“No bleeding?” Hatchard blinked.
The physician snorted. “Fetch a barber if you have an enemy you wish to murder. Fetch a physician if you have an ill patient you wish to revive.”
Grimm nodded vehement agreement and rose to escort the physician out.
“Oh, Quinn,” Jillian said, and sighed, placing a hand on his clammy forehead. She fussed at his woolens, tucking them snugly around his fevered body.
Standing behind Jillian on one side of Quinn’s bed, Kaley beamed at Hatchard, who was perched across the room, applying cool cloths to Ramsay’s brow. She will choose Quinn, didn’t I tell you? she mouthed silently.
Hatchard merely lifted a brow and rolled his eyes.
When Grimm checked on the men the following morning, their condition had improved; however, they were still sedated, and not in any condition to travel.
Kaley insisted on acquiring the wares the men had originally come for, so Grimm reluctantly agreed to escort Jillian to the fair. Once there, he rushed her through the stalls at a breakneck pace, despite her protests. When a blanket of fog rolled down from the mountains and sheathed Durrkesh in the afternoon, a relieved Grimm informed Jillian it was time to return to the inn.
Fog always made Grimm uneasy, which proved inconvenient, as Scotland was such foggy terrain. This wasn’t a normal fog, however; it was a thick, wet cape of dense white clouds that lingered on the ground and swirled around their feet as they walked. By the time they left the market, he could scarcely see Jillian’s face a few feet from him.
“I love this!” Jillian exclaimed, slicing her arms through the tendrils of mist, scattering them with her movement. “Fog has always seemed so romantic to me.”
“Life has always seemed romantic to you, lass. You used to think Bertie down at the stables spelling your name in horse manure was romantic,” he reminded dryly.
“I still do,” she said indignantly. “He learned his letters for the express purpose of writing my name. I think that’s very romantic.” Her brow furrowed as she peered through the soupy mist.
“Obviously you’ve never had to fight a battle in this crap,” he said irritably. Fog reminded him of Tuluth and irrevocable choices. “It’s damned hard to kill a man when you can’t see where you’re slicing with your sword.”
Jillian stopped abruptly. “Our lives are vastly different, aren’t they?” she asked, suddenly sober. “You’ve killed many men, haven’t you, Grimm Roderick?”
“You should know,” he replied tersely. “You watched me do it.”
Jillian nibbled her lip and studied him. “The McKane would have killed my family that day, Grimm. You protected us. If a man must kill to protect his clan, there is no sin in that.”
Would that he could absolve himself with such generosity, he thought. She still had no idea that the McKane’s attack had not been directed at her family. They’d come to Caithness that foggy day long ago only because they’d heard a Berserker might be in residence. She hadn’t known that then, and apparently Gibraltar St. Clair had never revealed his secret.
“Why did you leave that night, Grimm?” Jillian asked carefully.
“I left because it was time,” he said roughly, shoving a hand through his hair. “I’d learned all your father could teach me, and it was time to move on. There was nothing to hold me at Caithness any longer.”
Jillian sighed. “Well, you should know that none of us ever blamed you, despite the fact that we knew you blamed yourself. Even dear Edmund vowed until his last that you were the most noble warrior he’d ever met.” Jillian’s eyes misted. “We buried him under the apple tree, just as he’d asked,” she added, mostly to herself. “I go there when the heather is blooming. He loved white heather.”
Grimm stopped, startled. “Buried? Edmund? What?”
“Edmund. He wished to be buried under the apple tree. We used to play there, remember?”
His fingers closed around her wrist. “When did Edmund die? I thought he was with your brother Hugh in the Highlands.”
“No. Edmund died shortly after you left. Nearly seven years ago.”
“He was scarcely wounded when the McKane attacked,” Grimm insisted. “Even your father said he’d easily recover!”
“He took an infection, then caught a lung complication on top of it,” she replied, perplexed by his reaction. “The fever never abated. He wasn’t in pain long, Grimm. And some of his last words were of you. He swore you defeated the McKane single-handedly and mumbled some nonsense about you being … what was it? A warrior of Odin’s who could change shapes, or something like that. But then, Edmund was ever fanciful,” she added with a faint smile.