To Tame A Highland Warrior

Page 43

“I hate this, Quinn,” Grimm said later as he unbuttoned his shirt with stiff fingers.
Quinn gave him a curious look. “Do you really? What is there to hate about it? The only difference between what you did and what I would have done is that you don’t know what you’re doing when you’re doing it. You’re honorable even when you’re not fully conscious. You’re so damned honorable, you can’t behave any other way.”
“I would have killed him.”
“I’m not convinced of that. I’ve seen you do this before and I’ve seen you pull out of it. The older you get, the more control you seem to gain. And I don’t know if you’ve realized this, but you weren’t completely unaware this time. You heard me when I spoke to you. It used to take a lot longer to reach you.”
Grimm’s brow furrowed. “That’s true,” he admitted. “It seems I manage to retain a sliver of awareness. Not much—but it’s more than I used to have.”
“Let me see that wound.” Quinn drew a candle near. “And bear in mind, the meat butcher would have given no thought to beating the lad senseless and leaving him to die in the mud. The homeless children in this city are considered no better than street rats, and the general consensus is the faster they die, the better.”
“It’s not right, Quinn,” Grimm said. “Children are innocent. They haven’t had a chance to be corrupted. We’d do better to take the children off somewhere else to raise them properly. With someone like Jillian to teach them fables,” he added.
Quinn smiled faintly as he bent over the puckered wound. “She will be a wonderful mother, won’t she? Like Elizabeth.” Bemused, he drew his fingers over the already-closing cut in Grimm’s side. “By Odin’s spear, man, how quickly do you heal?”
Grimm grimaced slightly. “Very. It seems to be getting even quicker, the older I get.”
Quinn dropped to the bed, shaking his head. “What a blessing it must be. You never have to worry about infection, do you? How does one kill a Berserker, anyway?”
“With great difficulty,” Grimm replied dryly. “I’ve tried to drink myself to death, and that didn’t work. Then I tried to labor myself to death. Failing that, I just plunged into every battle I could find, and that didn’t work either. The only thing left was to try was to fu—” He broke off, embarrassed. “Well, as you can see, that didn’t work either.”
Quinn grinned. “No harm in trying, though, was there?”
Grimm begrudged a faint curve of his lip.
“Get some sleep, man.” Quinn lightly punched him on the shoulder. “Everything looks better in the morning. Well, almost everything,” he added with a sheepish grin, “so long as I wasn’t too drunk the night before. Then sometimes the wench looks worse. And so do I, for that matter.”
Grimm just shook his head and flopped back on the bed. After folding his arms behind his head, he was asleep in seconds.
CHAPTER 11
EVERYTHING LOOKS BETTER IN THE MORNING. WATCHING Jillian from his window, Grimm recalled Quinn’s words and agreed wholeheartedly. What lapse of judgment had persuaded him that she wouldn’t follow them?
She was breathtaking, he acknowledged as he watched her hungrily, safe in the privacy of his room. Clad in a velvet cloak of amber, she was a vision of flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Her blond hair tumbled over her shoulders, casting the sun back at the sky. The rain had stopped—probably just for her, he brooded—and she stood in a puddle of sunshine that shafted over the roof from the east, proclaiming the hour to be shortly before noon. He’d slept like the dead, but he always did after succumbing to the Berserker rage, no matter how brief its duration.
Peering out the narrow casement window, he rubbed the glass until it permitted him an unmarred view. While Hatchard gathered her bags, Jillian linked her arm through Kaley’s and chatted animatedly. When Quinn appeared in the street below a few moments later, gallantly offered his arms to both ladies, and escorted them into the inn, Grimm exhaled dismally.
Ever-gallant, ever-golden Quinn.
Grimm muttered a soft curse and went to feed Occam before worrying about his own breakfast.
Jillian mounted the main staircase to her room, glanced about to ascertain she was alone, then detoured stealthily down the rear steps, smoothing the folds of her cloak. Biting her lip, she exited into the small courtyard behind the inn. He was there, just as she’d suspected, feeding Occam a handful of grain and murmuring quietly. Jillian paused, enjoying the sight of him. He was tall and magnificent, and his dark hair rippled in the breeze. His plaid was slung too low for propriety, riding his lean hips with sensual insolence. She could see a peek of his back where his shirt had obviously been hastily tucked. Her fingers itched to stroke the smooth olive-tinted skin. When he bent to pick up a brush, the muscles in his legs rippled, and despite her vow to make no sound, she exhaled a breath of unadulterated longing.