Beyond the Highland Myst

by Highlander 01-08

  His lips were a breath from hers, and she waited, her heart thundering.

  "Jillian! Jillian, are you out there?"

  Jillian closed her eyes, willing the owner of the intruding voice to hell and farther. She felt the soft brush of Grimm's lips across hers as he quickly, lightly delivered a kiss that was nothing like the one she'd been anticipating. She wanted his lips to bruise hers, she wanted his tongue in her mouth and his breath in her lungs, she wanted everything he had to give.

  "It's Ramsay," Grimm said through his teeth. "He's coming out. Get up off your knees, lass. Now."

  Jillian stumbled hastily to her feet and stepped back, trying desperately to see Grimm's face, but his dark head had fallen forward to the spot hers had occupied a moment before. "Grimm," she whispered urgently. She wanted him to raise his head; she needed to see his eyes. She had to confirm that she'd truly seen desire in his eyes as he'd gazed at her.

  "Lass." He groaned the word, his head still bowed.

  "Yes?" she whispered breathlessly.

  His hands fisted in the folds of his kilt, and she waited, trembling.

  The door clattered open and shut behind them. "Jillian," Ramsay called as he entered the courtyard. "There you are. I'm so pleased you joined us. I thought you might like to accompany me to the fair. What's your horse doing on the ground, Roderick?"

  Jillian released her breath in a hiss of frustration and kept her back to Ramsay. "What, Grimm? What?" she entreated in an urgent whisper.

  He raised his head. There was a defiant glint in his blue eyes. "Quinn is in love with you, lass. I think you should know that," he said softly.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 12

  jillian deftly eluded ramsay by telling him she needed to buy "woman things"—a statement that appeared to set his imagination to flight. Thus she was able to spend the afternoon shopping with Kaley and Hatchard. At the silversmith she bought a new buckle for her da. From the tanner she purchased three snowy lambskin rugs—thick as sin and soft as rabbit fur. At the goldsmith's she bartered shrewdly for tiny, hammered-gold stars to adorn a new gown.

  But all the while her mind was back in the courtyard, lingering on the dark, sensual man who'd betrayed the first glimpse of a crack in the massive walls around his heart. It had stunned her, bewildered her, and fortified her resolve. Jillian didn't doubt for a moment what she'd seen. Grimm Roderick cared. Buried beneath a mound of rubble—the debris from a past she was beginning to suspect had been more brutal than she could comprehend—there was a very real, vulnerable man.

  She'd seen in his stark gaze that he desired her, but more significantly, that he had feelings so deep he couldn't express them, and subsequently did everything in his power to deny them. That was sufficient hope for her to work with. It didn't occur to Jillian, even for a moment, to wonder if he was worth the effort—she knew he was. He had everything to offer that she'd ever wanted in a man. Jillian understood that people didn't come perfect; sometimes they'd been so badly scarred that it took love to heal them and allow them to realize their potential. Sometimes the badly scarred ones had the greatest depth and the most to offer because they understood the infinite value of tenderness. She would be the sun beating down upon the cloak of indifference he'd donned so many years ago, inviting him to walk without defenses.

  Her anticipation was so strong, it made her feel shaky and weak. Desire had shimmered in Grimm's gaze when he looked at her, and whether he realized it or not, she'd seen an intense, sensual promise on his face.

  Now all she had to do was figure out how to release it. She shivered, rattled by the intuitive knowledge that when Grimm Roderick unleashed his passion, it would definitely be worth waiting for.

  "Are you chilled, lass?" Hatchard asked worriedly.

  "Chilled?" Jillian echoed blankly.

  "You shivered."

  "Oh please, Hatchard!" Kaley snorted. "That was a daydreaming shiver. Can't you tell the difference?"

  Jillian glanced at Kaley, startled. Kaley merely smiled smugly. "Well, it was, wasn't it, Jillian?"

  "How did you know?"

  "Quinn looked very handsome this morning," Kaley said pointedly.

  "So did Grimm," Hatchard snapped immediately. "Didn't you think so, lass? I know you saw him by the stables."

  Jillian gaped at Hatchard with a horrified expression. "Were you spying on me?"

  "Of course not," Hatchard said defensively. "I just happened to glance out my window."

