Beloved Highlander

by Sara Bennett

  “Although you would not know he was no longer the laird,” she murmured to herself, glancing from the casement again and even cracking it open a fraction. “Look at them! They still think of him as their chief.”

  Meg knew she would be a fool to believe there was anything of the boy who had drawn these pictures in the grim, warlike man Gregor had become. She would be a fool to allow the slightest part of her to soften toward him. And she was all the more determined to remain aloof because she knew it would be so easy to succumb to him. That moment by the loch had shown her that, and then last night in the parlor had reinforced it.

  He found her company amusing and enjoyable, he looked at her with eyes that told her she was attractive to him. For Meg, who believed she was not, the longing to take that step closer was very tempting.

  “Remember, you are no more than a thorn in his side,” she reminded herself sharply. “You have prodded him into doing something he really didn’t want to do.”

  “A thorn in whose side?”

  Meg jumped, and then laughed when she turned and saw Alison standing in the open doorway, her black eyes wide with curiosity.

  “I was talking to myself, Alison. It is a bad habit and one I should learn to curb.”

  “Aye, ye are aright there. The Captain asks ye to come down to him, Lady Meg.”

  Meg’s slim eyebrows descended and her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Come down to him? Why is that?”

  “Ye’d best ask him yersel’. I am but passing on the message.”

  The request was innocent enough, but Meg could not help but wonder what was afoot. If she came down, she would only be displaying her ignorance of the matters of war. But would anyone expect otherwise? Meg had never pretended to be an Amazon. If anyone would lead the men into a battle—if it came to that—then it would be Captain Grant. That was the reason he was here, wasn’t it?

  Unless her father had another…

  “Why dinna ye go down and ask him?” Alison said dryly into the long silence.

  Meg laughed, wondering if her thoughts were so plainly to be read on her face, or whether Alison just knew her too well. “I will do that, then.” She glanced out of the window again.

  There were even more men down there now, and young lads scampering on the hillside like lambs in the spring.

  “Donald, is that your grandsire’s musket?”

  She could hear Gregor’s voice, floating up to her in the stillness. He had picked up a large, long-barreled weapon, turning it over in his hands, and then sighting it down the glen.

  Young Donald puffed himself up. “He was oot with Bonny Dundee, sir,” he offered the information with great pride.

  “I remember. He was a braw man.”

  Meg observed the two men with wonder. Gregor had spoken the words easily, honestly, with hardly more than a glance at Donald. And yet the effect was profound. Donald had loved Gregor before he spoke—they all did—and now he worshiped him.

  Gregor handed the musket back to Donald and turned, glancing up at her window. Did he know she was up here, spying? Quickly Meg moved back, feeling suddenly breathless. It would not do for Gregor Grant to know how curious she was about him, how interested she was in him. How dangerously fascinated.

  “I will be down in a moment, Alison,” she said quietly. “Just let me tidy my hair.”

  “As ye say, my lady.”

  And something in Alison’s smile made her blush.

  Gregor realized he had been well and truly spoiled by his troop of Campbell dragoons.

  They were proper soldiers, well trained and well equipped. It was a pity he could not have brought more of them with him. Still, he knew the men of the glen had their good points, too. They lived here in Glen Dhui, this was their home, and they would fight all the harder if the Duke of Abercauldy decided he wanted to take it from them.

  “Captain,” Malcolm Bain alerted him, and nodded his head in the direction of the house.

  Gregor’s gaze followed.

  She was there, watching him, wearing the blue dress with the taffeta bows down the front. Small, neat bows in a long, straight line. His fingers itched to pull them apart, every one of them, and find what was hidden beneath. To unpin her hair and lay it about her. To kiss her pink mouth until she sighed and gasped and wound her arms about his neck.

  He looked down at the ground, where the men had scuffed and trampled the grass to mud. He took a deep breath. He told himself he was mad or sick, or both. He carefully, methodically gathered his thoughts, and put on his mask. But when he looked up again it had made no difference. She was still there, and he still felt the same.

  “I received your message,” she told him coolly when she reached him. “You wanted to see me, Captain?”

  She didn’t like being sent for like a lackey. He had not intended it so; he hadn’t thought of couching his request in more palatable terms. He was a direct man, not used to games, and sometimes he forgot to be polite.

