by Sara Bennett
Her blue eyes became distant, shadowy in the light of the lantern, as she returned to the past.
“I saw the duke coming down the stairs. He moved slowly, in a dream, as if he had a heavy weight upon his mind. His face was white, whiter than I had ever seen it. I dinna know whether to step out from the tapestry where I stood, to make myself known. Just then a cry went up from outside. The Duke lifted his head and went perfectly still. There was such a look on his face…A wild look, like an animal caught in a snare. A look of guilt and regret.”
Meg shivered as if she were cold, although it was warm in the room with the smouldering peat fire. Gregor sensed her tension. His foot brushed hers, and she did not draw back. Instead she inched closer, as if she found comfort in his presence.
“He knew she was dead,” Shona said with certainty. “Even before word was brought to him, he knew. Why would he keep such news to himself, unless it was due to a guilty conscience? Unless he had killed her with his own hands?”
“But why would he do such a thing?” Gregor asked impatiently. “If he married Lady Isabella for her money, why kill her when he already had what he wanted? Or if, as you say, he was fascinated by her, why dispose of her in such a way?”
Shona pulled a face. “Ah, Captain, you dinna see them together. She taunted him, teased him, kept him on edge. A man like that, a cold, controlled man…Once he lost his temper it could be verra dangerous. He might do such a thing without being able to stop himself, not until it was over, and too late. And as I said, ’twas often whispered about the castle that he had killed before.”
Gregor raised a dark eyebrow. “So he killed her in a rage, and then kept quiet about it?”
“Aye,” Shona said softly. “He pretended to mourn. He did mourn. I think he had loved Lady Isabella, in his way. And then one day he rode to Glen Dhui to visit the general and saw Lady Meg. She is much like his wife, in looks as well as manner, although of course Lady Meg is far, far sweeter.” She smiled at Meg, but her eyes were serious. “But the duke wouldna see the differences, Captain. He is the sort of man who would see only what he wanted to see: another Isabella. A second chance to master Lady Isabella. In his mind he isna marrying Lady Meg. He is marrying Lady Isabella…again!”
The pause that followed her words was a tribute to the telling, and to Shona’s utter sincerity.
“I came home soon after the Lady Isabella died,” Kenneth said, his deep voice breaking through the tense silence. “Shona came away home with me. We dinna talk of this thing very often, it isna safe. The duke is a powerful man, with a long reach. But when Shona heard of his betrothal to Lady Meg, she felt she had to tell. If the duke could do such a thing to one wife, then he could do it to another.”
Shona’s blue eyes shone with tears. “When I heard that the duke had set his sights on another woman, I went to see her for mysel’. And as soon as I saw Lady Meg, I understood why he wished to wed her. I couldna let such a thing happen again, and I couldna let Lady Meg wed herself to a murderer. I had to warn her, even if I risked my own life to tell her my story.”
“For which I am forever grateful,” Meg assured her, leaning forward to take her hand. “I do not relish being such a man’s next victim.”
Shona nodded, took a shaky breath, and glanced up at her husband. “I’m sure Captain Grant willna let that happen. I can rest easy with the burden passing to him.”
Gregor wondered if she was right. Could he keep Meg safe? It sounded like no easy task. And yet there was a determination inside him, burning slow and hot, just like the peat fire in the hearth. And it was not something that would be easily extinguished.
“I will deal with the Duke of Abercauldy,” he said softly.
Meg turned her face toward him, surprised at his grim tone. Briefly her eyes searched his. “We will deal with him together,” she reminded him quietly.
He nodded assent.
Her gaze returned to the firelight. Her hair was brighter and warmer than any fire. Again Gregor had the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her, and he smiled at the thought. She would fight like a hellcat, and he would probably pass out from the pain inflicted to his wound. Not the ideal passionate scene, then.
“’Tis late.” Shona rose. “There is our bed, my lady, if ye—”
“No,” Meg replied swiftly. “I would not take your bed, Shona. I will be quite all right here, by the fire.”