  "Oh," Jillian said in a small voice, her glance darting between her maid and man-at-arms. "Why are you two looking at me like that?" she demanded.

  "Like what?" Kaley fluttered her lashes innocently.

  Jillian rolled her eyes, disgusted by their obvious matchmaking efforts. "Shall we return to the inn? I promised I'd return in time to have dinner."

  "With Quinn?" Kaley said hopefully.

  Hatchard nudged the maid. "With Grimm."

  "With Occam," Jillian flung over her shoulder dryly.

  Hatchard and Kaley exchanged amused glances as Jillian dashed down the street, her arms overflowing with packages.

  "I thought she brought us to carry," Hatchard observed with a lift of one fox-red eyebrow and a gesture of his empty hands.

  Kaley smiled. "Remmy, I suspect she could cart the world off on her shoulders and not feel an ounce. The lass is in love, for certain. My only question is—with which man?"

  * * * * *

  "Which one, Jillian?" Kaley asked without preface as she fastened the tiny buttons at the back of Jillian's gown, a creation of lime silk that tumbled in a sensuous ripple from clever ribbons placed at the bodice.

  "Which one, what?" Jillian asked nonchalantly. She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling a sleek fall of gold over her shoulder. She perched on the tiny settle before a blurry mirror in her room at the inn, itching with impatience to join the men in the dining room.

  Kaley's reflection met Jillian's with a wordless rebuke. She tugged Jillian's hair back and swept it up into a knot with more enthusiasm than was necessary.

  "Ouch." Jillian scowled. "All right, I know what you meant. I just don't wish to answer it yet. Let me see how things go this evening."

  Kaley relaxed her grip and smiled. "So you admit to this much—you do intend to select a husband from one of them? You'll heed your father's wishes?"

  "Yes, Kaley, oh absolutely yes!" Jillian's eyes sparkled as she leapt to her feet.

  "I suppose you could wear your hair down this evening," Kaley begrudged. "Although you should at least allow me to dress and curl it."

  "I like it straight," Jillian replied. "It's wavy enough of its own accord, and I don't have time to fuss."

  "Oh, now the lass who took over an hour to choose a dress doesn't have time to fuss?" Kaley teased.

  "I'm already late, Kaley," Jillian said with a blush as she swept from the room.

  * * * * *

  "She's late," Grimm said, pacing irritably. They'd been waiting for some time in the small anteroom that lay between the section of the inn that held private rooms and the public eatery. "By Odin's spear, why doona we just send a tray up to her room?"

  "And forgo the pleasure of her company? Not a chance," Ramsay said.

  "Stop pacing, Grimm," Quinn said with a grin. "You really need to relax a bit."

  "I am perfectly relaxed," Grimm said, stalking back and forth.

  "No, you're not," Quinn argued. "You look almost brittle. If I tapped you with my sword, you'd shatter."

  "If you tapped me with your sword, I'd bloody well tap you back with mine, and not with the hilt."

  "There's no need to get defensive—"

  "I am not being defensive!"

  Quinn and Ramsay both leveled patronizing gazes at him.

  "That's not fair." Grimm scowled. "That's a trap. If someone says'doona get defensive,' what possible response can a person make except a defensive one? You're stuck with two choices: Say nothing, or sound defensive."

  "Grimm, sometime
s you think too much," Ramsay observed.

  "I'm going to have a drink." Grimm seethed. "Come get me when she's ready, if that remarkable event manages to occur before the sun rises."

  Ramsay shot Quinn an inquiring look. "He wasn't quite so foul-tempered at court, de Moncreiffe. What's his problem? It's not me, is it? I know we had a few misunderstandings in the past, but I thought they were over and forgotten."

  "If memory serves me, the scar on your face is a memento from one of those 'misunderstandings,' isn't it?" When Ramsay grimaced, Quinn continued. "It's not you, Logan. It's how he's always acted around Jillian. But it seems to have gotten worse since she's grown up."

  "If he thinks he's going to win her, he's wrong," Ramsay said quietly.

  "He's not trying to win her, Logan. He's trying to hate her. And if you think you're going to win her, you're wrong."

  Ramsay Logan made no reply, but his challenging gaze spoke volumes as he turned away and entered the crowded dining room.

