The moment their lips met, his body jerked violently.
He drew back and stared at her blankly.
“D-did you f-feel that?” she stammered, confusion darkening her eyes.
Not possible, he assured himself. The world does not shake on its axis when you kiss a lass. To convince himself—he kissed her again. The earthquake began just beneath his toes.
His innocent pledge took on a life of its own, became a passionate, soul-searing kiss between a man and his mate. Her maiden lips parted sweetly beneath his and she melted into the heat of his body.
Grimm squeezed his eyes tightly shut, recalling that long-ago kiss as he listened to the trill of Jillian’s flute outside his window.
God, how vividly he recalled it. And he’d not touched another woman since.
Quinn insisted they go for a ride, and although Jillian initially resisted, before long she was glad she went. She’d forgotten how charming Quinn was, how easily he could make her laugh. Quinn had come to Caithness the summer after Grimm had arrived. Her father had fostered the two lads—a chieftain’s eldest son and a homeless scavenger—as equals, although in Jillian’s eyes no other boy could ever have been Grimm’s equal.
Quinn had been well mannered and thoughtful, but it had been Grimm she’d fallen in love with the day she’d met him—the wild boy living in the woods at the perimeter of Caithness. It had been Grimm who’d upset her so much she’d cried hot tears of frustration. It had been Quinn who’d comforted her when he’d left. Funny, she mused as she glanced over at the dashing man riding beside her, some things hadn’t changed a bit.
Quinn caught her sidelong glance and grinned easily. “I’ve missed you, Jillian. Why is it that we haven’t seen one another in years?”
“Judging from the tales I heard of you, Quinn, you were too busy conquering the world and the women to spare time for a simple Lowland lass like me,” she teased.
“Conquering the world perhaps. But the women? I think not. A woman is not to be conquered, but to be wooed and won. Cherished.”
“Tell that to Grimm.” She rolled her eyes. “That man cherishes nothing but his own bad temper. Why does he hate me so?”
Quinn measured her a moment, as if debating what to say. Finally he shrugged. “I used to think it was because he secretly liked you and couldn’t let himself show it because he felt he was a nobody, not good enough for the daughter of Gibraltar St. Clair. But that doesn’t make sense, because Grimm is now a wealthy man, rich enough for any woman, and God knows the women desire him. Frankly, Jillian, I have no idea why he’s still cruel to you. I’d thought things would change, especially now that you’re old enough to be courted. I can’t say that I’m sorry, though, because it’s less competition as far as I’m concerned,” he finished with a pointed look.
Jillian’s eyes widened. “Quinn—” she started, but he waved his hand to silence any protest.
“No, Jillian. Don’t answer me now. Don’t even make me say the words. Just get to know me again, and then we’ll speak of things that may come to be. But come what may, I will always be good to you, Jillian,” he added softly.
Jillian tugged her lower lip between her teeth and spurred her mount into a canter, stealing a glance over her shoulder at the handsome Quinn. Jillian de Moncreiffe, she thought curiously.
Jillian Alanna Roderick, her heart cried defiantly.
CHAPTER 8
JILLIAN STOOD IN THE LONG, NARROW WINDOW OF THE drum tower a hundred feet above the courtyard and watched Grimm. She’d climbed the winding stairs to the tower, telling herself she was trying to get away from “that man,” but she knew she wasn’t being entirely honest with herself.
The drum tower held memories, and that’s what she’d gone to revisit. Splendid memories of the first summer Grimm had been in residence, that wondrous season she’d taken to sleeping in her princess tower. Her parents had indulged her; they’d had men seal the cracks in the stones and hung tapestries so she’d be warm. Here were all her favorite books, the few remaining dolls that had escaped Grimm’s “burials at sea” in the loch, and other love-worn remnants of what had been the best year of her life.
That first summer she’d found the “beast-boy,” they’d spent every moment together. He had taken her on hikes and taught her to catch trout and slippery salamanders. He’d sat her on a pony for the first time; he’d built her a snow cave on the lawn their first winter together. He’d been there to raise her up if she wasn’t tall enough to see, and he’d been there to pick her up if she fell. Nightly he’d told her outlandish stories until she’d passed into a child’s exhausted slumber, dreaming of the next adventure they’d share.