Shona smiled, and something in her face made Meg suddenly suspicious that this had been her plan all along. “Verra well. I will fetch blankets for when the fire cools. I’m afraid there is so little room left in my home tonight that here is as comfortable as anywhere else. What of ye, Captain? Do ye mind sleeping here? I know ye are a gentleman and completely to be trusted.”
He laughed. “Thank you, Shona. Aye, I am both a gentleman and to be trusted—tonight, at any rate.”
Meg forced a smile in return. She still felt rather breathless from being held captive by Gregor Grant’s eyes, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to spend the night here, alone with him, but she would not take Shona’s bed. “We will be fine. Thank you.”
Kenneth followed his wife into the shadows.
Silence crept over the cottage, broken only by the faint sound of voices and the cry of an owl outside in the glen.
Meg glanced sideways at the man beside her, and decided his closeness was disturbing her more than it should. He had been staring into the fire, but now his gaze shifted and found hers. Something in those amber depths questioned her, and once again drew her in. She wanted to back away, and yet at the same time she had the definite urge to lean forward until she was pressed close up to him, until his breath whispered in her hair and his arms enfolded her.
Sheer need for human contact, she told herself firmly. She was feeling uncertain, afraid, and he was a strong and confident man. She was drawn to him, yes, but it was a natural reaction.
“Meg? If you wish it, I will go and find other quarters.”
Startled at the sound of her name on his lips, Meg was surprised once more into meeting his gaze. Lines creased his brow, experience hardened his face, weariness clouded his eyes.
He was not the man she had believed she was going to find in Clashennic. He was nothing like the dream she had believed in since she was twelve years old. He was more than that, frighteningly, stomach-clenchingly more.
“You are not as I expected.”
She had spoken the words before she thought to stop them.
His brow quirked down into a frown. “What did you expect?”
Why not be honest? Meg thought. He already knew a great deal about her; he might as well know this as well.
“There was a man at the Black Dog, wearing yellow brocade and buckled shoes. He looked as if he would be more comfortable holding a snuff box than a pistol. I imagined you would be like him.”
His frown deepened. “Good God. I wouldna lasted five minutes if I had been like that. I am a man made by circumstance, Meg. If I am taciturn, then my life has made me so. I became what I had to to survive.”
He was right, of course he was! And yet, in her heart, Meg regretted the boy who had drawn those precise, intimate sketches she so treasured.
A chuckle brought her back from her thoughts. Meg raised her eyebrows as Gregor laughed softly again.
“I amuse you?” she asked in a sharp tone. Perhaps honesty was not the best option after all.
His eyes glinted with mocking humor. “I was wondering how my men would have reacted if I had given them an order in the outfit you just described. I have a feeling it was Georgie Moncreith you saw at the tavern. He’s the only son of a factor and believes himself almost gentry.”
His tone was filled with scorn—an insult from a man who did not have to play at being a gentleman. A man who, despite his worn clothing and lowered circumstances, still carried himself like the proud laird.
Yes, he was very different from the boy she had dreamed of, but much more intriguing. Not a disappointment, Meg realized,
with some surprise. Whatever Gregor was or wasn’t, he had not disappointed her.
Shona chose that moment to return with the bedding, and the next few minutes were spent making up a couple of comfortable spots by the fire.
“Good night,” she said, turning down the lantern and leaving them alone in the firelight.
Gregor stood, hesitant.
“You should sleep,” Meg said at last. “Tomorrow will be another long day. How are you feeling now?”
He smiled ruefully. “Remarkably well, considering how I felt before. Your Shona must be a witch.”
“I don’t know if she is mine, but yes, I have heard her called so.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Meg. Should I go elsewhere to sleep?”
Meg didn’t look at him, busying herself arranging her own bed to her liking. “Of course not, Captain Grant. I will trust you, if you will trust me.”
