To Tame a Highland Warrior (9 page)

She wanted to wash the worn linen for him. No, she wanted to wash the muscled chest the soft linen caressed. She wanted to trace her hands over the ridges of muscle that laced his abdomen and follow that silky dark trail of hair where it dipped beneath his kilt. She wanted to be welcomed into his solitary confinement and release the man she was convinced had deliberately walled himself behind a façade of chill indifference.

One knee in the grass, his leg bent beneath him, he scrubbed the shirt gently. Jillian watched the muscles in his shoulders flexing. He was more beautiful than any man had the right to be, with his great height and perfectly conditioned body, his black hair restrained by a leather thong, his piercing eyes.

I adore you, Grimm Roderick
. How many times had she said those words safely in the private chambers of her head?
Loved you since the day I first saw you. Been waiting for you to notice me ever since
. Jillian dropped to the moss behind the rock, folded her arms on the stone, and rested her chin upon them, watching him hungrily. His back was bathed golden by the sun, and his wide shoulders tapered to a trim waist, where his kilt hugged his hips. His plunged a hand into his thick, dark hair, pushing it out of his face, and Jillian expelled a breath as his muscles rippled.

He turned and looked directly at her. Jillian froze. Damn his acute hearing! He’d always had unnatural senses. How could she have forgotten?

“Go away, peahen.” He returned his attention to the shirt he was washing.

Jillian closed her eyes and dropped her head on her hands in defeat. She couldn’t even get to the point where she worked up the courage to try to talk to him, to reach him. The moment she started thinking mushy thoughts,
the bastard said something remote and biting and it deflated the sails of her resolve before she’d even lifted anchor. She sighed louder, indulging in a generous dose of self-pity.

He turned and looked at her again. “What?” he demanded.

Jillian lifted her head irritably. “What do you mean, ‘what’? I didn’t say anything to you.”

“You’re sitting back there sighing as if the world’s about to end. You’re making so much noise I can’t even scrub my shirt in peace, and then you have the gall to get snippy with me when I politely inquire as to what you’re mooning about.”

“Politely inquire?” she echoed. “You call a barely grunted and entirely put-upon-sounding ‘what’ a polite inquiry? A ‘what’ that says ‘how dare you invade my space with your pitiful sounds?’ A ‘what’ that says ‘could you please go die somewhere else, peahen?’ Grimm Roderick, you don’t know the first damned thing about polite.”

“There’s no need to be cursing, peahen,” he said mildly.

“I am
not
a peahen.”

He tossed a scathing look over his shoulder. “Yes, you are. You’re always pecking away at something. Peck-peck, peck-peck.”

“Pecking?” Jillian shot to her feet, leapt the stone, and faced Grimm. “I’ll show you pecking.” Quick as a cat, she plucked the shirt from his hands, twisted her hands in the fabric, and ripped it down the center. She found the sound of the cloth tearing perversely satisfying. “That’s what I really feel like doing. How’s
that
for invading your space? And why are you washing your own stupid shirt in the first place?” She glared at him, flapping the tails of his shirt to punctuate her words.

Grimm sat back on his heels, eyeing her warily. “Are you feeling all right?”

“No, I am not feeling all right. I haven’t been feeling all right all morning. And stop trying to change the subject and turn it around on me, like you always do. Answer my question. Why are you washing your own shirt?”

“Because it was dirty,” he replied with calculated condescension.

She ignored it with admirable restraint. “There are maids to wash—”

“I didn’t wish to inconvenience—”

“The shirts of the men who—”

“A maid by asking her to wash—”

“And I would have washed the stupid thing for you anyway!”

Grimm’s mouth snapped shut.

“I mean, that is … well, I would have if … if all the maids were dead or taken grievously ill and there was no one else who could”—she shrugged—“and it was the only shirt you owned … and bitterly cold … and you were sick yourself or something.” She snapped her mouth shut, realizing there was no way out of the verbal quagmire into which she’d leapt. Grimm was staring at her with fascination.

