To Tame a Highland Warrior Page 3

  “What do you mean? What have you done this time?”

  Gibraltar studied her intently. At the moment he wasn’t completely certain which would upset Elizabeth more: continued worry over their daughter’s unwed state, or the details of what he’d done without consulting her. A uniquely masculine moment of reflection convinced him she would be dazzled by his ingenuity. “I’ve arranged for three men to attend Caithness in our absence, Elizabeth. By the time we return, either Jillian will have chosen one of them, or one of them will have chosen her. They are not the kind of men to give up in the face of a wee bit of resistance. Nor are they the kind of men to fall for her ‘nunnery stories.’”

  Elizabeth’s horrified expression deflated his smug pose. “One of them will choose her? Are you saying that one of these men you’ve selected might compromise her if she doesn’t choose?”

  “Seduce, Elizabeth, not compromise,” Gibraltar protested. “They wouldn’t ruin her. They’re all honorable, respectable lairds.” His voice deepened persuasively. “I selected these three based in part on the fact that they’re also all very … er”—he searched for a word innocuous enough that it wouldn’t alarm his wife, because the men he’d chosen could be patently alarming—“… masculine men.” His perfunctory nod was intended to soothe her concerns. It failed. “Exactly what Jillian needs,” he assured her.

  “Masculine! You mean randy inveterate blackguards! Probably domineering and ruthless, to boot. Don’t prevaricate with me, Gibraltar!”

  Gibraltar sighed gustily, any hope of subtle persuasion debunked. “Do you have a better idea, Elizabeth? Frankly, I think the problem is that Jillian has never met a man who wasn’t intimidated by her. I guarantee you not one of the men I’ve invited will be even remotely intimidated. Captivated? Yes. Intrigued? Yes. Ruthlessly persistent? Yes. Precisely what a Sacheron woman needs. A man who is man enough to do something about it.”

  Elizabeth St. Clair, née Sacheron, nibbled her lower lip in silence.

  “You know how you’ve been longing to see our new grandson,” he reminded her. “Let’s just go on with our visit and see what happens. I promise you that none of the men I’ve chosen will harm a hair on our precious daughter’s head. They might muss it up a bit, but that will be well and good for her. Our impeccable Jillian is long overdue for some mussing.”

  “You expect me to just go off and leave her with three men? Those kind of men?”

  “Elizabeth, those kind of men are the only kind of men who will not worship her. Besides, I was once one of those kind of men, if you’ll recall. It will take an uncommon man for our uncommon daughter, Elizabeth,” he added more gently. “I aim to find her that uncommon man.”

  Elizabeth sighed and blew a tendril of hair from her face. “I suppose you’ve the right of it,” she murmured. “She truly hasn’t met a man who didn’t worship her. I wonder, how do you think she’ll react when she does?”

  “I suspect she might not know what to do at first. It may throw her badly off balance. But I’m wagering one of the men I’ve selected will help her figure it out,” Gibraltar said smoothly.

  Alarm vanquished Elizabeth’s despondence instantly. “That’s it. We’ll just have to go back. I can’t be somewhere else when my daughter is experiencing these woman things for the first time. God only knows what some man will try to teach my daughter or how he’ll try to teach it to her, not to mention how shocked she’s certain to be. I can’t be off visiting while my daughter is being bullied and bamboozled out of her maidenhead—it simply won’t do! We’ll have to go home.” She gazed expectantly at her husband, awaiting his nod of agreement.

  “Elizabeth.” Gibraltar said her name very quietly.

  “Gibraltar?” Her tone was wary.

  “We are not turning back. We are going to visit our son to attend our grandson’s christening and spend a few months, as planned.”

  “Does Jillian know what you’ve done?” Elizabeth asked icily.

  Gibraltar shook his head. “She hasn’t a suspicion in her pretty head.”

  “What about the men? Don’t you think they will tell her?”

  Gibraltar grinned wickedly. “I didn’t tell them. I simply commanded their attendance. But Hatchard knows and is prepared to inform them at a suitable time.”

  Elizabeth was shocked. “You told no one but our chief man-at-arms?”