  Quinn cast a quick look at the empty stairs, shrugged, and followed on his heels.

  * * * * *

  When Jillian arrived downstairs, there was no one waiting for her.

  Fine bunch of suitors, she thought. First they leave me, then they leave me again.

  She glanced back up the stairs, plucking nervously at the neckline of her gown. Should she return for Kaley? The Black Boot was the finest inn in Durrkesh, boasting the best food to be had in the village, yet the thought of walking into the crowded eating establishment by herself was a bit daunting. She'd never gone into a tavern eatery alone before.

  She moved to the door and peeked through the opening.

  The room was packed with boisterous clusters of patrons. Laughter swelled and broke in waves, despite the fact that half the patrons were forced to stand while eating. Suddenly, as if ordained by the gods, the people faded back to reveal a dark, sinfully handsome man standing by himself near the carved oak counter that served as a bar. Only Grimm Roderick stood with such insolent grace.

  As she watched, Quinn walked up to him, handed him a drink, and said something that nearly made Grimm smile. She smiled herself as he caught the expression midway through and quickly terminated any trace of amusement. When Quinn melted back into the crowd, Jillian slipped into the main room and hastened to Grimm's side. He glanced at her and his eyes flared strangely; he nodded but said nothing. Jillian stood in silence, searching for something to say, something witty and intriguing; she was finally alone with him in an adult setting, able to engage in intimate conversation as she'd fantasized so many times.

  But before she could think of anything to say, he seemed to lose interest and turned away.

  Jillian kicked herself mentally. Hell's bells, Jillian, she chided herself, can't you dredge up a few words around this man? Her eyes started an adoring journey at the nape of his neck, caressed his thick black hair, wandered over the muscled back straining against the fabric of his shut as he raised an arm for another draught of ale. She reveled in the mere sight of him, the way the muscles in his shoulders bunched as he gripped an acquaintance by the hand. Her eyes traveled lower, taking in the way his waist narrowed to tight, muscular hips and powerful legs.

  His legs were dusted with hair, she noted, drawing a shaky breath, studying the backs of his legs below his kilt, but where did that silky black hair begin and end?

  Jillian released a breath she hadn't even known she was holding. Every ounce of her body responded to his with delicious anticipation. Merely standing next to this darkly seductive man, her legs felt weak and her tummy was filled with a shivery sensation.

  When Grimm leaned back, momentarily brushing against her in the crowded room, she briefly laid her cheek against his shoulder so softly that he didn't know she'd thieved the touch. She inhaled the scent of him and reached brazenly forward. Her hands found the blades of his shoulders and she scratched gently with her nails, lightly scoring his skin through his shirt.

  A soft groan escaped his lips, and Jillian's eyes widened. She scratched gently, stunned that he said nothing. He didn't pull away from her. He didn't spin on his heel and lash out at her.

  Jillian held her breath, then inhaled greedily, reveling in the crisp aroma of spicy soap and man. He began to move slightly beneath her nails, like a cat having its chin scratched. Could it be he was actually enjoying her touch?

  Oh, can the gods just grant me one wish tonight—to feel the kiss of this man!

  She slid her palms lovingly over his back and pressed closer to his body. Her fingers traced the individual muscles in his broad shoulders, slid down his tapered waist, then swept back up again. His body relaxed beneath her hands.

  Heaven, this is heaven, she thought dreamily.

  "You're looking mighty contented, Grimm." Quinn's voice interrupted her fantasy. "Amazing what a drink can do for your disposition. Where's Jillian gotten off to? Wasn't she just here with you a moment ago?"

  Jillian's hands stilled on Grimm's back, which was so broad that it completely shielded her from Quinn's view. She ducked her head, feeling suddenly guilty. The muscles in Grimm's back went rigid beneath her motionless fingers. "Didn't she step outside for a breath of fresh air?" she was stunned to hear Grimm ask.

  "By herself? Hell's bells, man—you shouldn't let her go wandering outside by herself!" Quinn's boots clipped smartly on the stone floor as she strode off in search of her.

  Grimm whipped around furiously. "What do you think you're doing, peahen?" He snarled.

  "I was touching you," she said simply.

