"Look, McIllioch, I don't care what motivates you to be such a bastard to her," Quinn said, dropping all pretense by using Grimm's real name. "I don't even wish to know. Just stop. I won't have you making her cry. You did it enough when we were young. I didn't interfere then, telling myself that Gavrael McIllioch had had a tough life and maybe he needed some slack, but you don't have a tough life anymore."
"How would you know?"
Quinn glared. "Because I know what you've become. You're one of the most respected men in Scotland. You're no longer Gavrael McIllioch—you're the renowned Grimm Roderick, a legend of discipline and control. You saved the King's life on a dozen different occasions. You've been rewarded so richly that you're worth more than old St. Clair and myself put together. Women fling themselves at your feet. What more could you want?"
Only one thing—the thing I can never have, he brooded. Jillian. "You're right, Quinn. As usual. I'm an ass and you're right. So marry her." Grimm turned his back and fiddled with Occam's saddle. He shrugged Quinn's hand off his shoulder a moment later. "Leave me alone, Quinn. You'd make a perfect husband for Jillian, and since I saw Ramsay kissing her the other day, you'd better move fast."
"Ramsay kissed her?" Quinn exclaimed. "Did she kiss him back?"
"Aye," Grimm said bitterly. "And that man has spoiled more than his share of innocent lasses, so do us both a favor and save Jillian from him by offering for her yourself."
"I already have," Quinn said quietly.
Grimm spun sharply. "You did? When? What did she say?"
Quinn shifted from foot to foot. "Well, I didn't exactly out-and-out ask her, but I made my intentions clear."
Grimm waited, one dark brow arched inquiringly.
Quinn tossed himself down on a pile of hay and leaned back, resting his weight on his elbows. He blew a strand of blond hair out of his face irritably. "She thinks she's in love with you, Grimm. She has always thought she was in love with you, ever since she was a child. Why don't you finally come clean with the truth? Tell her who you really are. Let her decide if you're good enough for her. You're heir to a chieftain—if you'd ever go home and claim it. Gibraltar knows exactly who you are, and he summoned you to be one of the contenders for her hand. Obviously he thinks you're good enough for his daughter. Maybe you're the only one who doesn't."
"Maybe he brought me just to make you look good by comparison. You know, invite the beast-boy. Isn't that what Jillian used to call me?" He rolled his eyes. "Then the handsome laird looks even more appealing. She can't be interested in me. As far as Jillian knows, I'm not even titled. I'm a nobody. And I thought you wanted her, Quinn." Grimm turned back to his horse and swept Occam's side with long, even strokes of the brush.
"I do. I'd be proud to make Jillian my wife. Any man would—"
"Do you love her?"
Quinn cocked a brow and eyed him curiously. "Of course I love her."
"No, do you really love her? Does she make you crazy inside?" Grimm watched him carefully.
Quinn blinked. "I don't know what you mean, Grimm."
Grimm snorted. "I didn't expect you would," he muttered.
"Oh, hell, this is a snarl of a mess." Quinn exhaled impatiently and dropped onto his back in the fragrant hay. He plucked a stem of clover from the pile and chewed on it thoughtfully. "I want her. She wants you. And you're my closest friend. The only unknown factor in this equation is what you want."
"First of all, I sincerely doubt she wants me, Quinn. If anything, it's the remains of a childish infatuation that, I assure you, I will relieve her of. Secondly, it doesn't matter what I want." Grimm produced an apple from his sporran and offered it to Occam.
"What do you mean, it doesn't matter? Of course it matters." Quinn frowned.
"What I want is the most irrelevant part of this affair, Quinn. I'm a Berserker," Grimm said flatly.
"So? Look what it has brought you. Most men would trade their souls to be a Berserker."
"That would be a damned foolish bargain. And there's a lot you doona know that is part and parcel of the curse."
"It's proved quite a boon for you. You're virtually invincible. Why, I remember down at Killarnie—"
"I doona wish to talk about Killarnie—"
"You killed half the damned—"
"Haud yer wheesht!" Grimm's head whipped around. "I doona wish to talk about killing. It seems that's the only thing I'm good for. For all that I'm this ridiculous legend of control, there's still a part of me I can't control, de Moncreiffe. I have no control over the rage. I never have," he admitted roughly. "When it happens, I lose memory. I lose time. I have no idea what I'm doing when I'm doing it, and when it's over, I have to be told what I've done. You know that. You've had to tell me a time or two."