  “Hatchard is a wise man. And she needs this, Elizabeth. She needs to find her own way. Besides,” he provoked, “what man would dare bamboozle a lass’s maidenhead with her mother hovering at her elbow?”

  “Och! My mother, my da, my seven brothers, and my grandparents being in attendance didn’t stop you from bamboozling mine. Or abducting me.”

  Gibraltar chuckled. “Are you sorry I did?”

  Elizabeth gave him a steamy look from beneath her lashes that assured him to the contrary.

  “So you see, sometimes a man knows best, don’t you think, my dear?”

  She didn’t reply for a moment, but Gibraltar didn’t mind. He knew Elizabeth trusted him with her life. She just needed some time to get used to his plan and to accept the fact that their daughter needed a loving push over the edge of the nest.

  When Elizabeth finally spoke, resignation buffered her words. “Just which three men did you choose without my discerning insight and consent?”

  “Well, there’s Quinn de Moncreiffe.” Gibraltar’s gaze never strayed from her face.

  Quinn was blond, handsome and daring. He’d sailed black-flag for the King before he’d inherited his titles and now commanded a fleet of merchant ships, from which he’d trebled his clan’s already considerable fortune. Gibraltar had fostered Quinn when he’d been a young lad, and Elizabeth had always favored him.

  “Good man.” A lift of a perfect golden brow betrayed grudging admiration for her husband’s wisdom. “And?”

  “Ramsay Logan.”

  “Oh!” Elizabeth’s eyes grew round. “When I saw him at court he was clad in black from head to toe. He looked as dangerously attractive as a man could be. How is it that some woman hasn’t snatched him up? Do go on, Gibraltar. This is becoming quite promising. Who’s the third?”

  “We’re lagging too far behind the guards, Elizabeth,” Gibraltar evaded glibly. “The Highlands have been peaceful lately, but we can’t be too careful. We must catch up.” He shifted in his saddle, grasped her reins, and urged her to follow.

  Elizabeth scowled as she plucked the reins from his hand. “We’ll catch them later. Who’s the third?”

  Gibraltar frowned and gazed at the guards, who were fading out of sight around a bend. “Elizabeth, we mustn’t tarry. You have no idea—”

  “The third, Gibraltar,” his wife repeated.

  “You look especially lovely today, Elizabeth,” Gibraltar said huskily. “Have I told you that?” When his words evoked no response but a cool, level stare, he wrinkled his brow.

  “Did I say three?”

  Elizabeth’s expression grew cooler.

  Gibraltar expelled a breath of frustration. He mumbled a name and spurred his mount forward.

  “What did you just say?” she called after him, urging her mare to keep up.

  “Oh hell, Elizabeth! Give over! Let’s just ride.”

  “Repeat yourself, please, Gibraltar.”

  There was another unintelligible answer.

  “I can’t understand a word when you mumble,” Elizabeth said sweetly.

  Sweet as siren song, he thought, and every bit as lethal. “I said Gavrael McIllioch. All right? Leave it, will you?” He rounded his stallion sharply and glared, savoring the fact that at least for the time being he’d rendered her as close to speechless as Elizabeth St. Clair ever came.

  Elizabeth stared at her husband in disbelief. “Dear God in heaven, he’s summoned the Berserker!”

  On the sloping lawn of Caithness, Jillian St. Clair shivered despite the warmth of the brightly shining sun. Not one cloud dotted the sky, and the shady forest that rimmed the south
end of the lawn was a dozen yards away—not close enough to have been responsible for her sudden chill.

  An inexplicable sense of foreboding crept up the back of her neck. She shook it off briskly, berating her overactive imagination. Her life was as unmarred by clouds as the expansive blue sky; she was being fanciful, nothing more.

  “Jillian! Make Jemmie stop pulling my hair!” Mallory cried, dashing to Jillian’s side for protection. The lush green grass of the lawn was sprinkled with the dozen or so children who gathered every afternoon to cajole stories and sweets from Jillian.

  Sheltering Mallory in her arms, Jillian regarded the lad reprovingly. “There are better ways to show a lass that you like her than pulling her hair, Jemmie MacBean. And it’s been my experience that the girls whose hair you pull now are the ones you’ll be courting later.”

