To Tame a Highland Warrior Read online

  “Cataclysmic changes,” Ronin murmured. “She said this generation would suffer more greatly than any McIllioch, but promised that so, too, would this generation advance, and know greater happiness. The old seer swore that my son would see sons of his own, and I believe that. She vowed that when he chose his mate, his mate would be bringin’ him home to Maldebann.”

  “And how will you transcend his hatred for you, Ronin?” his brother asked.

  “I doona know.” Ronin sighed heavily. “Maybe I’m hoping for a miracle, that he’ll listen and forgive me. Now that he’s found his mate he may be sympathetic to my plight. He may be capable of understandin’ why I did what I did. And why I let him go.”

  “Doona be so hard on yourself, Ronin. The McKane would have followed you to him if you’d gone after him. They were waiting for you to betray his hidin’ place. They know you won’t breed more sons. They doona know I even exist. It’s Gavrael they’re determined to destroy, and the time is quickenin’. If they discover he’s found his mate, they’ll stop at nothin’.”

  “I know. He was well hidden at Caithness for years, so I thought it best to leave well enough alone. Gibraltar trained him better than I could have at the time.” Ronin met Balder’s gaze. “But I always thought that at some point he would come home of his own volition; out of curiosity or confusion about what he was if nothing else, and long before now. When he didn’t, when he never once looked west to Maldebann … ah, Balder, I fear I grew bitter. I couldna believe he hated me so completely.”

  “What makes you think he’ll be forgivin’ you now?”

  Ronin raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “A fool’s fancy? I must believe. Or else I’d have no reason to go on.”

  Balder clasped his shoulder affectionately. “You have a reason to go on. The McKane must be defeated once and for all and you must ensure the safety of your son’s sons. That in itself is reason enough.”

  “And it will be done,” Ronin vowed.

  Grimm spent the day riding, scouring every inch of Caithness for some sign that the McKane had found him. He knew how they operated: They would set up camp on the perimeter of the estate and wait for the right moment, any moment of vulnerability. Grimm rode the entire circumference, searching for anything: the remains of a recent fire, missing livestock commandeered and slaughtered, word of strangers among the crofters.

  He found nothing. Not one shred of evidence to support his suspicion that he was being watched.

  Still, a prickling of unease lurked at the base of his neck where he always felt it when something was wrong. There was a threat, unidentified and unseen, somewhere at Caithness.

  He rode into the bailey at dusk, battling an overwhelming desire to slip from his horse, race into the castle, and rush to Jillian. To sweep her into his embrace, carry her to his chambers, and make love to her until neither of them could move, which for a Berserker was a very long time.

  Leave, his conscience pricked. Leave this moment. Doona even pack a satchel, doona even say goodbye, just get out now.

  He felt like he was being torn in half. In all the years he’d dreamed of Jillian, he’d never imagined he could feel this way; she completed him. The Berserker had risen in him and been humbled by her presence. She could make him clean again. Merely being with her soothed the beast he’d learned to hate, the beast she didn’t even know existed.

  He grimaced inwardly as hope, the treacherous emotion he’d never permitted himself to feel, jockeyed for position with his premonition of danger. Hope was a luxury he could ill afford. Hope made men do foolish things, such as staying at Caithness when all his heightened senses were clamoring that despite finding no sign of McKane, he was being watched and a confrontation was imminent. He knew how to handle danger. He didn’t know how to handle hope.

  Sighing, he entered the Greathall and picked at a platter of fruit near the hearth. Selecting a ripe pear, he dropped into a chair before the fire and brooded into the flames, battling his urge to seek her out. He had to make some decisions. He had to find a way to behave honorably, to do the right thing, but he no longer knew what the right thing was. Nothing was black and white anymore; there were no easy answers. He knew it was dangerous to remain at Caithness, but he wanted to remain more than anything he’d ever desired in his life.

  He was so lost in thought, he didn’t hear Ramsay approach until the Highlander’s deep, rumbling voice jarred him. That alone should have warned him that he’d allowed his guard to slip dangerously.

  “Where’ve you been, Roderick?”

  “Riding.”

  “All day? Damn it, man, there’s a beautiful woman in the castle and you go out riding all day?”

  “I had some thinking to do. Riding clears my head.”

  “I’d say you have some thinking to do,” Ramsay muttered beneath his breath.

  With his heightened hearing, Grimm heard each syllable. He turned and faced Ramsay levelly. “Just what is it you think I should be thinking about?”

  Ramsay looked startled. “I’m standing a dozen paces from you! There’s no way you could have heard that. It was scarcely audible.”

  “Obviously I did,” Grimm said coolly. “So what is it you presume to tell me I should be thinking about?”

  Ramsay’s dark eyes flickered, and Grimm could see he was trying to suppress his volatile temper. “Let’s try honor, Roderick,” Ramsay said stiffly. “Honoring our host. And his daughter.”

