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my estate and I want him off it,” Jillian said through gritted teeth.
    “Did you just grit?” Hatchard gaped.
    “Pardon?”
    “Grit. It means to speak from between clenched teeth—”
    “I’m going to scream from between clenched teeth if you disobedient wretches don’t remove this degenerate, virile”—Jillian cleared her throat—
“vile
rogue from Caithness.”
    “Scream?” Hatchard repeated faintly. “Jillian St. Clair doesn’t scream, she doesn’t grit, and she certainly doesn’t have fits of temper. What the devil is going on here?”
    “He’s the devil,” Jillian seethed, motioning to Grimm.
    “Call him what you will, milady. I still can’t remove him,” Hatchard said heavily.
    Jillian’s head jerked as if he’d struck her. “You disobey me?”
    “He doesn’t disobey you, Jillian,” Grimm said quietly. “He obeys your da.”
    “What?” She turned her ashen face to his. He proffered a crumpled, soiled piece of parchment.
    “What is that?” she asked icily, refusing to move even an inch closer.
    “Come and see, Jillian,” he offered. His eyes glittered strangely.
    “Hatchard, get that from him.”
    Hatchard didn’t budge. “I know what it says.”
    “Well then, what does it say?” she snapped at Hatchard. “And how do you know?”
    It was Grimm who answered. “It says ‘come for Jillian’ … Jillian.”
    He’d done it again, added her name after a pause, a husky veneration that left her oddly breathless and frightened. There was a warning in the way he was saying her name, something she should understand but couldn’t quite grasp. Something had changed since they’d last fought so bitterly, something in him, but she couldn’t define it. “Come for Jillian?” she repeated blankly. “My da sent you that?”
    When he nodded, Jillian choked and nearly burst into tears. Such a public display of emotion would have been a first for her. Instead, she did something as unexpected and heretofore undone as gritting and cursing; Jillian spun on her heel and bolted toward the castle as if all the banshees of Scotland were nipping at her heels, when in truth it was the one and only Grimm Roderick—which was far worse.
    Sneaking a glance over her shoulder, she belatedly remembered the children. They were standing in a half-circle, gaping at her with disbelief. She stormed, absolutely mortified, into the castle. Slamming the door was a bit difficult, since it was four times as tall as she was, but in her current temper she managed.

C HAPTER 3
    I NCONCEIVABLE ! J ILLIAN SEETHED AS SHE PACED HER chambers. She tried to calm down, but reluctantly concluded that until she got rid of
him
, calm was not possible.
    So she stormed and paced and considered breaking things, except that she liked everything in her room and didn’t really want to break any of her own belongings. But if she could only have gotten her hands on him, oh—then she’d have broken a thing or two!
    Vexed, she muttered beneath her breath while she quickly slipped out of her gown. She refused to ponder her urge to replace the plain gown and chemise that had been perfectly suitable only an hour before. Nude, she stalked to her armoire by the window, where she was momentarily distracted by the sight of riders in the courtyard. She peered out the tall opening. Two horsemen were riding through the gate. She studied them curiously, leaning into the window. As one, the men raised their heads, and she gasped. A smile crossed the blond man’s face, givingher the impression he’d glimpsed her poised in the window, clad in nothing but temper-flushed skin. Instinctively she ducked behind the armoire and snatched up a gown of brilliant green, assuring herself that just because she could see them clearly didn’t mean they could see her. Surely the window reflected the sun and permitted little passage of vision.
    Who else was arriving at Caithness? she fumed.
He
was bad enough. How dare he come here, and furthermore, how dare her