“Not a Berserker?” Balder’s eyebrows rose.
“Not a Berserker?” Ronin’s brow furrowed.
“Not a Berserker.”
“But you are,” Ronin argued obtusely.
Grimm glared at Ronin. “But she doesn’t know that. And if she discovers it, she’ll leave me. And if she leaves me, I’ll have no choice but to kill you both,” Grimm said matter-of-factly.
“Well,” Balder huffed, deeply offended. “There’s no need to be gettin’ nasty about things, lad. I’m sure we’ll find a way to sort things out.”
“I doubt it, Balder. And if you call me lad one more time, you’re going to have a problem. I’ll spit, and give you the reason you’ve been looking for, and we’ll just see if an aging Berserker can take one in his prime.”
“Two agin’ Berserkers,” Ronin corrected proudly.
Grimm’s head snapped around, and he stared at Ronin. Identical ice-blue eyes. The day kept dishing out one bewildering revelation after another. He found sanctuary in sarcasm: “What the hell is this, the valley of the Berserkers?”
“Somethin’ like that, Gavrael,” Balder muttered, dodging a nudge from Ronin.
“My name is Grimm.”
“How do you plan to be explainin’ the name on the banners to your wife?” Ronin asked.
“She’s not my wife,” Grimm evaded. He hadn’t figured that out yet.
“What?” Outraged, Ronin nearly rose to his feet in the stirrups. “You’ve brought a woman here in dishonor? No son of mine cavorts with his mate without offerin’ her the proper union.”
Grimm buried his hands in his hair. His world had gone mad. This was the most absurd conversation he could recall holding. “I haven’t had the time to marry her yet! I only recently abducted her—”
“Abducted her?” Ronin’s nostrils flared.
“With her consent!” Grimm said defensively.
“I thought there was a wedding at Caithness,” Ronin argued.
“There nearly was, but not to me. And there will be one as soon as I can. Lack of time is the only reason she’s not my wife. And you”—he pointed furiously at Ronin—“you haven’t been a father to me for fifteen years, so doona think you can start acting like one now.”
“I haven’t been a father to you because you wouldn’t come home!”
“You know why I wouldn’t come home.” Grimm spoke furiously, his eyes blazing.
Ronin flinched. He drew a deep breath, and when he spoke again he seemed deflated by Grimm’s anger. “I know I failed you,” he said, his eyes brimful of regret.
“Failed me is putting it lightly,” Grimm muttered. He was badly thrown off balance by his da’s response. He’d expected the old man to rage right back, maybe attack him like the batty bastard he was. But there was genuine regret in his gaze. How was he supposed to deal with that? If Ronin had raged back, he could have released his pent-up anger by fighting with him. But Ronin didn’t. He simply sat his horse and gazed sadly down at him, and it made Grimm feel even worse.
“Jillian is ill,” Grimm said gruffly. “She needs a warm place to stay.”
“She’s ill?” Balder trumpeted. “By Odin’s spear, lad, did you have to wait until now to say the most important thing?”
“Lad?” The way Grimm uttered the single word made his threat clear.
But Balder was unruffled. His mouth twisted with a sneer. “Listen up, son of the McIllioch, you doona frighten me. I’m far too old to be put off by a young pup’s growl. You won’t let me call you by your God-given name, and I refuse to call you that ridiculous appellation you’ve chosen, so it’s either goin’ to be ‘lad’ or it’s goin’ to be ‘arsehole.’ Which do you prefer?” The older man’s grin was menacing.
Grimm caught himself on the verge of a faint smile. If he hadn’t been so hell-bent on hating this place, he would have liked blustering old Balder. The man commanded respect and clearly took guff from no one.
“You can call me lad on one condition,” he relented. “Take care of my woman and keep my secret. And make sure the villagers do the same.”
Ronin and Balder exchanged glances and sighed. “Done.”
“Welcome home, lad,” Balder added.
Grimm rolled his eyes.
“Aye, welcome—” Ronin began, but Grimm raised a warning finger.
“And you, old man,” he said to Ronin. “If I were you, I’d be giving me a lot of breathing room,” he warned.