Free To Tame a Highland Warrior by Karen Marie Moning Page B

And stop trying to change the subject and turn it around on me, like you always do. Answer my question. Why are you washing your own shirt?”
    “Because it was dirty,” he replied with calculated condescension.
    She ignored it with admirable restraint. “There are maids to wash—”
    “I didn’t wish to inconvenience—”
    “The shirts of the men who—”
    “A maid by asking her to wash—”
    “And I would have washed the stupid thing for you anyway!”
    Grimm’s mouth snapped shut.
    “I mean, that is … well, I would have if … if all the maids were dead or taken grievously ill and there was no one else who could”—she shrugged—“and it was the only shirt you owned … and bitterly cold … and you were sick yourself or something.” She snapped her mouth shut, realizing there was no way out of the verbal quagmire into which she’d leapt. Grimm was staring at her with fascination.
    He rose to his feet in one swift graceful motion. Mere inches separated them.
    Jillian resented having to tilt her head back to look up at him, but her resentment was quickly replaced by a breathless awareness of the man. She was mesmerized by his proximity, riveted by the intense way he was eyeing her. Had he moved even closer? Or had she leaned into him?
    “You
would have washed my shirt?” His eyes searched hers intently.
    Jillian gazed at him in silence, not trusting herself to speak. If she opened her mouth, God only knew what might come out.
Kiss me, you big beautiful warrior
.
    When he brushed her tense jaw with the back of his knuckles, she nearly swooned. Her skin tingled where his fingers had passed. His lips were a breath away from hers, his eyes were heavy-lidded and unfathomable.
    He wanted to kiss her. Jillian felt certain of it.
    She tilted her head to receive his kiss. Her lids fluttered shut, and she gave herself fully over to fantasy. His breath fanned her cheek, and she waited, afraid to move a muscle.
    “Well, it’s too late now.”
    Her eyes flew open.
No, it’s not
, she nearly snapped.
Kiss me
.
    “To wash it, I mean.” His gaze dropped to the tattered shirt she still held. “Besides,” he added, “I doona need some silly peahen fussing over me. At least the maids doona rip my shirts, unless of course they’re in a hurry to remove them from my body, but that’s an entirely different discussion which is neither here nor there, and one I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in having with me anyway….”
    “Grimm?” Jillian said tightly.
    He looked out over the loch. “Um?”
    “I hate you.”
    “I know, lass,” he said softly. “You told me that last night. It seems all our little ‘discussions’ end on those words. Try to be a bit more creative, will you?”
    He didn’t move a muscle when the remains of his wet shirt slapped him in the face and Jillian stomped away.

    Grimm came to dinner wearing a clean tartan. His hair was wet, slicked back from a recent bath, and his shirt was ripped cleanly in two down the center of his back. The loose ends flapped above his tartan, and entirely too much muscled back could be seen for Jillian’s comfort.
    “What happened to your shirt, Grimm?” Quinn asked curiously.
    Grimm gazed across the table at Jillian.
    Jillian raised her head, intending to scowl self-righteously, but failed. He was looking at her with that strange expression she couldn’t interpret, the one she’d seen when he’d first arrived and had kept saying her name—and she swallowed her angry words along with a bite of bread that had become impossibly dry. The man’s face was flawlessly symmetrical. A shadow beard accentuated the hollows beneath his cheekbones, sharply defining his arrogant jaw. His wet hair, secured by a thong, gleamed ebony in the flickering light. His blue eyes were brilliant against the backdrop of his tanned skin, and his white teeth flashed when he spoke. His lips were firm, pink, sensuous, and presently curved in a mocking expression.
    “I had