To Tame a Highland Warrior

Never. He would never hurt Jillian.

She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Jillian was a woman full grown now, and he had no defenses against her but his will. It had been his formidable will alone that had brought him this far. He’d trained himself, disciplined himself, learned to control the Berserker … for the most part.

When he’d ridden into the courtyard a few days ago and seen the golden, laughing woman surrounded by delighted children, regret for his lost childhood had almost suffocated him. He’d longed to insert himself into the picture on the gently sloping lawn, both as a child and as a man. Willingly he would have curled at her feet and listened, willingly he would have taken her in his arms and given her children of her own.

Frustrated by his inability to do either, he’d provoked her. Then she’d raised her head and Grimm had felt his heart plummet to the soles of his boots. It had been easier for him to recall her with a younger, innocent face. Now the saucily tilted nose and sparkling eyes were part of a sultry, sensual woman’s features. And her eyes, although still innocent, held maturity and a touch of quiet sorrow. He wished he knew who had introduced that into her gaze, so he could hunt and kill the bastard.

Suitors? She’d likely had scores. Had she loved one?

He shook his head. He didn’t like that idea.

So why had Gibraltar summoned him here? He didn’t believe for a minute that it had anything to do with him being a contender for Jillian’s hand. More likely Gibraltar had recalled the vow Grimm had made to protect Jillian if she ever needed it. And Gibraltar probably needed a warrior strong enough to prevent any possible trouble between Jillian and her two “real” suitors: Ramsay and Quinn. Aye, that made perfect sense to him. He’d be there to protect Jillian from being compromised in any way and to break up any potential disputes between her suitors.

Jillian: scent of honeysuckle and a mane of silky golden hair, eyes of rich brown with golden flecks, the very color of the amber the Vikings had prized so highly. They appeared golden in the sunlight but darkened to a simmering brown flecked with yellow when she was angry—which around him was all the time. She was his every waking dream, his every nocturnal fantasy. And he was dangerous by his mere nature. A beast.

“Milord, is something wrong?”

Grimm dropped his hands from his face. The lad who’d been on Jillian’s lap when he’d first arrived was tugging on his sleeve and squinting up at him.

“Are you all right?” the boy asked worriedly.

Grimm nodded. “I’m fine, lad. But I’m not a laird. You can call me Grimm.”

“You look like a laird to me.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Why doesn’t Jillian like you?” Zeke asked.

Grimm shook his head, begrudging a rueful twist of his lips. “I suspect, Zeke—it is Zeke, isn’t it?”

“You know my name,” the lad exclaimed.

“I overheard it when you were with Jillian.”

“But you remembered it!”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Zeke stepped back, gazing at Grimm with blatant adoration. “Because you’re a powerful warrior, and I’m, well … me. I’m just Zeke. Nobody notices me. ’Cept Jillian.”

Grimm eyed the lad, taking in Zeke’s half-defiant, half-ashamed stance. He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “While I’m here at Caithness, how would you like to serve as my squire, lad?”

“Squire?” Zeke gaped. “I canna be a squire! I canna see well.”

“Why doona you let me be the judge of that? My needs are fairly simple. I need someone to see to my horse. He doesn’t like to be penned, so his food and water must be brought to him wherever he happens to be. He needs to be brushed and groomed, and he needs to be ridden.”

With his last words, Zeke’s hopeful expression vanished.

“Well, he doesn’t need to be ridden for some time yet, he had a good hard ride on the way here,” Grimm amended hastily. “And I could probably give you a few lessons.”

“But I canna see clearly. I canna possibly ride.”

“A horse has a great deal of common sense, lad, and can be trained to do many things for his rider. We’ll take it slowly. First, will you care for my stallion?”

“Aye,” Zeke breathed. “I will! I vow I will!”

“Then let’s go meet him. He can be standoffish to strangers unless I bring them around first.” Grimm took the lad’s hand in his own; he was amazed by how the tiny hand was swallowed in his grip. So fragile, so precious. A brutal flash of memories burst over him—a child, no older than Zeke, pinioned on a McKane sword. He shook it off savagely and closed his fingers securely around Zeke’s.