He hesitated a moment longer, and then removed his boots and lay down, pulling a blanket over him. Meg followed suit, taking off her boots and leaving on her stockings and other clothing. She would have enjoyed a long, hot bath, but such a luxury seemed unlikely in the present circumstances.
Meg closed her eyes. She was uncomfortable, tired, and dirty. She could hear Gregor Grant’s breathing gradually slowing. He was falling asleep already. Meg supposed it was a vital requisite for a man in his position, to sleep whenever and wherever he could. She squeezed her eyes tighter shut and tried to pretend she was at home in her own comfortable bed.
It didn’t help.
An hour later, Meg was still awake. She turned over for the dozenth time, shaking the bolster to try and make it softer beneath her head.
“It will be more comfortable if you lean on me.”
His voice startled her; tingles ran over her skin. He sounded practical, even kind. Why then did Meg feel so uneasy at the thought of being so much closer to him?
“Then you will not be able to sleep,” she said at last.
“I have no trouble sleeping, Meg. Come here, and we will arrange ourselves so that we are both more comfortable.”
Was he right? Suddenly Meg was so frustrated and tired she was willing to try anything. She shuffled closer, and settled in at his side. He had turned slightly onto his back, his wounded arm on the other side, out of harm’s way. He slid his good arm under her, snuggling her in to his chest. The sensation of warmth and comfort was immediate, like one of Shona’s sleeping tinctures. Meg felt quite dizzy with bliss.
She gave up on her objections with a sigh of sheer pleasure.
Gregor smiled into the darkness. Her hair brushed his nose, the scent of it filling his head with a dramatic intensity that set his pulses racing. He slowed them down, reminding himself she was now his employer. She owned him, in a way. He was here to look after her, certainly not to seduce her.
It was a pity his body didn’t seem to realize that.
Meg sighed again. She tucked her feet up, and cuddled closer, clearly trying to relax, although she had started out as tense as he. Maybe she felt it too, this thing between them? Physical need. The attraction of two people to each other that had nothing to do with their minds or ideals or anything else in their heads and hearts. This was a need of the flesh, Gregor told himself, and he could control it. If he had to.
“Good night,” he murmured firmly, and smiled when she yawned.
“Good night,” she whispered back.
After a short time she went limp, her breathing slowing to sleep. But by then Gregor was already himself asleep.
Chapter 8
It was dawn. Here, outside, the air was cool and sharp, removing any lingering webs of sleep from Gregor’s mind. Mist clothed the surrounding mountains and pooled in the glen. The loch lay still and glassy, shining in its cradle of dark hills.
Gregor stripped off his shirt and bent to splash the cold water over his chest and shoulders, ducking his head into it until his hair was plastered to his head like a dark cap. He avoided the bandage about his arm as much as possible, but the wound felt more comfortable this morning and his fever was gone. Whatever magic Shona had worked on him was still doing its job.
Shaking his head so that water sprayed outwards, Gregor straightened, stretching out the muscles of his back and legs, rolling his arms—carefully in the case of his injury. He breathed deeply of the cold mountain air and felt glad to be alive.
Home was over there. Beyond that cluster of dark peaks. He could almost smell it. Suddenly he felt dizzy with longing. Gregor wiped his face with his hands, sluicing off the dripping water. Don’t be stupid, he thought. Don’t let yourself feel like that again. Life was so much simpler if one did not care. For twelve years he had worked at pushing away the memories, the caring, and now they were back, resonating in his head. But he couldn’t let them in. Losing Glen Dhui had hurt him in a way that was physical as well as mental. He had been like a boat whose ropes were cut, let loose, drifting with nowhere to go.
Gregor had hated Edinburgh: the tall tenements, or “lands,” as they were known there, home to numerous, pale-faced families. The twisting, narrow streets with their cargo of refuse and noise. Everything felt so close and dirty, it was as if he were choking, as if he couldn’t breathe. Within an hour of arriving, he had known he didn’t want to live there, couldn’t live there.
