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?”
CHAPTER 6
IT INFURIATED HER. EVERY 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.