To Tame a Highland Warrior

Jillian poked at her breakfast. “I wish I understood what was going on.” She shot a hopeful glance at the brothers.

“You haven’t asked him, have you?” Balder remarked.

“I want to ask him, but …”

“But you understand he may not be able to give you answers because he doesn’t seem to have them himself, does he?”

“I just wish he’d talk to me about it! If not to me, then at least to you,” she said to Ronin. “There’s so much pent up inside him, and I have no idea what to do but give him time.”

“He loves you, lass,” Ronin assured her. “It’s in his eyes, in the way he touches you, in the way he moves when you’re around. You’re the center of his heart.”

“I know,” she said simply. “I don’t doubt that he loves me. But trust is part and parcel of love.”

Balder turned a piercing gaze on his brother. “Ronin is going to speak with him today, aren’t you, brother?” He rose from the table. “I’ll get you a fresh shirt,” he added, and left the Greathall.

Ronin removed his cider-soaked shirt, draped it over a chair, and mopped his body with a linen cloth. The cider had doused him thoroughly.

Jillian watched him curiously. His torso was well defined and powerful. His chest was broad, darkened by years of Highland sun and dusted with hair like Grimm’s. And like Grimm’s, it was free of scars or birthmarks, a vast unblemished expanse of olive-tinted skin. She couldn’t help herself; she stared, perplexed by the fact that there was not a single scar on the torso of a man who’d allegedly fought dozens of battles while wearing no more protection than his plaid, if he fought in the usual Scots manner. Even her father had a scar or two on his chest. She stared uncomprehendingly until she realized Ronin wasn’t moving, but was watching her watch him.

“The last time a pretty lass looked at my chest was over fifteen years ago,” he teased.

Jillian’s gaze flew to his face. He was regarding her tenderly. “Was that how long ago your wife died?”

Ronin nodded. “Jolyn was the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen. And a truer heart I’ve never known.”

“How did you lose her?” she asked gently.

Ronin regarded her impassively.

“Was it in the battle?” she persisted.

Ronin studied his shirt. “I fear this shirt’s ruined.”

She tried another route, one he might be willing to discuss. “But surely in fifteen years you’ve met other women, haven’t you?”

“There’s only one for us, lass. And after she’s gone there can never be another.”

“You mean you’ve never been with … in fifteen years you’ve—” She broke off, embarrassed by the direction the conversation was taking, but she couldn’t suppress her curiosity. She knew men often remarried after their wives died. If they didn’t, it was considered natural that they took mistresses. Was this man saying he’d been utterly alone for fifteen years?

“There’s only one in here.” Ronin thumped a fist against his chest. “We only love once, and we’re no good to a woman without love,” he said with quiet dignity. “My son knows that, at least.”

Jillian’s eyes fixed on his chest again, and she remarked upon the cause of her consternation. “Grimm said the McKane split your chest open with a battle-ax.”

Ronin’s eyes darted away. “I heal well. And it’s been fifteen years, lass.” He shrugged, as if that should explain all.

Jillian stepped closer and stretched out a wondering hand.

Ronin moved away. “The sun darkenin’ my skin covers a lot of scars. And there’s the hair as well,” he said quickly.

Too quickly, for Jillian’s peace of mind. “But I don’t even see the hint of a scar,” she protested. According to Grimm, the ax had been buried to the thick wedge of the hilt. Not only couldn’t most men survive that, such an injury would have left a thick ridge of hard white tissue. “Grimm said you’d been in many battles. One would think you’d have at least one or two scars to show. Come to think of it,” she wondered aloud, “Grimm doesn’t have any scars either. Anywhere. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I have ever even seen a small cut on that man. Does he never hurt himself? Slip while shaving that stubborn jaw? Stub his toe? Tear a hangnail?” She knew her voice was rising but couldn’t help it.

“We McIllioch enjoy excellent health.” Ronin fidgeted with his tartan, unrolled a fold, and draped it across his chest.