He rose to his feet in one swift graceful motion. Mere inches separated them.

Jillian resented having to tilt her head back to look up at him, but her resentment was quickly replaced by a breathless awareness of the man. She was mesmerized by his proximity, riveted by the intense way he was eyeing her. Had he moved even closer? Or had she leaned into him?

“You
would have washed my shirt?” His eyes searched hers intently.

Jillian gazed at him in silence, not trusting herself to speak. If she opened her mouth, God only knew what might come out.
Kiss me, you big beautiful warrior
.

When he brushed her tense jaw with the back of his knuckles, she nearly swooned. Her skin tingled where his fingers had passed. His lips were a breath away from hers, his eyes were heavy-lidded and unfathomable.

He wanted to kiss her. Jillian felt certain of it.

She tilted her head to receive his kiss. Her lids fluttered shut, and she gave herself fully over to fantasy. His breath fanned her cheek, and she waited, afraid to move a muscle.

“Well, it’s too late now.”

Her eyes flew open.
No, it’s not
, she nearly snapped.
Kiss me
.

“To wash it, I mean.” His gaze dropped to the tattered shirt she still held. “Besides,” he added, “I doona need some silly peahen fussing over me. At least the maids doona rip my shirts, unless of course they’re in a hurry to remove them from my body, but that’s an entirely different discussion which is neither here nor there, and one I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in having with me anyway….”

“Grimm?” Jillian said tightly.

He looked out over the loch. “Um?”

“I hate you.”

“I know, lass,” he said softly. “You told me that last night. It seems all our little ‘discussions’ end on those words. Try to be a bit more creative, will you?”

He didn’t move a muscle when the remains of his wet shirt slapped him in the face and Jillian stomped away.

Grimm came to dinner wearing a clean tartan. His hair was wet, slicked back from a recent bath, and his shirt was ripped cleanly in two down the center of his back. The loose ends flapped above his tartan, and entirely too much muscled back could be seen for Jillian’s comfort.

“What happened to your shirt, Grimm?” Quinn asked curiously.

Grimm gazed across the table at Jillian.

Jillian raised her head, intending to scowl self-righteously, but failed. He was looking at her with that strange expression she couldn’t interpret, the one she’d seen when he’d first arrived and had kept saying her name—and she swallowed her angry words along with a bite of bread that had become impossibly dry. The man’s face was flawlessly symmetrical. A shadow beard accentuated the hollows beneath his cheekbones, sharply defining his arrogant jaw. His wet hair, secured by a thong, gleamed ebony in the flickering light. His blue eyes were brilliant against the backdrop of his tanned skin, and his white teeth flashed when he spoke. His lips were firm, pink, sensuous, and presently curved in a mocking expression.

“I had a run-in with an ill-tempered feline,” Grimm said, holding her gaze.

“Well, why don’t you change your shirt?” Ramsay asked.

“I brought only the one,” Grimm told Jillian.

“You brought one shirt?” Ramsay snorted disbelievingly. “Odin’s spear, Grimm, you can afford a thousand shirts. Becoming a miser, are you?”

“ ’Tis not the shirt that makes the man, Logan.”

“Damn good thing for you.” Ramsay carefully straightened the folds of his snowy linen. “Have you considered that it may be a reflection of him?”

“I’m sure a maid can mend it for you,” Quinn said. “Or I can lend you one.”

“I doona mind wearing it this way. As for reflections, who’s to see?”

“You look like a villein, Roderick.” Ramsay sneered.

Jillian made a resigned sound. “I’ll mend it,” she muttered, dropping her gaze to her plate so she didn’t have to see their stunned expressions.

“You can sew, lass?” Ramsay asked doubtfully.

“Of course I can sew. I’m not a complete failure as a woman just because I’m old and unwed,” Jillian snapped.

“But don’t the maids do that?”

“Sometimes they do and sometimes they don’t,” Jillian replied cryptically.

“Are you feeling all right, Jillian?” Quinn asked.

“Oh, will you just hush up?”

