To Tame A Highland Warrior
Page 83

Fear gripped her. What if her mother had made up the story of her father’s plan merely as a ruse to get her to stand up in front of the crowd? What if her mama had deliberately lied, wagering that once they got to the vows, Jillian wouldn’t have the nerve to dishonor her parents and Quinn, not to mention herself, by refusing to wed him?
“If there are any here today who know some reason why these two should remain separate, speak now or forever haud yer wheesht.”
The hall was silent.
The pause stretched over the length of several heartbeats. As it lengthened intolerably into minutes, people began to yawn, shuffle their feet, and stretch impatiently.
Silence.
Jillian puffed at her veil and peeked at Quinn. He stood ramrod straight beside her, his hands clasped. She whispered his name, but either he didn’t hear or he refused to acknowledge it. She peered at the priest, who seemed to have fallen into a trance, gazing at the bound volume in his hands.
What on earth was going on? She tapped her foot and waited for her da to say something to bring this debacle to a screeching halt.
“I said, if there are any here who see some reason …” the priest intoned dramatically.
More silence.
Jillian’s nerves stretched to breaking. What was she doing? If her da wouldn’t rescue her, to hell with him. She refused to be cowed by fear of scandal. She was her father’s daughter, by God, and he’d never genuflected to the false idol of propriety. She puffed at her veil, flipped it back impatiently, and scowled at the priest. “Oh, for goodness’ sake—”
“Don’t get snippy with me, missy,” the priest snapped. “I’m just doing my job.”
Jillian’s courage was momentarily quaffed by his unexpected rebuke.
Quinn caught her hand in his. “Is something wrong, Jillian? Are you feeling unwell? Your face is flushed.” His gaze was full of concern and … sympathy?
“I—can’t marry you” is what she started to say when the doors to the Greathall burst open, crushing several unsuspecting people against the wall. Her words were swallowed in the din of indignant squeals and yelps.
All eyes flew to the entrance.
A great gray stallion reared up in the doorway, its breath frosting the air with puffs of steam. It was a scene from every fairy-tale romance she’d ever read: the handsome prince bursting into the castle astride a magnificent stallion, ablaze with desire and honor as he’d declared his undying love before all and sundry. Her heart swelled with joy.
Then her brow puckered as she scrutinized her “prince.” Well, it was almost like a fairy tale. Except this prince was dressed in nothing but a drenched and muddy tartan with blood on his face and hands and war braids plaited at his temples. Although determination glittered in his gaze, a declaration of undying love didn’t appear to be his first priority.
“Jillian!” he roared.
Her knees buckled. His voice brought her violently to life. Everything in the room receded and there was only Grimm, blue eyes blazing, his massive frame filling the doorway. He was majestic, towering, and ruthless. Here was her fierce warrior ready to battle the world to gain her love.
He urged Occam into the crowd, making his way toward the altar.
“Grimm,” she whispered.
He drew up beside her. Sliding from Occam’s back, he dropped to the floor next to the bride and groom. He looked at Quinn. The two men gazed at each other a tense moment, then Quinn inclined his head the merest fraction and stepped back a pace. The Greathall hushed as five hundred guests stood riveted by the unfolding spectacle.
Grimm was at a sudden loss for words. Jillian was so beautiful, a goddess clad in shimmering satin. He was covered with blood, mud-stained and filthy, while behind them stood the incomparable Quinn, impeccably attired, titled and noble—Quinn, who had all he lacked.
The blood on his hands was a relentless reminder that despite his fervent vows to conceal the Berserker, the McKane would always be there. They’d been lying in wait for him today. What if they attacked when he was traveling with Jillian? Four had escaped him. The others were dead. But those four were trouble enough—they would round up more men and continue hunting Grimm until either the last McKane was dead, or he was. Along with anyone traveling with him.
What could he hope to accomplish by taking her now? What fool’s dream had possessed him to come here today? What desperate hope had convinced him he might be able to hide his true nature from her? And how would he survive the look on her face when she saw him for what he really was? “I’m a bloody fool,” he muttered.