To Tame a Highland Warrior (15 page)

Jillian held her breath as he moved closer, staring down at her with a strained expression. “You wish you could hate me, Jillian St. Clair, and Christ knows you
should
hate me, but you just can’t quite bring yourself to hate me all that much, can you? I know, because I’ve looked in your eyes, Jillian, and where a great big nothing should be if you hated me, there’s a fiery thing with curious eyes.”

He turned in a swirl of shadows and descended from the roof, moving with lupine grace. At the bottom of the steps, he paused in a puddle of moonlight and tilted his head back. The pale moon cast his bitter expression into stark relief. “Doona ever say those words to me again, Jillian. I mean it—fair warning. Not ever.”

Cobblestones crunched beneath his boots as he disappeared
into the gardens, comforting her that he was, indeed, of this world.

She pondered his words for a long time after he’d gone, and she was left alone with the bruised sky on the parapet. Three times he’d called her by name—not brat or lass, but Jillian. And although his final words had been delivered in a cool monotone, she had seen—unless the moon was playing tricks with her vision—a hint of anguish in his eyes.

The longer she considered it, the more convinced she became. Logic insisted that love and hate could masquerade behind the same façade. It became an issue of simply peeling back that mask to peer beneath it and determine which emotion truly drove the man in the shadow. A glimmer of understanding pierced the gloom that surrounded her.

Go with your heart
, her mother had counseled her hundreds of times.
The heart speaks clearly even when the mind insists otherwise
.

“Mama, I miss you,” Jillian whispered as the last stain of purple twilight melted into a raven horizon. But despite the distance, Elizabeth St. Clair’s strength was inside her, in her blood. She was a Sacheron
and
a St. Clair—a formidable combination.

Indifferent to her, was he? It was time to see about that.

“W
ELL
,
THAT
’
S IT
,
THEN
—
THEY
’
RE OFF
,” H
ATCHARD MUTTERED
, watching the men depart. He finger-combed his short red beard thoughtfully. He stood with Kaley on the front steps of Caithness, watching three horses fade into swirls of dust down the winding road.

“Why did they have to choose Durrkesh?” Kaley asked irritably. “If they wanted to go catting about, they could very well have gone to the village right here.” She waved at the small town clustered protectively near the walls of Caithness that spilled into the valley beyond.

Hatchard shot her a caustic glance. “Although this may come as a grave shock to your … shall we say … accommodating nature, not everyone thinks about catting all the time, Missus Twillow.”

“Don’t be ‘Missus Twillowing’ me, Remmy,” she snapped. “I’ll not be believing you’ve lived nearly forty years without doing a bit of catting yourself. But I must say, I find it
appalling that they’re off catting when they were brought here for Jillian.”

“If you’d listen for a change, Kaley, you might hear what I’ve been telling you. They went to Durrkesh because Ramsay suggested they go—not for catting, but to acquire wares that can only be purchased in the city. You told me we’ve run short of peppercorns and cinnamon, and you won’t be finding those wares here.” He gestured to the village and allowed a significant pause to pass before adding, “I also heard one might find saffron at the city fair this year.”

“Saffron!
Bless the saints, we haven’t had saffron since last spring.”

“You’ve kept me perennially aware of the fact,” Hatchard said wryly.

“One does what one can to aid an old man’s memory.” Kaley sniffed. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you usually send your men for the wares?”

“Seeing how Quinn was so avid to buy an elegant gift for Jillian, I certainly wasn’t about to stop him. Grimm, I believe, went with them simply to avoid getting stuck alone with the lass,” Hatchard added dryly.

Kaley’s eyes sparkled, and she clapped her hands together. “A gift for Jillian. So it’s to be Jillian de Moncreiffe, is it? A fine name for a fine lass, I must say. And that would keep her nearby in the Lowlands.”

Hatchard returned his pensive gaze to the ribbon of road wending through the valley. He watched the last rider disappear around a bend and clucked his tongue. “I wouldn’t be so certain, Kaley,” he murmured.

“Whatever is that cryptic remark supposed to mean?” Kaley frowned.

“Just that in my estimation the lass has never had eyes for anyone but Grimm.”

“Grimm Roderick is the worst possible man for her!” Kaley exclaimed.

Hatchard turned a curious gaze on the voluptuous maid. “Now, why would you say that?”

Kaley’s hand flew to her throat, and she fanned herself. “There are men women desire and there are men women marry. Roderick is
not
the kind of man a woman marries.”

“Why not?” Hatchard asked, bewildered.

“He’s dangerous,” Kaley breathed. “Positively dangerous to the lass.”

“You think he might harm her in some way?” Hatchard tensed, prepared to do battle if such was the case.

“Without even meaning to, Remmy.” Kaley sighed.

“They’ve gone where? And for how long did you say?” Jillian’s brow puckered with indignation.

“To the city of Durrkesh, milady,” Hatchard replied. “I should suppose they’ll be gone just shy of a sennight.”

Jillian smoothed the folds of her gown irritably. “I wore a dress this morning, Kaley—a pretty one,” she complained. “I was even going to ride to the village wearing it instead of Da’s plaid, and you know how I hate riding in a dress.”

“You look lovely, indeed,” Kaley assured her.

“I look lovely for whom? All my suitors have abandoned me.”

