time and give you dozens of sons and perfect peace, but you can never have Jolyn,” Ronin McIllioch would have scoffed. He would willingly embrace every bit of tragedy he’d endured to have loved Jolyn, even for the painfully brief time they’d been allotted.

  “I won’t fail him this time, Jolyn. I swear to you, I will see Castle Maldebann secured and filled with promise again. Then we’ll be together to smile down upon this place.” After a long pause, he whispered fiercely, “I miss you, woman.”

  Outside the Hall of Lords, an astonished Gilles entered the connecting hallway and paused, eyeing the open door in disbelief. Rushing down the corridor, he burst into the long-sealed hall, barely suppressing a whoop of delight at the sight of Ronin, no longer stooped but standing proudly erect beneath a portrait of his wife and son. Ronin didn’t turn, but Gilles hadn’t expected him to; Ronin always knew who was in his immediate circumference.

  “Have the maids set to cleaning, Gilles,” Ronin commanded without taking his eyes off the portrait of his smiling wife. “Open this place up and air it out. I want the entire castle scrubbed as it hasna been since my Jolyn was alive. I want this place sparklin’.” Ronin opened his arms expansively. “Light the torchères and henceforth keep them burnin’ in here as they did years ago, day and night. My son is coming home,” he finished proudly.

  “Yes, milord!” Gilles exclaimed as he hastened off to obey a command he’d been waiting a lifetime to hear.

  Where to now, Grimm Roderick? he wondered wearily. Back to Dalkeith to see if he might lure destruction to those blessed shores?

  His hands fisted and he longed for a bottomless bottle of whisky, although he knew it wouldn’t grant him the oblivion he sought. If a Berserker drank quickly enough, he might feel drunk for the sum total of about three seconds. That wouldn’t work at all.

  The McKane always found him eventually. He knew now that they must have had a spy in Durrkesh. Likely someone had seen the rage come over him in the courtyard of the tavern, then tried to poison him. The McKane had learned over the years to attack stealthily. Cunning traps or sheer numbers were the only possible ways to take a Berserker, and neither of them was foolproof. Now that he had escaped the McKane twice, he knew the next time they struck they would descend in force.

  First they’d tried poison, then the fire at the stables. Grimm knew if he had remained at Caithness they might have destroyed the entire ca
stle, taking out all the St. Clair in their blind quest to kill him. He’d become acquainted with their unique fanaticism at an early age, and it was a lesson he’d never forgotten.

  They’d blessedly lost track of him during the years he’d been in Edinburgh. The McKane were fighters, not royal arse-kissers, and they devoted little attention to the events at court. He’d hidden in plain sight. Then, when he’d moved from court to Dalkeith, he’d encountered few new people, and those he had met were abjectly loyal to Hawk. He’d started to relax his guard and begun to feel almost … normal.

  What an intriguing, tantalizing word: normal. “Take it away, Odin. I was wrong,” Grimm whispered. “I doona wish to be Berserk any longer.”

  But Odin didn’t seem to care.

  Grimm had to face the facts. Now that the McKane had found him again, they would tear the country apart looking for him. It wasn’t safe for him to be near other people. It was time for a new name, perhaps a new country. His thoughts turned to England, but every ounce of Scot in him rebelled.

  How could he live without ever touching Jillian again? Having experienced such joy, how could he resume his barren existence? Christ, it would have been better if he’d never known what his life might have been like! On that fateful night above Tuluth, at the foolish age of fourteen, he’d called a Berserker, begging for the gift of vengeance, never realizing how complete that vengeance would be. Vengeance didn’t bring back the dead, it deadened the avenger.