I
T INFURIATED HER
. E
VERY TIME SHE GLIMPSED THE LINE
of uneven stitches puckering the center of Grimm’s shirt, she felt herself turning into an irascible, beady-eyed porcupine. It was as humiliating as if he’d stitched the words “Jillian lost control of herself and I’m never going to let her forget it” across his back. She couldn’t believe she’d torn it, but years of suffering his torment as a child had proved her undoing, and she’d simply snapped.

He was back at Caithness, he was hopelessly attractive, and he still treated her exactly the same as he had when she’d been a child. What would it take to make him see that she wasn’t a child anymore?
Well, stop acting like one, to start with
, she remonstrated herself. Since the moment she’d tenderly mended his shirt, she’d been longing to waylay him, divest him of the pernicious reminder, and gleefully burn it. Doing so, however, would have reinforced his perception that she had a penchant for witless action, so instead she’d procured three
shirts of finer linen, with flawless stitching, and instructed the maids to place them in his room. Did he wear them?

Nary a one.

Each day that dawned, he donned the same shirt with the ridiculous pleat down the back. She’d considered asking him why he wouldn’t wear the new ones, but that would be as bad as admitting that his ploy to make her feel stupid and guilty was working. She’d die before she betrayed another ounce of emotion to the emotionless man who was sabotaging her impeccable manners.

Jillian dragged her eyes from the dark, seductive man walking in the bailey, wearing a badly mended shirt, and forced herself to take a deep, calming breath.
Jillian Alanna Roderick;
she rolled the name behind her teeth, a whisper of exhaled breath. The syllables tumbled euphonically.
I only wish …

“So it’s the cloister for you, eh, lass?”

Jillian stiffened. The throaty rumble of Ramsay Logan was not what she needed to hear at this moment. “Um-hmm,” she mumbled in the direction of the window.

“You won’t last a fortnight,” he said matter-of-factly.

“How dare you?” Jillian whirled about to face him. “You don’t know a thing about me!”

Ramsay smiled smugly.

Jillian blanched as she remembered that he’d seen her naked at the window the day he’d arrived. “I’ll have you know that I have a calling.”

“I’m sure you do, lass,” Ramsay purred. “I simply think your ears are plugged and you’re hearing the wrong one. A woman like you has a calling to a flesh-and-blood man, not a God who will never make you feel the joy of being a woman.”

“There are finer things in life than being a man’s broodmare, Logan.”

“No woman of mine would ever be a broodmare. Don’t misunderstand me: I don’t belittle the Kirk and Christ’s chosen, I simply don’t see you being drawn to such a lure. You’re too passionate.”

“I am cool and collected,” she insisted.

“Not around Grimm,” Ramsay said pointedly.

“That’s because he irritates me,” Jillian snapped.

Ramsay cocked a brow and grinned.

“Just what do you think is so funny, Logan?”

“ ‘Irritates’ is an interesting word for it. Not the one I might have chosen. Rather, let’s see … ‘Excites’? ‘Delights’? Your eyes burn like amber in the sunlight when he enters the room.”

“Fine.” Jillian turned back to the window. “Now that we’ve debated our choice of appropriate verbs, and you’ve selected all the wrong ones and obviously don’t know a thing about women, you may continue on with your day. Shoo, shoo.” She waved her hand at him.

Ramsay’s grin widened. “I don’t intimidate you a bit, do I, lass?”

“Aside from your overbearing attitude, and the fact that you use your great height and girth to make a woman feel cornered, I suspect you’re more bull than bully,” she muttered.

“Most women like the bull in me.” He moved closer.

Jillian shot a disgusted look over her shoulder. “I’m not most women. And don’t be standing on my toes, Logan, there’s only room enough for me on them. You can trundle back home to the land of the mighty Logan, where the men are men and the women belong to them. I am not the kind of woman you’re used to dealing with.”

Ramsay laughed.

Jillian turned slowly, her jaw clenched.

“Would you like some help with Roderick?” He gazed over her shoulder, out the window.