To Tame a Highland Warrior (38 page)

He could accept that he’d forgotten what Tuluth was really like. He could accept that the castle had never been truly menacing. But what was he to make of his da? He’d seen him with his own eyes, crouched over his mother’s body. Had he, in his shock and grief, misconstrued that event too? Once the possibility presented itself, he studied it from every angle, his confusion deepening.

He’d found his da in the south gardens in the early
morning, the time Jolyn strolled the grounds and greeted the day. He’d been on his way to meet Arron to go fishing. The scene was painstakingly etched on his mind: Jolyn beaten and battered, her face a mass of bruises, Ronin crouched above her, snarling, blood everywhere, and that damned incriminating knife in his hand.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Balder interrupted his internal debate.

“Aye,” Grimm replied, mildly surprised Balder had joined him. “I doona remember it like this, Balder.”

Balder placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “That’s because it wasn’t always like this. Tuluth has grown tremendously over the years, thanks to your da’s efforts.”

“Come to think of it, I doona remember you either,” Grimm said thoughtfully. “Did I know you when I was a lad?”

“No. I’ve spent most of my life wanderin’. I visited Maldebann twice when you were young, but only briefly. Six months ago the ship I was sailin’ broke up in a storm, washin’ me ashore old Alba. I figured that meant it was time to check on what remained of my clan. I’m your da’s older brother, but I had a fancy to see the world, so I bullied Ronin into bein’ laird, and a fine one he’s made.”

Grimm scowled. “That’s debatable.”

“Doona be so hard on Ronin, lad. He’s wanted nothin’ more than for you to come home. Maybe your memories of him are as discolored as your memories of Tuluth.”

“Maybe,” Grimm allowed tightly. “But maybe not.”

“Give him a chance, that’s all I’m askin’. Get to know him again and make a fresh judgment. There were things he dinna have time to explain to you before. Let him tell you now.”

Grimm shrugged his hand off his shoulder. “Enough, Balder. Leave me alone.”

“Promise me you’ll give him a chance to talk to you, lad,” Balder persisted, undaunted by Grimm’s dismissal.

“I haven’t left yet, have I?”

Balder inclined his head and retreated.

“Well, that dinna last long,” Ronin complained.

“I said my piece. Now do your part,” Balder grumbled.

“Tomorrow.” Ronin procrastinated.

Balder glared.

“You know it’s foolish to try talkin’ about things when people are tired, and the lad must be exhausted, Balder.”

“Berserkers only get tired when they’ve been in a rage,” Balder said dryly.

“Quit actin’ like my older brother,” Ronin snapped.

“Well, quit actin’ like my younger brother.” Two pairs of ice-blue eyes battled, and Balder finally shrugged. “If you won’t face that problem, then turn your mind to this one. Merry overheard Jillian tellin’ the lad she’d leave her door unlocked. If we doona come up with somethin’, that lad o’ yours will be samplin’ the pleasures without payin’ the price.”

“But he already has sampled them. We know that.”

“That doesn’t make it right. And bein’ denied may encourage him to wed her all the sooner,” Balder pointed out.

“What do you suggest? Lock her in the tower? The boy’s a Berserker, he’ll get past anythin’.”

Balder thought a moment, then grinned. “He won’t be gettin’ past righteous indignation, will he, now?”

The hour was past midnight when Grimm hastened down the corridor to Jillian’s chambers. Merry had assured him that Jillian passed a restful evening with no further bouts of illness. She’d eaten like a woman famished, the elfin maid had said.

He let his lips curve in the full smile he felt whenever he thought of Jillian. He needed to touch her, to tell her that he wanted to marry her if she would still have him. He longed to confide in her. She had a logical mind; perhaps she could help him see things he couldn’t make sense of by dint of being too near the subjects involved. He stood firm on his position that she must never know what he really was, but he could talk with her about much of what had happened—or
seemed
to have happened—fifteen years ago, without betraying his secret. His gait quickened as he turned down the hall leading to her chambers, and he nearly sprinted around the corner.

He halted abruptly when he spotted Balder, energetically plastering a crack in the stone with a mixture of clay and crushed stone.

“What are you doing here?” Grimm scowled indignantly. “It’s the middle of the night.”

Balder shrugged innocently. “Tendin’ this castle is a full-time job. Fortunately, I doona require much sleep anymore. But come to think of it, what are you doin’ here? Your rooms are that way”—he leveled a half-full trowel in the other direction—“in case you’ve forgotten. You wouldn’t be lookin’ to spoil an innocent young lass, now, would you?”

A muscle twitched in Grimm’s jaw. “Right. I must have gotten turned around.”