  Grimm grabbed both her hands in his, nearly crushing the delicate bones in her fingers. "Well, doona be, lass. There is nothing between you and me—"

  "You leaned back," she protested. "You didn't seem to be so unhappy—"

  "I thought you were a tavern wench!" Grimm said, running a furious hand through his hair.

  "Oh!" Jillian was crestfallen.

  Grimm lowered his head till his lips brushed her ear, taking pains to make his next words audible over the din in the noisy eatery. "In case you doona recall, it is Quinn who wants you and Quinn who is clearly the best choice. Go find him and touch him, lass. Leave me to the tavern wenches who understand a man like me."

  Jillian's eyes sparkled dangerously as she turned away and pushed through the crowded room.

  * * * * *

  He would survive the night. It couldn't be too bad; after all, he'd lived through worse. Grimm had been aware of Jillian since the moment she'd entered the room. He had, in fact, deliberately turned away from her when it appeared she'd been about to speak. Little good that had done—as soon as she'd touched him he'd been unable to force himself to step away from the sensual feel of her hands on his back. He'd let it go too far, but it wasn't too late to salvage the situation.

  Now he studiously kept his back to Jillian, methodically pouring whisky into a mug. He drank with a vengeance, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, longing for the ability to dull his perfect Berserker senses. Periodically he heard the breathless lilt of her laughter. Occasionally, as the proprietor moved bottles upon shelves, he caught a glimpse of her golden hair in a polished flagon.

  But he didn't give a damn, any fool could see that much. He'd pushed her to do what she was currently doing, so how could he care? He didn't, he assured himself, because he was one sane man among a race seemingly condemned to be dragged about by violent, unpredictable emotions that were nothing more than unrelieved lust. Lust, not love, and neither one had a damned thing to do with Jillian.

  Christ! Who did he think he was kidding? Grimm closed his eyes and shook his head at his own lies.

  Life was hell and he was Sisyphus, eternally condemned to push a boulder of relentless desire up a hill, only to have it flatten him before he reached the crest. Grimm had never been able to tolerate futility. He was a man who resolved things, and tonight he would see to it that Jillian solidified her betrothal to Quinn and that would be the end of his involvement.

  H
e couldn't covet his best friend's wife, could he? So all he had to do was get her wed to Quinn, and that would be the end of his agony. He simply couldn't live with this battle waging within him much longer. If she was free and unwed, he could still dream. If she were safely married, he would be forced to put his fool dreams to rest. So resolved, Grimm stole a covert glance over his shoulder to see how things were progressing. Only peglegged Mac behind the counter heard the hollow whistle of his indrawn breath and noticed the rigid set of his jaw.

  Jillian was standing halfway across the room, her golden head tilted back, doing that bedazzling woman-thing to his best friend, which essentially involved nothing more than being what she was: irresistible. A teasing glance, vivacious eyes flashing; a delectable lower lip caught between her teeth. The two were obviously in their own little world, oblivious to him. The very situation he'd encouraged her to seek. It infuriated him.

  As he watched, the world that wasn't Jillian—for what was the world without Jillian?—receded. He could hear the rustle of her hair across the crowded tavern, the sigh of air as her hand rose to Quinn's face. Then suddenly the only sound he could hear was the blood thundering in his ears as he watched her slender ringers trace the curve of Quinn's cheek, lingering upon his jaw. His gut tightened and his heart beat a rough staccato of anger.

  Mesmerized, Grimm's hand crept to his own face. Jillian's palm feathered Quinn's skin; her fingers traced the shadow beard on Quinn's jaw. Grimm fervently wished he'd broken that perfect jaw a time or two when they'd played as lads.

  Deeply oblivious to Mac's fascinated gaze, Grimm's hand traced the same pattern on his own face; he mimicked her touch, his eyes devouring her with such intensity that she might have fled, had she turned to look at him. But she didn't turn. She was too busy gazing adoringly at his best friend.

  Behind him a soft snort and a whistle pierced the smoky air. "Man, ye've got it bloody bad, and that's more truth than ye'll find in another bottle o' rotgut mash." Mac's voice shattered the fantasy that Grimm was certainly not having. "It's a spot of 'ell wanting yer best friend's wife, now, isn't it?" Mac nodded enthusiastically, warming to the subject. "Me, meself, I had a bit o' thing for one o' me own friend's girl, oh let's see, musta been ten years—"