But his mother and sister had taken up residence, and his mother had soon re-formed old friendships and made new ones, and had settled into the rich social life to be found in the city. She was happy, and he suspected it was for the same reasons he was miserable. She was glad to be away from the isolated wilds of Glen Dhui; she had been born and bred in Edinburgh and she had never transplanted well to the Highlands, when she was wed to Gregor’s father.
Gregor’s sister was morose about her change in circumstances, but she made the best of it, following her mother about, somewhat mollified when she was decked out in the latest fashions. She was young, Gregor had told himself to ease his conscience when he left her. She would soon learn to forget the past, to fit in to her new life. Young enough to set aside the memories, as Gregor could not seem to.
He had known then that Glen Dhui was a part of him, his flesh and blood. Aye, he could live without it—the fact was, he had no choice—but that did not mean it did not hurt. It hurt so much that it ached. And it very nearly destroyed him. In twelve years he had built a new life for himself, but the old one had never left him. It had been waiting, biding its time, until now.
Gregor realized he had been standing as still as a rock, wearing only his kilt, and up to his knees in the freezing loch, staring into the past.
With a shake of his head, he bent down again, cupping his hands in the water and splashing it over his face, letting it trickle over his chest. The chill made him gasp and catch his breath, but at least it cleared his head. This was not a time to be regretting what was, what could not be changed. This was not a time to be keening for what was long ago lost….
The sound that came from behind him was slight, but his hearing was acute. Gregor turned his head sharply, wishing he had strapped on his weapons, and found Lady Meg standing some paces behind him. She was on the rocky shore, a shawl wrapped about her shoulders and her red hair loose and streaming down her back. She was pale, her skin almost translucent in the early light, and her breath was a misty cloud.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice sounding more tentative than he had ever heard it. “I wasn’t spying on you, Captain. I thought to take some air. It is stuffy inside, and Shona and Kenneth need their privacy.”
Gregor nodded. “I am finished now, anyway,” he offered, watching her as he slowly waded out of the loch. He reached down to pick up his shirt, and began to dry his naked arms and chest with it, mopping up the water with the fine but worn cloth.
Meg Mackintosh was a puzzle to him. He expected women to behave in a certain way, to be manipulative like his mother and Barbara Campbell, or kind and motherly like Shona. And yet this woman was different. She c
ould be cool and formal, an icicle, and then in the next breath she could be authoritative and tough, very much in charge. And then again, she could be achingly vulnerable, bringing to the fore all his protective instincts.
She unsettled him.
And she was blushing.
Surprised, Gregor watched the color burning in her cheeks, and rising in a tide from her throat, where she was clutching at the shawl with stiff fingers. Why on earth was she blushing? And pretending she wasn’t? Was she embarrassed by his presence? She cleared her throat, and stared out across the loch behind him, as if there were something other than empty water on view.
He understood then. It was the sight of him, half naked, that had made her blush. It was Gregor Grant himself who had disturbed Meg Mackintosh’s equilibrium.
Did his informality offend her? Because she was not used to men being half naked around her? Or was it because she found herself as drawn to him as he was to her?
The last thought stilled him, opened a door on new and interesting possibilities. He didn’t know whether to laugh at her maidenly modesty, or fumble on his wet shirt like a callow youth. Women found him attractive, it was something he knew and accepted. He had never felt self-conscious about his body, although he was not a man who naturally displayed his wares to all and sundry.
Why then, quite suddenly, did Gregor have the urge to walk over to where she stood, so particularly not looking at him. To force her to look up at him, to really look. To place her palms upon his skin and make her touch him, press them to him, make her aware of each contour, each muscle. To bend his head and take her pink lips with his cold ones, and see how warm she was inside. To slide his hands down over her body and see if all those warm curves were as soft and inviting as they had felt last night, when she slept in his arms.
As if in a dream, Gregor took a step toward her.
