To this day, Jillian could still recall the magic feeling she’d had whenever they’d been together. It had seemed perfectly possible that he might be a rogue angel sent to guard her. After all, she’d been the one who’d discovered him lurking in the thickets of the forest behind Caithness. She’d been the one who’d coaxed him near with a tempting feast, waiting patiently day after day on a rumpled blanket with her beloved puppy, Savanna TeaGarden.

For months he’d resisted her offering, hiding in his bracken and shadows, watching her as intently as she’d watched him. But one rainy day he’d melted out of the mist and come to kneel upon her blanket. He’d gazed at her with an expression that had made her feel beautiful and protected. Sometimes, in the years to follow, despite his cruel indifference, she’d caught that same look in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t watching. It had kept her hope alive when it would have been wiser to let it die. She’d grown to young womanhood desperately in love with the fierce boy-turned-man who had a strange way of appearing whenever she needed him, rescuing her repeatedly.

Granted, he hadn’t always been gentle while he did it. One time he’d trussed her up, high in an oak’s lofty branches, before tearing off through the woods to rescue Savanna from a pack of wild dogs he’d saved Jillian from moments earlier. Lashed to the tree, terrified for her puppy, she’d howled and struggled but had been unable to loosen her bonds. He’d left her there for hours. But sure as the sun always rose and set, he had come back for her—cradling the wounded, but remarkably alive, wolfhound in his arms.

He’d refused to discuss with her how he’d saved her puppy from the rabid pack, but she hadn’t worried overmuch. Although Jillian had found it mildly astonishing that he’d been unhurt himself, over the years she’d come to expect that Grimm would suffer no harm. Grimm was her hero. He could do anything.

One year after she’d met Grimm, Quinn de Moncreiffe had arrived to be fostered at Caithness. He and Grimm became close as brothers, sharing a world of adventures from which she was painfully excluded. That had been the beginning of the end of her dreams.

Jillian sighed as Grimm disappeared into the castle. Her back stiffened when he reappeared a few moments later with Zeke. She narrowed her eyes when Zeke slipped his hand trustingly into Grimm’s. She could still recall how easy it had been to slide her child’s hand into his strong grip. He was the kind of man that children and women wanted to keep around, although for wholly different reasons.

There was certainly a mystery about him. It was as if a swirling black mist had parted the day Grimm Roderick had stepped into existence, and no amount of questioning, no relentless scrutiny could ever illuminate his dark past. He was a deep man, unusually aware of the tiniest nuances in a conversation or interaction. When she’d been a child, he’d always seemed to know exactly how she was feeling, anticipating her feelings before she had understood them herself.

If she was honest with herself, the only truly cruel thing she could accuse him of was years of indifference. He’d never done anything terribly unkind in and of itself. But the night he’d left, his absolute rejection had caused her to harden her heart against him.

She watched him swing Zeke up in his arms. What on earth was he doing? Putting him on a horse? Zeke couldn’t ride, he couldn’t see well enough. She opened her mouth to call down, then paused. Whatever else he might be, Grimm was not a man who made mistakes. Jillian resigned herself to watch for a few moments. Zeke was giddy with excitement, and it wasn’t often she saw him happy. Several of the children and their parents had gathered around to watch. Jillian held her breath. If Grimm’s intentions went awry it would be a painful, public humiliation for Zeke, and one he’d not live down for a long time.

She watched as Grimm bowed his dark head close to the horse; it looked as if he was whispering words in the prancing gray stallion’s ear. Jillian suffered a momentary fancy that the horse had actually nodded his head in response. When Grimm slipped Zeke on the horse’s back, she held her breath. Zeke sat rigidly at first, then slowly relaxed as Grimm led the stallion in easy wide circles around the courtyard. Well, that was all fine and good, Jillian thought, but now what would Zeke do? He certainly couldn’t be led around all the time. What was the point of putting the child on a horse when he could never ride on his own?

She quickly decided she’d had enough. Obviously Grimm didn’t understand; he should not be teaching the boy to want impossible things. He should be encouraging Zeke to read books, to indulge in safer pursuits, as Jillian had done. When a child was handicapped, it made no sense to encourage him to test those limits foolishly in a manner that might cause him harm. Far better to teach him to appreciate different things and pursue attainable dreams. No matter that, like any other child, Zeke might wish to run and play and ride—he had to be taught that he couldn’t, that it was dangerous for him to do so with his impaired vision.