  Gregor tried a smile. “I thought it would be useful if you were here with me, to look over the men as they drill. To show we are in accord over the matter of the duke.”

  Meg raised an eyebrow. “I see. But I know nothing of weapons.”

  “That is not the point of the exercise, Meg.”

  She took a step forward, until she stood beside him. He could smell her, a light and fresh, womanly scent, overlaid with the sweetness of her hair. He could hear the rustle of her blue skirts, and beneath them, her petticoats. He closed his eyes and wondered if he could send her away again without making her even more suspicious and wary of him. Without making himself look like a halfwit.

  “Captain?” Malcolm Bain stood before him, hair windblown, blue eyes narrowed. Malcolm knew him too well. He would be aware that something was wrong. “Do ye want me to drill the men now? I’ll set up some targets, to see how good their aim is, but it would be best if we dinna waste too much of our ammunition.”

  Gregor pretended to look about him, consideringly, as if he had been thinking of that all along. “Verra well, Malcolm, you see to it. Lady Meg and I will watch.”

  Malcolm Bain nodded, pleased, and went off to do as he was told.

  The air was warming, the scents of late summer drifted on the breeze. It was a day for lying in the grass and looking at the clouds, as he had as a boy. It felt like home. He was home. His skin tingled, his blood coursed through his veins. He was home, and suddenly he felt more alive in this moment than he had in any of the past twelve years.

  “They are a motley lot.” Meg sounded doubtful at his side.

  “They fought well in the 1715. They may well have won at Preston, if our leaders hadn’t decided to surrender. Don’t be deceived, Lady Meg. Courage and determination means a lot in a battle; it could tip it our way.” Did he really believe that? The Duke of Abercauldy probably had an army at his disposal, and if it came to a fight he would slaughter them all. But he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. If the general had his way, if Meg married him, maybe they could avert any bloodshed.

  If…

  She stood beside him for a long time, watching the men of Glen Dhui form a ragged line that gradually grew straighter, watching them learn to shoulder their weapons, to aim and fire. Watching them grow into a more military-like band. She didn’t say much to Gregor, but she spoke to the individual men, offering praise, laughing at a joke, and showing her pride for what they were doing.

  Malcolm Bain bawled out orders, striding through the groups of men, pausing here and there for more specific instructions. Meg’s heart almost stopped when he paused by young Angus, bending to help the boy with a powder flask. The sun reflected off their untidy, fair hair, blending it perfectly. Uneasily she glanced sideways at Gregor, wondering if he would see the resemblance, but he was looking elsewhere.

  Alison’s secret was safe then, for a little while longer.

  The men really seemed to appreciate her being here—she sensed their pride in their accomplishments—but their hearts were Gregor’s. />
  “It does us good to see ye here again, Gregor Grant,” old Jamie Farquharson said as he shuffled into line once more, the suspicion of tears in his eyes. Others murmured their agreement—tough Highland men who were close to weeping because a Grant was among them again.

  “I am glad to see you too, Jamie,” Gregor replied evenly. “Now straighten your back, man!”

  Jamie straightened his back without protest, his wrinkled face beaming.

  Jamie and the others believed that Gregor returned to Glen Dhui because he was, still, at heart, their laird. And it just wasn’t so.

  When Gregor turned toward Meg, her eyes were on him. He met them directly, expecting her to look away, but she didn’t. There was accusation in her pale blue gaze, as well as condemnation. Clearly she had something on her mind and she meant to share it with him.

  “Do your devotees know we have to pay you to be here, Captain? Do they know you are come only for the money? Have you told my father that yet?”

  He managed a smile, as if her words did not strike hard. She had a right to be annoyed with him, to feel put out, but she didn’t know the half of it and he wasn’t about to tell her. “You’d be better off asking the general himself what he knows, Meg. I am sworn to silence.”

  “Oh, I will,” she said at last, in the same cold voice she had arrived with. “Don’t worry, Captain, I will!”

