Grimm whipped around furiously. “What do you think you’re doing, peahen?” He snarled.
“I was touching you,” she said simply.
Grimm grabbed both her hands in his, nearly crushing the delicate bones in her fingers. “Well, doona be, lass. There is nothing between you and me—”
“You leaned back,” she protested. “You didn’t seem to be so unhappy—”
“I thought you were a tavern wench!” Grimm said, running a furious hand through his hair.
“Oh!” Jillian was crestfallen.
Grimm lowered his head till his lips brushed her ear, taking pains to make his next words audible over the din in the noisy eatery. “In case you doona recall, it is Quinn who wants you and Quinn who is clearly the best choice. Go find him and touch him, lass. Leave me to the tavern wenches who understand a man like me.”
Jillian’s eyes sparkled dangerously as she turned away and pushed through the crowded room.
He would survive the night. It couldn’t be too bad; after all, he’d lived through worse. Grimm had been aware of Jillian since the moment she’d entered the room. He had, in fact, deliberately turned away from her when it appeared she’d been about to speak. Little good that had done—as soon as she’d touched him he’d been unable to force himself to step away from the sensual feel of her hands on his back. He’d let it go too far, but it wasn’t too late to salvage the situation.
Now he studiously kept his back to Jillian, methodically pouring whisky into a mug. He drank with a vengeance, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, longing for the ability to dull his perfect Berserker senses. Periodically he heard the breathless lilt of her laughter. Occasionally, as the proprietor moved bottles upon shelves, he caught a glimpse of her golden hair in a polished flagon.
But he didn’t give a damn, any fool could see that much. He’d pushed her to do what she was currently doing, so how could he care? He didn’t, he assured himself, because he was one sane man among a race seemingly condemned to be dragged about by violent, unpredictable emotions that were nothing more than unrelieved lust. Lust, not love, and neither one had a damned thing to do with Jillian.
Christ! Who did he think he was kidding? Grimm closed his eyes and shook his head at his own lies.
Life was hell and he was Sisyphus, eternally condemned to push a boulder of relentless desire up a hill, only to have it flatten him before he reached the crest. Grimm had never been able to tolerate futility. He was a man who resolved things, and tonight he would see to it that Jillian solidified her betrothal to Quinn and that would be the end of his involvement.
He couldn’t covet his best friend’s wife, could he? So all he had to do was get her wed to Quinn, and that would be the end of his agony. He simply couldn’t live with this battle waging within him much longer. If she was free and unwed, he could still dream. If she were safely married, he would be forced to put his fool dreams to rest. So resolved, Grimm stole a covert glance over his shoulder to see how things were progressing. Only peglegged Mac behind the counter heard the hollow whistle of his indrawn breath and noticed the rigid set of his jaw.
Jillian was standing halfway across the room, her golden head tilted back, doing that bedazzling woman-thing to his best friend, which essentially involved nothing more than being what she was: irresistible. A teasing glance, vivacious eyes flashing; a delectable lower lip caught between her teeth. The two were obviously in their own little world, oblivious to him. The very situation he’d encouraged her to seek. It infuriated him.
As he watched, the world that wasn’t Jillian—for what was the world without Jillian?—receded. He could hear the rustle of her hair across the crowded tavern, the sigh of air as her hand rose to Quinn’s face. Then suddenly the only sound he could hear was the blood thundering in his ears as he watched her slender fingers trace the curve of Quinn’s cheek, lingering upon his jaw. His gut tightened and his heart beat a rough staccato of anger.
Mesmerized, Grimm’s hand crept to his own face. Jillian’s palm feathered Quinn’s skin; her fingers traced the shadow beard on Quinn’s jaw. Grimm fervently wished he’d broken that perfect jaw a time or two when they’d played as lads.
Deeply oblivious to Mac’s fascinated gaze, Grimm’s hand traced the same pattern on his own face; he mimicked her touch, his eyes devouring her with such intensity that she might have fled, had she turned to look at him. But she didn’t turn. She was too busy gazing adoringly at his best friend.
Behind him a soft snort and a whistle pierced the smoky air. “Man, ye’ve got it bloody bad, and that’s more truth than ye’ll find in another bottle o’ rotgut mash.” Mac’s voice shattered the fantasy that Grimm was certainly not having. “It’s a spot of ’ell wanting yer best friend’s wife, now, isn’t it?” Mac nodded enthusiastically, warming to the subject. “Me, meself, I had a bit o’ thing for one o’ me own friend’s girl, oh let’s see, musta been ten years—”