  “I didn’t pull her hair because I like her!” Jemmie’s face turned red and his hands curled into defiant fists. “She’s a girl.”

  “Aye, she is. And a lovely one at that.” Jillian smoothed Mallory’s luxuriant, long auburn hair. The young lass already showed promise of the beautiful woman she would become. “Pray tell, why do you pull her hair, Jemmie?” Jillian asked lightly.

  Jemmie kicked at the grass with his toes. “Because if I punched her the same way I punch the lads, she’d probably cry,” he mumbled.

  “Why must you do anything to her at all? Why not simply talk to her?”

  “What could a girl have to say?” He rolled his eyes and scowled at the other lads, wordlessly demanding support with his fierce glare.

  Only Zeke was unaffected by his bullying. “Jillian has interesting things to say, Jemmie,” Zeke argued. “You come here every afternoon to listen to her, and she’s a girl.”

  “That’s different. She’s not a girl. She’s … well, she’s almost like a mother to us, ’cept she’s a lot prettier.”

  Jillian brushed a strand of blond hair back from her face with an inward wince. What had “prettier” ever done for her? She longed to have children of her own, but children required a husband, and one of those didn’t appear to be on the horizon for her, pretty or not. Well, you could stop being so picky, her conscience advised dryly.

  “Shall I tell you a story?” She swiftly changed the subject.

  “Yes, tell us a story, Jillian!”

  “A romantic one!” an older girl called.

  “A bloody one,” Jemmie demanded.

  Mallory scrunched her nose at him. “Give us a fable. I love fables. They teach us good things, and some of us”—she glared at Jemmie—“need to learn good things.”

  “Fables are dumb—”

  “Are not!”

  “A fable! A fable!” the children clamored.

  “A fable you shall have. I shall tell you of the argument between the Wind and the Sun,” Jillian said. “It’s my favorite of all the fables.” The children jostled for the seat closest to her as they settled down to hear the tale. Zeke, the smallest of them, was shoved to the back of the cluster.

  “Don’t squint, Zeke,” Jillian chided kindly. “Here, come closer.” She drew the boy onto her lap and pushed the hair out of his eyes. Zeke was her favorite maid, Kaley Twillow’s, son. He’d been born with such weak eyesight that he could scarcely see past his own hand. He was forever squinting, as if it might one day work a miracle and bring the world into focus. Jillian couldn’t imagine the sorrow of not being able to clearly see the lovely landscape of Scotia, and her heart wept for Zeke’s handicap. It prevented him from playing the games the other children adored. He was far more likely to be hit by the bladder-skin ball than to hit it, so to compensate Jillian had taught him to read. He had to bury his nose in the book, but therein he’d found worlds to explore he could never have seen with his own eyes.

  As Zeke nestled into her lap, she began. “One day the Wind and the Sun were having an argument over who was stronger, when suddenly they saw a tinker coming down the road. The Sun said, ‘Let us decide our dispute now. Whichever of us can cause the tinker to take off his cloak shall be regarded as the stronger.’

  “The Wind agreed to the contest. ‘You begin,’ the Sun said, and retired behind a cloud so he wouldn’t interfere. The Wind began to blow as hard as it could upon the tinker, but the more he blew, the tighter the tinker clutched his cloak about his body. That didn’t deter the Wind from giving it all he had; still the tinker refused to yield his cloak. Finally the Wind gave up in despair.

  “Then the Sun came out and blazed in all his glory upon the tinker, who soon found it too warm to walk with his cloak on. Removing it, he tossed the garment over his shoulder and continued on his journey, whistling cheerily.”

  “Yay!” the girls cheered. “The Sun won! We like the Sun better too!”

  “It’s a stupid girl story.” Jemmie scowled.

  “I liked it,” Zeke protested.

  “You would, Zeke. You’re too blind to be seeing warriors and dragons and swords. I like stories with adventure.”

  “This tale had a point, Jemmie. The same point I was making about you pulling Mallory’s hair,” Jillian said gently.

  Jemmie looked bewildered. “It did? What does the Sun have to do with Mal’s hair?”

  Zeke shook his head, disgusted by Jemmie’s denseness. “She was telling us that the Wind tried to make the tinker feel bad, so the tinker needed to defend himself. The Sun made the tinker feel good and warm and safe enough to walk freely.”