Hatchard cleared his throat gruffly. “There wouldn’t have been one in particular you were hoping to impress, would there?”

Jillian turned on him accusingly. “Did my da put you up to spying on me, Hatchard? You’re probably sending him weekly reports! Well, boodle, I’ll tell you nothing.”

Hatchard had the grace to look abashed. “I’m not sending him reports. I was merely concerned for your welfare.”

“You can concern yourself with someone else’s. I’m old enough and I worry enough for both of us.”

“Jillian,” Kaley chided, “crabby does not become you. Hatchard is merely expressing his concern.”

“I feel like being crabby. Can’t I just do that for a change?” Jillian’s brow furrowed as she reflected a moment. “Wait a minute,” she said pensively. “Durrkesh, is it? They hold a splendid fair this time of year … the last time I went with Mama and Da, we stayed at a perfectly lovely little inn—the Black Boot, wasn’t it, Kaley?”

Kaley nodded. “When your brother Edmund was alive the two of you went to the city often.”

A shadow flitted across Jillian’s face.

Kaley winced. “I’m sorry, Jillian. I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

“I know.” Jillian drew a deep breath. “Kaley, start packing. I’ve a sudden urge to go a’fairing, and what better time than now? Hatchard, have the horses readied. I’m tired of sitting around letting life happen to me. It’s time I make my life happen.”

“This doesn’t bode well, Missus Twillow,” Hatchard told Kaley as Jillian strolled briskly off.

“A woman has as much right to cat about as a man. At least she’s catting after a husband. Now we just have to put our heads together and make certain she chooses the right one,” Kaley informed him loftily before sauntering after Jillian, twitching her plump hips in a manner that put
Hatchard in mind of a long-forgotten, exceedingly bawdy ditty.

He blew out a gusty breath and headed off to the stables.

The Black Boot sagged alarmingly at the eaves, but fortunately the rooms Grimm had procured were on the third floor, not the top, which meant they should be reasonably safe from the deluge that had begun halfway through their trip.

Pausing outside the open door to the inn, Grimm fisted double handfuls of his shirt and squeezed it. Water gushed from between his hands and splattered loudly on the great stone slab outside the door.

A thick, swirling mist was settling over the town. Within a quarter hour the dense fog would be impossible to navigate through; they’d arrived just in time to avoid the worst of it. Grimm had settled his horse in the small U-shaped courtyard behind the inn, where a ratty lean-to swayed precariously from the drooping roof. Occam would find sufficient shelter, provided the flood didn’t carry him off.

Grimm whisked the beaded water droplets off his plaid before entering the inn. Any weaver worth her salt wove the fabric so tightly it was virtually water-repellant, and the weavers at Dalkeith were some of the finest. He unfastened a length of the woolen fabric and draped it across his shoulder. Quinn and Ramsay were already at the fire, toasting their hands and drying their boots.

“Bloody nasty weather out there, ain’t it, lads?” The barkeep beckoned cheerfully through the doorway to the adjoining tavern. “Me, I’ve got a fire in here s’warm as tha’ one, and a fine brew to chase yer chill, so dinna tarry. Me name’s Mac,” he added with a friendly nod. “Come bide a wee.”

Grimm glanced at Quinn, who shrugged. His expression plainly said there wasn’t much else to do on such a miserably wet evening than pass it drinking. The three men ducked through the low doorway that partitioned the eatery from the tavern proper and claimed several battered wooden stools at a table by the hearth.

“Seein’ as ’tis nearly deserted in here, I may as well pull up a seat once I’ve seen t’ yer drinks. No’ many venture out in a downpour such as this.” The barkeep ambled unevenly to the bar, then lumbered back to their table, producing a bottle of whisky and four mugs with a flourish.

“ ’Tis a fardlin’ mess out there, ain’t it? An’ where be ye travelin’?” he asked, sitting heavily. “Dinna mind me leg, I think the wood’s goin’ soft,” he added as he grabbed a second stool, lifted his wooden leg by the ankle, and dropped it on the slats. “Sometimes it pains me when the weather goes damp. An’ in this damn country, tha’s all the time, ain’t it? Gloomy place, she is, but I love ’er. Y’ever been outside of Alba, lads?”

Grimm glanced at Quinn, who was gazing raptly at the barkeep, his expression a mixture of amusement and irritation. Grimm knew they were both wondering if the lonely little barkeep would ever shut up.

It was going to be a long night.

A few hours later the rain hadn’t abated, and Grimm used the excuse of checking on Occam to escape the smoky tavern and Mac’s incessant prattle. Besieged by the same restlessness that had ridden him at Dalkeith, he could scarcely sit still for longer than a few hours. He slipped into the back courtyard of the inn, wondering what Jillian was doing at the moment. A slight smile curved his lips as he
pictured her stomping about, tossing her glorious mane of hair, outraged that she’d been left behind. Jillian despised being excluded from anything “the lads” did. But this was for the best, and she would realize it when Quinn returned with his gift and made his formal pledge. Grimm could scarcely look at Quinn without being struck by what a perfect couple they would make, giving birth to perfect, golden children with aristocratic features and not a touch of inherited madness. Perhaps by getting the two of them together he could redeem himself in some small measure, he mused, although the thought of Jillian with Quinn caused his stomach to tighten painfully.