“Well, turn back around, lad. I expect I’ll be workin’ on this wall all night,” Balder said evenly. “The
whole
night.”

Twenty minutes later, Jillian poked her head out the door. “Balder!” She tugged her wrapper about her shoulders, peering at him peevishly.

Balder grinned. She was lovely, flushed with sleep and obviously intent upon sneaking to Grimm’s room.

“Do you need somethin’, lass?”

“What on earth are you doing?”

He gave her the same lame excuse he’d given Grimm and plastered heartily away.

“Oh,” Jillian said in a small voice.

“Do you wish me to escort you to the kitchens, lass? Can I give you a wee tour? I’m usually up all night, and the only thing I plan to do is plaster here. Wee cracks between the stones can become great cracks in the blink of an eye if left untended.”

“No, no.” Jillian waved him away. “I just heard a noise and wondered what it was.” She bid him good night and retreated.

After she’d closed the door, Balder rubbed his eyes. By the saints, it was going to be a bloody long night.

High above Tuluth, men gathered. Two of them broke away from the main group and moved toward the bluff, talking quietly.

“The ambush didn’t work, Connor. Why the hell did you send a mere score of men after a Berserker?”

“Because you said he was probably on his way back to Tuluth,” Connor shot back. “We dinna wish to waste too many that we might be needing later. Besides, how many
kegs of our black powder did you waste, only to be failing, yourself?”

Ramsay Logan scowled. “I hadn’t thought it through as well as I should have. He won’t escape the next time.”

“Logan, if you kill Gavrael McIllioch there will be gold enough to last you the rest of your days. We’ve been trying for years. He’s the last one left that can breed. That we know of,” he added.

“Are all their children born Berserkers?” Ramsay watched the lights flicker and fade in the valley.

Connor’s lip curled in disgust. “Only the sons of direct descent from the laird. The curse confines itself to the primary, paternal line. Over the centuries our clan has gathered as much information about the McIllioch as we could. We know they have only one true mate, and once their mate dies they remain celibate for the duration of their years. So the old man is no longer a threat. To the best of our knowledge, Gavrael is his only son. When he dies, that’s the end. However, during various times over the centuries they’ve managed to hide a few from us. That’s why it’s imperative that you get inside Castle Maldebann. I want the last McIllioch destroyed.”

“Do you suspect the castle is crawling with concealed blue-eyed boys? Is it possible Ronin had other sons besides Gavrael?”

“We don’t know,” Connor admitted. “Over the years we’ve heard there is a hall, a place of pagan worship to Odin. It’s supposed to be right in the heart of the mountain.” His face grew taut with fury. “Damned heathens, it’s a Christian land now! We’ve heard they practice pagan ceremonies there. And one of the maids we captured—before she died—said that they record each and every one of their
unholy spawn in that hall. You must find it and verify Gavrael is the last.”

“You expect me to slip into the lair of such creatures and spy? How much gold did you say was in this for me?” Ramsay bargained shrewdly.

Connor regarded him with the fanaticism of a purist. “If you prove he’s the last and succeed in killing him, you can name your price.”

“I’ll get into the castle and take the last Berserker down,” Ramsay said with relish.

“How? You’ve failed three times now.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll not only get to the hall, I will take his mate, Jillian. It’s possible she’s pregnant—”

“By Christ’s blessed tears!” Connor shuddered with disgust. “After you use her, kill her,” he ordered.

Ramsay raised a hand. “No. We will wait to see if she’s pregnant.”

“But she’s been tainted—”

“I want her. She’s part of my price,” Ramsay insisted. “If she’s carrying his child, I’ll keep her under close guard until she gives birth.”

“If it’s a son you kill it, and I’ll be there to watch. You say you hate the Berserkers, but if you thought you could breed them into your clan, you might feel differently.”

“Gavrael McIllioch killed my brothers,” Ramsay said tightly. “Religion or not, I’ll suffer no qualms about killing his son. Or daughter.”

“Good.” Connor McKane looked down into the valley at the sleeping village of Tuluth. “The city is much larger now, Logan. What’s your plan?”

“You mentioned there are caves in the mountain. Once I’ve captured the woman I’ll give you a piece of the clothing she’s wearing. You’ll take it and confront the old man
and Gavrael. They won’t fight as long as they know I have Jillian. You’ll send him to the caves, and I’ll take care of it from there.”

“How?”

“I said I will take care of it from there,” Ramsay growled.

“I want to see his dead body with my own eyes.”

“You will.” Ramsay joined Connor behind the shelter of a bluff. The two of them stared down at Castle Maldebann.

“Such a waste of beauty and strength on heathens. When they are defeated the McKane will take Maldebann,” Connor breathed.