“Come and see, Jillian,” he offered. His eyes glittered strangely.
“Hatchard, get that from him.”
Hatchard didn’t budge. “I know what it says.”
“Well then, what does it say?” she snapped at Hatchard. “And how do you know?”
It was Grimm who answered. “It says ‘come for Jillian’ … Jillian.”
He’d done it again, added her name after a pause, a husky veneration that left her oddly breathless and frightened. There was a warning in the way he was saying her name, something she should understand but couldn’t quite grasp. Something had changed since they’d last fought so bitterly, something in him, but she couldn’t define it. “Come for Jillian?” she repeated blankly. “My da sent you that?”
When he nodded, Jillian choked and nearly burst into tears. Such a public display of emotion would have been a first for her. Instead, she did something as unexpected and heretofore undone as gritting and cursing; Jillian spun on her heel and bolted toward the castle as if all the banshees of Scotland were nipping at her heels, when in truth it was the one and only Grimm Roderick—which was far worse.
Sneaking a glance over her shoulder, she belatedly remembered the children. They were standing in a half-circle, gaping at her with disbelief. She stormed, absolutely mortified, into the castle. Slamming the door was a bit difficult, since it was four times as tall as she was, but in her current temper she managed.
CHAPTER 3
INCONCEIVABLE! JILLIAN SEETHED AS SHE PACED HER chambers. She tried to calm down, but reluctantly concluded that until she got rid of him, calm was not possible.
So she stormed and paced and considered breaking things, except that she liked everything in her room and didn’t really want to break any of her own belongings. But if she could only have gotten her hands on him, oh—then she’d have broken a thing or two!
Vexed, she muttered beneath her breath while she quickly slipped out of her gown. She refused to ponder her urge to replace the plain gown and chemise that had been perfectly suitable only an hour before. Nude, she stalked to her armoire by the window, where she was momentarily distracted by the sight of riders in the courtyard. She peered out the tall opening. Two horsemen were riding through the gate. She studied them curiously, leaning into the window. As one, the men raised their heads, and she gasped. A smile crossed the blond man’s face, giving her the impression he’d glimpsed her poised in the window, clad in nothing but temper-flushed skin. Instinctively she ducked behind the armoire and snatched up a gown of brilliant green, assuring herself that just because she could see them clearly didn’t mean they could see her. Surely the window reflected the sun and permitted little passage of vision.
Who else was arriving at Caithness? she fumed. He was bad enough. How dare he come here, and furthermore, how dare her da summon him? Come for Jillian. Just what had her da intended with such a note? A shiver slipped down her spine as she contemplated the possessive sound of the words. Why would Grimm Roderick respond to such a strange missive? He’d tortured her ceaselessly as a child and he’d rejected her as a young woman. He was an overbearing lout—who’d once been the hero of her every fantasy.
Now he was back at Caithness, and that was simply unacceptable. Regardless of her da’s reasons for summoning him, he simply had to go. If her guards wouldn’t remove him, she would—even if it meant at sword point, and she knew just where to find a sword. A massive claymore hung above the hearth in the Greathall; it would do nicely.
Her resolve firm, her gown fastened, Jillian marched out of her chambers. She was ready to confront him; her body was bristling with indignation. He had no right to be here, and she was just the person to explain that to him. He’d left once before when she’d begged him to stay—he couldn’t arbitrarily decide to come back now. Snatching her hair back, she secured it with a velvet ribbon and made for the Greathall, moving briskly down the long corridor.
She drew to a sudden halt at the balustrade outside the solar, alarmed by the rumble of masculine voices below.
“What did your message say, Ramsay?” Jillian heard Grimm ask.
Their voices floated up, carrying clearly in the open Greathall. The tapestries were currently down for a cleaning, so the words reverberated off the stone walls.
“Said the lord and his lady would be leaving Caithness and called upon an old debt I owe him. He said he wished me to oversee his demesne while he was not here to do it himself.”
Jillian peeked surreptitiously over the balustrade and saw Grimm sitting with two men near the main hearth. For an eternal moment she simply couldn’t take her eyes off him. Angrily she jerked her gaze away and studied the newcomers. One of the men was tossed back in his chair as if he owned the keep and half the surrounding countryside. Upon closer scrutiny, Jillian decided he would likely act as if he owned any place he deigned to be. He was a study in black from head to toe: black hair, tanned skin, clad in a length of black wool that was unbroken by even one thread of color. Definitely hulking Highland blood, she concluded. A thin scar extended from his jaw to just below his eye.