  Grimm’s smile was dangerous. “I’ll make you a deal, Logan. If you doona bring up my honor, I won’t drag yours out of the pigsty where it’s been bedding down for years.”

  “My honor—” Ramsay began hotly, but Grimm cut him off impatiently. He had more important things to occupy his mind than arguing with Ramsay.

  “Let’s just get to the point, Logan. How much gold do you owe the Campbell? Half of what Jillian’s worth? Or is it more? From what I hear, you’re into him so deeply you may as well have put yourself six feet under. If you bag the St. Clair heiress, you’ll be able to clear your debts and live in extravagance for a few years. Isn’t that right?”

  “Not all men are as wealthy as you, Roderick. For some of us, whose people are vast in number, it’s a struggle to take care of our clan. And I care for Jillian,” Ramsay growled.

  “I’m sure you do. The same way you care for seeing your belly filled with the finest food and the best whisky. The same way you care for riding a pure-blooded stallion, the same way you like to show off your wolfhounds. Maybe all those expenses are why you’ve been having a hard time maintaining your people. How many years did you fritter away at court, spending gold as liberally as your clan procreates?”

  Ramsay turned stiffly and was silent a long moment. Grimm watched him, every muscle in his body tensed to spring. Logan had a violent temper—Grimm had experienced it before. He berated himself for antagonizing the man, but Ramsay Logan’s tendency to put his own needs above those of his starving clan infuriated him.

  Ramsay drew a deep breath and turned around, astonishing Grimm with a pleasant smile. “You’re wrong about me, Roderick. I confess, my past isn’t so exemplary, but I’m not the same man I used to be.”

  Grimm watched him, skepticism evident in every line on his face.

  “See? I’m not losing my temper.” Ramsay raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I can see how you might believe such things of me. I was a wild, self-centered reprobate once. But I’m not any longer. I can’t prove it to you. Only time will prove my sincerity. Grant me that much, will you?”

  Grimm snorted. “Sure, Logan. I’ll grant you that much. You may be different.” Worse, Grimm added in the privacy of his thoughts. He turned his gaze back to the flames.

  As Grimm heard Ramsay turn to leave the room, he was unable to prevent himself from asking, “Where’s Jillian?”

  Logan stopped in mid-step and shot a cool glance over his shoulder. “Playing chess with Quinn in the study. He intends to propose marriage to her tonight, so I sugg
est you give them privacy. Jillian deserves a proper husband, and if she won’t have him, I intend to offer in his stead.”

  Grimm nodded stiffly. After a few moments of attempting to block all thoughts of Jillian from his mind—Jillian ensconced in the cozy study with Quinn, who was proposing marriage—and failing, he stalked back out into the night, more disturbed by Ramsay’s words than he wished to admit.

  Grimm wandered the gardens for nearly half an hour before he was struck by the realization that he’d seen no sign of his stallion. He’d left him in the inner ward less than an hour ago. Occam rarely wandered far from the castle.

  Puzzled, Grimm searched the inner and outer wards, whistling repeatedly, but he heard nary a nicker, no thunder of hooves. He turned his thoughtful gaze to the stables that graced the edge of the outer bailey. Instinct quickened inside him, warning him, and he set off at a run for the outbuilding.

  He burst into the stables and drew to an abrupt halt. It was abnormally silent, and an odd odor pervaded the air. Sharp, acrid, like the stench of rotten eggs. Peering into the gloom, he catalogued every detail of the room before stepping in. Hay tumbled in piles across the floor—normal. Oil lamps suspended from the rafters—also normal. All the gates shut—still normal.

  Scent of a thing sulfuric—definitely not normal. But not much to go on either.

  He stepped gingerly into the stables, whistled, and was rewarded with a muffled neigh from the stall at the farthest end of the stables. Grimm forced himself not to lurch forward.

  It was a trap.

  While he couldn’t fathom the exact nature of the threat, danger fairly dripped from the rafters of the low outbuilding. His senses bristled. What was amiss? Sulfur?

  He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, paced forward and gently scuffed at the hay beneath his boot, then stooped to push aside a thick sheaf of clover.

  He expelled a low whistle of amazement.

  He pushed at more hay, moved forward five paces, did the same, moved left five paces, and repeated the motion. Sweeping his hand across the dusty stone floor beneath the hay, he came up with a fistful of finely corned black powder.

