Of course, he heard her. She instantly assumed a mask of indifference and volleyed into questions to head off a potential verbal sully. “Why don’t you ever pen Occam?” she asked brightly.

Grimm allowed a brief glance over his shoulder, then started brushing the horse’s sleek flank. “He was caught in a stable fire once.”

“He doesn’t appear to have suffered for it.” Jillian traversed the courtyard, eyeing the stallion. “Was he injured?” The horse was magnificent, hands taller than most and a glossy, unmarked slate gray.

Grimm stopped brushing. “You never stop with your questions, do you? And what are you doing here, anyway? Couldn’t you just be a good lass and wait at Caithness? No, I forgot, Jillian hates being left behind,” he said mockingly.

“So who rescued him?” Jillian was determined not to rise to the bait.

Grimm returned his attention to the horse. “I did.” There was a pause, filled only with the rasp of bristles against horseflesh. When he spoke again, he released a low rush of words: “Have you ever heard a horse scream, Jillian? It’s one of the most bloodcurdling sounds I’ve ever heard. It cuts through you as cruelly as the sound of an innocent child’s cry of pain. I think it has always been the innocence that bothers me most.”

Jillian wondered when he’d heard those screams and wanted desperately to ask, but was hesitant to pry at his wounds. She held her tongue, hoping he might continue if she stayed silent.

He didn’t. Silently stepping back from the stallion, he made a sharp gesture, accompanied by a clicking noise with his tongue against his teeth. Jillian watched in amazement as the stallion sank to its knees, then dropped heavily to its side with a soft nicker. Grimm knelt by the horse and motioned her closer.

She slipped to her knees beside Grimm. “Oh, poor, sweet Occam,” she whispered. The entire underside of the horse was badly scarred. Lightly she ran her fingers over the thick skin, and her brows puckered sympathetically.

“He was burned so badly, they said he wouldn’t live,” Grimm told her. “They planned to put him down, so I bought him. Not only was he wounded, he was crazed for months afterward. Can you imagine the terror of being trapped in a burning barn, penned in? Occam could run faster than the fleetest horse, could have left the blaze miles behind, but he was imprisoned in a man-made hell. I’ve never penned him since.”

Jillian swallowed and glanced at Grimm. His expression was bitter. “You sound as if you’ve been trapped in a few man-made hells yourself, Grimm Roderick,” she observed softly.

His gaze mocked her. “What would you know about man-made hells?”

“A woman lives most of her life in a man-made world,” Jillian replied. “First her father’s world, then her husband’s, finally her son’s, by whose grace she continues on in one of their households should her husband die before her. And in Scotland, the husbands always seem to die before the women in one war or another. Sometimes merely watching the hells men design for each other—that’s horror enough for any woman. We feel things differently than you men do.” She impulsively laid her hand against his lips to silence him when he started to speak. “No. Don’t say anything. I know you think I know little of sorrow or pain, but I’ve had my share. There are things you don’t know about me, Grimm Roderick. And don’t forget the battle I watched when I was young.” Her eyes widened with disbelief when Grimm lightly kissed the tips of her fingers where they lay across his lips.

“Touché, Jillian,” he whispered. He caught her hand in his and placed it gently in her lap. Jillian sat motionless when he curled his own about it protectively.

“If I were a man who believed in wishes on stars, I would wish on all of them that Jillian St. Clair might never suffer the smallest glimpse of any hell. There should only be heaven for Jillian’s eyes.”

Jillian remained perfectly still, masking her astonishment, exulting in the sensation of his strong, warm hand cupping hers. By the saints, she would have ridden all the way to England through the savagery of a border battle if she’d known this was waiting for her at the end of her journey. She fancied her body had taken root where she knelt; to continue being touched by him she would willingly grow old in the small courtyard, suffering wind and rain, hail and snow without the slightest care. Mesmerized by the glimpse of hesitation in his gaze, her head tilted up; his seemed to move forward and down as if nudged by a serendipitous breeze.

His lips were a breath from hers, and she waited, her heart thundering.