“Has anything … changed?”
Gilles sighed and shook his head. “He still calls himself Grimm. And as nearly as our men have been able to ascertain, he has never bothered to ask if you’re still alive. Nor has he ever once looked west to Maldebann.”
Ronin inclined his head. “Thank you. That will be all, Gilles.”
Jillian found Kaley dicing potatoes in the kitchen. Kaley Twillow was a motherly woman in her late thirties; her curvaceous body couched an equally spacious heart. Originally from England, she’d come to Caithness upon the reference of one of Gibraltar’s friends when her husband had died. Maid, cook’s assistant, confidante in place of a scheming mother—Kaley did it all. Jillian plunked down on the edge of a chair and said without preface, “Kaley, there’s a thing I’ve been wondering.”
“And what might that be, dear?” Kaley asked with a tender smile. She laid her knife aside. “As a rule, your questions are quite peculiar, but they are always interesting.”
Jillian edged her chair nearer to the cutting block where Kaley stood, so the other servants in the busy kitchen wouldn’t overhear. “What does it mean when a man ‘comes for a woman’?” she whispered conspiratorially.
Kaley blinked rapidly. “Comes?” she echoed.
“Comes,” Jillian affirmed.
Kaley retrieved her knife, clutching it like a small sword. “In just what context did you hear this phrase used?” she asked stiffly. “Was it in reference to you? Was it one of the guards? Who was the man?”
Jillian shrugged. “I overheard a man saying he was told to ‘come for Jillian’ and he planned to do just that, precisely to the letter. I don’t understand. He already did it—he came here.”
Kaley thought a moment, then chortled, relaxing visibly. “It wouldn’t have been the mighty, golden Quinn, would it, Jillian?”
Jillian’s blush was reply enough for Kaley.
She calmly replaced her knife on the cutting board. “It means, dear lass”—Kaley bent her head close to Jillian’s—“that he plans to bed you.”
“Oh!” Jillian flinched, eyes wide. “Thank you, Kaley.” She excused herself crisply.
Kaley’s eyes sparkled as Jillian beat a hasty retreat from the kitchen. “A fine man. Lucky lass.”
As she raced for her chambers, Jillian seethed. While she could appreciate her parents’ desire to see her wed, it was their fault as much as hers that she wasn’t. They hadn’t started encouraging her until last year, and shortly thereafter they’d dumped a barrage of candidates upon her with no warning. One by one, Jillian had brilliantly discouraged them by convincing them she was an unattainable paragon, not to be considered in a carnal, worldly sense—a woman better suited for the cloister than the marriage bed. A declaration of such intent had cooled the ardor of several of her suitors.
If cool civility and frigid reserve failed, she hinted at a family disposition toward madness that sent men scurrying. She’d had to resort to that on only two occasions; apparently her pious act was pretty convincing. And why shouldn’t it be? she brooded. She’d never done anything particularly daring or improper in her entire life, hence she’d acquired a reputation as “a truly good person.” “Yuck,” she informed the wall. “Chisel that on my headstone. ‘She was a truly good person, but she’s dead now.’”
Although her efforts to dissuade her suitors had been successful, she’d apparently failed to stop her parents from scheming to marry her off; they’d summoned three more suitors to Caithness and abandoned her to her own straits. Dire straits indeed, for Jillian knew these men were not the kind to be put off with a few cool words and an aloof demeanor. Nor would they likely accept her claims of inherited madness. These men were too confident, too bold … oh, hell’s bells, she dusted off another childhood curse, they were far too masculine for any woman’s peace of mind. And if she wasn’t careful, these three men could cause her to reclaim all the childhood epithets she’d learned while skipping at the heels of Quinn and Grimm. Jillian was accustomed to gentle, modest men, men gelded by their own insecurities, not swaggering, uncut bulls who thought “insecure” meant an unstable fortress or a weak timber in a foundation.
Of the three men currently invading her home, the only one she might hope to persuade to consider her plight sympathetically was Quinn, and that was far from a certainty. The lad she’d known years ago was quite different from the formidable man he’d become. Even at the far reaches of Caithness she’d heard of his reputation throughout Scotland as a relentless conqueror, both of trade and women. To top it off, if Kaley’s interpretation could be trusted and Quinn had truly been making an innuendo about bedding her, his youthful protectiveness had matured into manly possessiveness.