  Christ! The entire floor of the stable had been evenly sprinkled with a layer of black powder. Someone had liberally doused the stones, then spread loose hay atop it. Black powder was made from a combination of saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur. Many clans cultivated their own saltpeter in or near the stables to fashion the weapon, but the stuff spread on the floor was fully processed black powder, painstakingly corned to uniform granules, possessing lethal explosive properties, and planted deliberately. It was a far cry from the raw version of fermenting manure from which saltpeter was derived. Coupled with the flammability of the hay and the natural abundance of fresh manure, the stables were an inferno waiting to blow. One spark would send the entire stable up with the force of a massive bomb. If one of the oil lanterns fell or so much as coughed up an oily spark, the building—and half the outer ward—would be rocked by the explosion.

  Occam nickered, a sound of frustrated fear. He was muzzled, Grimm realized. Someone had muzzled his horse and penned him in a deadly trap.

  He would never permit his horse to be burned again, and whoever had designed this trap knew him well enough to know his weakness for the stallion. Grimm stood, absolutely motionless, ten paces inside the door—not too far to flee for safety if the hay started to smolder. But Occam was in a locked stall, fifty yards from safety, and therein lay the problem.

  A coldhearted man would turn his back and leave. What was a horse, after all? A beast, used for man’s purposes. Grimm snorted. Occam was a regal, beautiful creature, possessing intelligence and the same capacity to suffer pain and fear as any human being.

  No, he could never leave his horse behind.

  He had barely completed that thought when something hurtled through the window to his left and the straw caught fire in an instant.

  Grimm lunged into the flames.

  In the coziness of the study, Jillian laughed as she moved her bishop into a position of checkmate. She stole a surreptitious peek toward the window, as she had a dozen times in the past hour, seeking some sign that Grimm had returned. Ever since she’d glimpsed him riding out this morning, she’d been watching for him. The moment Occam’s great gray shape lumbered past the study, Jillian feared she would surge to her feet, giddy as a lass, and be off at a run. Memories of the night she’d spent entangled with Grimm’s hard, inexhaustible body brought a flush to her skin, heating her in a way a fire never could.

  “Not fair! How can I concentrate? Playing you when you were a wee lass was far easier,” Quinn complained. “I can’t think when I play you now.”

  “Ah, the advantages of being a woman,” Jillian drawled mischievously. She was certain she must be radiating her newfound sensual knowledge. “Is it my fault your attention wanders?”

  Quinn’s gaze lingered on her shoulders, bared by the gown she wore. “Absolutely,” he assured her. “Look at you, Jillian. You’re beautiful!” His voice dropped to a confidential tone. “Jillian, lass, there’s something I wish to discuss with you—”

  “Quinn, hush.” She placed a finger against his lips and shook her head.

  Quinn brushed her hand away. “No, Jillian, I’ve kept my silence long enough. I know what you feel, Jillian.” He paused deliberately to lend emphasis to his next words. “And I know what’s going on with Grimm.” He held her gaze levelly.

  Jillian was immediately wary. “What do you mean?” she evaded.

  Quinn smiled in an effort to soften his words. “Jillian, he’s not the marrying kind.”

  Jillian bit her lip and averted her gaze. “You don’t know that for certain. That’s like saying Ramsay’s not the marrying kind because, from the tales I’ve heard, he’s been a consummate womanizer. But only this morning he convinced me of his troth. Merely because a man has shown no past inclination to wed doesn’t mean he won’t. People change.” Grimm had certainly changed, revealing the tender, loving man she’d always believed he really was.

  “Logan asked you to marry him?” Quinn scowled.

  Jillian nodded. “This morning. After breakfast he approached me while I was walking in the gardens.”

  “He offered for you? He knew I planned to do so myself!” Quinn cursed, then mumbled a hasty apology. “Forgive me, Jillian, but it makes me angry that he’d go behind my back like that.”

  “I didn’t accept, Quinn, so it hardly matters.”

  “How did he take it?”

  Jillian sighed. The Highlander hadn’t taken it well at all; she had the feeling she’d barely escaped a dangerous display of temper. “I don’t think Ramsay Logan is accustomed to being rebuffed. He seemed furious.”

  Quinn studied her a moment, then said, “Jillian, lass, I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I think you should be informed so you can make a wise decision. The Logan are land rich but gold poor. Ramsay Logan needs to marry, and marry well. You would be a godsend to his impoverished clan.”

  Jillian gave him an astonished look. “Quinn! I can’t believe that you would try to discredit my suitors. Heavens! Ramsay spent a quarter hour this morning trying to discredit you and Grimm. What’s with you men?”

  Quinn stiffened. “I am not trying to discredit your suitors. I’m telling you the truth. Logan needs gold. His clan is starving, and has been for many years. They’ve scarcely managed to hold on to their own lands lately. In the past, the Logan hired out as mercenaries to get coin, but there’ve been so few wars in recent years that there is no mercenary work to be found. Land takes coin, and coin is something the Logan have never had. You are the answer to their every prayer. Excuse my crass way of wording it, but if Logan could bag the rich St. Clair bride, his clan would herald him as their savior.”

  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 Gr
imm 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?”