  Mallory beamed adoringly at Zeke, as if he were the cleverest lad in the world. Zeke continued seriously, “So be nice to Mallory and she’ll be nice to you.”

  “Where do you get your halfwit ideas?” Jemmie asked, irritated.

  “He listens, Jemmie,” Jillian said. “The moral of the fable is that kindness affects more than cruelty. Zeke understands that there’s nothing wrong with being nice to the lasses. One day you’ll be sorry you weren’t nicer.” When Zeke ends up with half the village lasses hopelessly in love with him despite his weak vision, Jillian thought, amused. Zeke was a handsome young lad and would one day be an attractive man possessing the unique sensitivity those born with a handicap tended to develop.

  “She’s right, lad.” A deep voice joined their conversation as a man spurred his horse from the shelter of the nearby trees. “I’m still sorry I wasn’t nicer to the lasses.”

  The blood in Jillian’s veins chilled and her cloudless life was suddenly awash with thick, black thunderheads. Surely that man would never be fool enough to come back to Caithness! She pressed her cheek into Zeke’s hair, hiding her face, wishing she could melt into the ground and disappear, wishing she had put on a more elegant gown this morning—as ever, wishing impossible things where this man was concerned. Although she hadn’t heard his voice in years, she knew it was he.

  “I recall a lass I was mean to when I was a lad, and now, knowing what I know, I’d give a great deal to take it all back.”

  Grimm Roderick. Jillian felt as if her muscles had melted beneath her skin, fused by the heat of his voice. Two full timbres lower than any other voice she’d ever heard, modulated so precisely it conveyed intimidating self-discipline, his was the voice of a man in control.

  She raised her head and stared at him, her eyes wide with shock and horror. Her breath caught in her throat. No matter how the years changed him, she would always recognize him. He’d dismounted and was approaching her, moving with the detached arrogance and grace of a conqueror, exuding confidence as liberally as he exhaled. Grimm Roderick had always been a walking weapon, his body developed and honed to instinctual perfection. Were she to scramble to her feet and feint left, Jillian knew he’d be there before her. Were she to back up, he’d be behind her. Were she to scream, he could cover her mouth before she’d even finished drawing her breath in preparation. She’d only once before seen a creature move with such speed and repressed power: one of the mountain cats whose muscles bunched in springy recoil as they padded about on dangerous paws.

  She drew a s
haky breath. He was even more magnificent than he’d been years ago. His black hair was neatly restrained in a leather thong. The angle of his jaw was even more arrogant than she remembered—if that was possible; jutting slightly forward, it caused his lower lip to curl in a sensual smirk regardless of the occasion.

  The air itself felt different when Grimm Roderick was in it; her surroundings receded until nothing existed but him. And she could never mistake those eyes! Mocking blue-ice, his gaze locked with hers over the heads of the forgotten curious children. He was watching her with an unfathomable expression.

  She lunged to her feet, tumbling a startled Zeke to the ground. As Jillian stared wordlessly at Grimm, memories surfaced and she nearly drowned in the bitter bile of humiliation. She recalled too clearly the day she’d vowed never to speak to Grimm Roderick again. She’d sworn never to permit him near Caithness—or near her vulnerable heart again—as long as she lived. And he dared saunter up now? As if nothing had changed? The possibility of reconciliation was instantly squashed beneath the weighty heels of her pride. She would not dignify his presence with words. She would not be nice. She would not grant him one ounce of courtesy.

  Grimm worried a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. “You’ve … grown, lass.”

  Jillian struggled to speak. When she finally found her tongue, her words dripped ice. “How dare you come back here? You are not welcome. Leave my home!”

  “I can’t do that, Jillian.” His soft voice unnerved her.

  Her heart racing, she drew a slow, deep breath. “If you don’t leave of your own accord, I’ll summon the guards to remove you.”

  “They won’t do that, Jillian.”

  She clapped her hands. “Guards!” she cried.

  Grimm didn’t move an inch. “It won’t help, Jillian.”

  “And quit saying my name like that!”

  “Like what, Jillian?” He sounded genuinely curious.