“You are such a bastard!” Jillian unwittingly accommodated his basest wishes, spinning so quickly she took a spill. Her brief stumble presented him with a breathtaking view of the swell of her breasts. Pale, they sloped to a gentle valley that disappeared beneath the bodice of her gown. Her skin was so translucent that he could see a faint tracing of blue veins. He pressed against the window ledge to hide the sudden rise of his kilt.
“Sometimes I vow you aim to provoke me.” She scowled up at him, pushing off the ground with her hand as she stood up straight, stealing his glimpse of cleavage.
“Now, why would I bother to do that, brat?” he asked coolly—so coolly it was counterpoint and insult to her raised voice.
“Could it be that you’re afraid if you ever stopped torturing me, you might actually like me?” she snapped.
“Never suffer that delusion, Jillian.” He splayed his hand through his hair and winced self-consciously. He could never manage to tell a lie without making that gesture. Fortunately, she didn’t know that.
“Seems to me you’ve developed an overwhelming fondness for your hair, Grimm Roderick. I hadn’t noticed your little vanities before. Probably because I couldn’t see that much of you beneath all the dirt and filth.”
It happened in a flash. With her words he was dirty again—mud-stained, blood-soaked, and filthy beyond redemption. No bath, no scouring could ever cleanse him. Only Jillian’s words could make him clean again, and he knew he didn’t inspire absolution.
“Some people grow up and mature, brat. I woke up one day, shaved, and discovered I was a bloody handsome man.” When her eyes widened, he couldn’t resist pushing her a little harder. “Some women have said I’m too handsome to have. Perhaps they feared they couldn’t hold me in the face of so much competition.”
“Spare me your conceit.”
Grimm smiled inwardly. She was so lovely, temper-flushed and disdainful, and so easily provoked. Countless times he’d wondered what kind of passion she’d unleash with a man. With a man like him. His thoughts took a dangerous segue into the forbidden. “I’ve heard men say you’re too beautiful to touch. Is that true? Are you untouched?” He bit his tongue the instant the words escaped.
Jillian’s mouth dropped in disbelief. “You would ask me that?”
Grimm swallowed. There’d been a time when he’d known from firsthand experience precisely how untouched she was, and that was a memory he’d do well to bury. “When a lass permits virtual strangers to kiss her, it makes one wonder what else she permits.” Bitterness tightened his lips, clipping his words.
Jillian stepped back as if he’d flung something more substantial than an insult in her direction. She narrowed her eyes and studied him suspiciously. “Curiously, it sounds like you care.”
“Not a chance. I simply doona wish to have to force you into marrying Ramsay before your da returns. I suspect Gibraltar might like to be present to give the maiden away.”
Jillian was watching him intently, too intently for his liking. He wondered desperately what was going on inside her head. She’d always been far too clever, and he was perilously close to acting like a jealous suitor. When she’d been young, he’d needed every ounce of his will to carry on a convincing charade of dislike. Now that she was a woman grown, drastic measures were necessary. He shrugged his shoulders arrogantly. “Look, peahen, all I want is for you to take your bloody flute off somewhere else so I can get a bit of sleep. I didn’t like you when you were a wee lass, and I doona like you now, but I owe your da and I will honor his missive. The only thing I remember about Caithness is that the food was good and your da was kind.” The lie practically burned his tongue.
“You don’t remember anything about me?” she asked carefully.
“A few things, nothing of any significance.” Restless fingers twined through his hair, tugging it free from his thong.
She glared at him. “Not even the day you left?”
“You mean the McKane attacking?” he asked blandly.
“No.” She frowned up at him. “I meant later that day, when I found you in the stables.”
“What are you talking about, lass? I doona recall you finding me in the stables before I left.” He caught his traitorous hand in mid-rise to his hair and crammed it into the waistband of his kilt.
“You remember nothing of me?” she repeated tightly.
“I remember one thing: I remember you following me around until you nearly drove me mad with your incessant chattering,” he said, looking as bored and long-suffering as possible.