  Meg went upstairs again to her sanctuary. There was plenty to do. It was she who ran the estate now, and she was meticulous in her notes and bookwork. Throughout the long afternoon she worked. Sometimes the voices from outside disturbed her, but mostly she managed to block them out. Once, when she happened to glance out of the window, she saw that Gregor had stripped off his shirt, leaving just his kilt slung low on his hips. Most of the other men had done the same, the sweat shining on their bodies, their chests heaving with effort.

  But it was Gregor who drew her gaze.

  He was just a man, she told herself crossly. And not even the man she had dreamed of, the boy artist she had half fallen in love with. He was a stranger. Why did she find him so fascinating? Why did she want to stroke his skin and gaze into his eyes like some lovesick wee lassie? She was a grown woman, alert to the ways of men, aware that her attractiveness was in her inheritance rather than her face and figure and what she had to say. She accepted that…or she had.

  Why did she now wish it all different?

  Outside the window, Gregor captured a young lad who had run in front of a man with a sword, putting himself in danger. He swung the young boy up onto his hip, holding the child while he issued more orders.

  It was the strangest thing….

  Meg felt so dizzy she had to sit down. She knew what she was thinking, but she hardly dared admit it to herself. If Gregor Grant was hers, then they could have a child together. A child to grow up and run free in Glen Dhui, just as he had done. But this child would never be sent away, would never be outcast, as Gregor was. It…they would live here, happily, forever.

  She groaned and put her face down onto her books, uncaring if she got ink on her cheek. She was mad. Gregor Grant would not want her, he would have too much pride to sell himself for Glen Dhui.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Chapter 14

  Alison Forbes had laid out the meal in the upstairs dining room. The heavy rectangular table glowed with a sheen that reflected a great many years of polishing. It was set with the usual pewter, some more valuable silver, and even glassware, rarely seen in the Highlands. Lighted candelabra fluttered in the draft from the open window; the air brought with it the rush of the burn and the rustle of the yew leaves. Portraits, shadowy and faintly menacing, glowered from the walls, Jacobite Grants mingling with Mackintoshes as if they would never have been deadly enemies in life.

  The irony was not lost upon Meg as she entered the room in her green silk gown, nor the awkwardness of the situation. Gregor Grant was there already, waiting, a glass of claret in his hand. He turned to face her, his expression giving away little, his well-worn but elegant clothing doing nothing to disguise what he was.

  Meg had had plenty of time during the long afternoon to take stock of her reactions to him, and to tamp them down. The cool smile she presented him with, as he politely drew out her chair, was exactly as she had planned it. Distant and untouched.

  “A productive afternoon, Captain?” she asked him, as she sat down.

  He paused, leaning over her chair, so that she had to look up into his face. It put her in an exposed and vulnerable position, and suddenly her confident mask wavered. His gaze wandered down, lingering on her lips, down the arch of her throat, pausing on a curl of hair that lay against her shoulder, to the soft swell of her breasts above the neckline of her gown. There was no gauze scarf tonight, but the décolletage was modest enough—Meg would never have worn it otherwise. Yet, the way he looked…as if the silk was transparent, or torn. As if she were entirely naked before him.

  She should have felt angry, and in a way she did, but her feelings were more confused than that, more complex. The way he looked at her stirred a response deep inside her, something that shivered and resonated. Meg tingled all over. If he were to bend a little lower, his lips would be close enough to…to…Just as she thought she was about to reach up to him, wind her arms about his neck and draw him down to her, doubt engulfed her.

  He was a stranger, a man she hardly knew, and a man she was paying to be here! He had no right to be looking at her as if he were about to gobble her up.

  Meg opened her mouth to voice her protest, but just then his gaze locked with hers. “We made some headway,” he said quietly, in answer to her question.

  Meg forced the fluttering in her stomach to subside through sheer effort of will, making her face impassive.

  “They are pleased that you are back in Glen Dhui, whatever your true reason.”

  He laughed abruptly. “Thank you…I think.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment, Captain,” she replied sharply.

  He let it go, merely smiling and moving to his own chair at her right side. Relieved by his retreat, Meg took a breath, and helped herself to hare soup. For a time they were quiet, with only the sounds from beyond the window to disturb them and the occasional mournful cry of a curlew out in the darkness. Their silence might even have been companionable, thought Meg, if there wasn’t this over-stretched tension between them.

  Anticipation.

  As if something were about to happen, and she didn’t know whether she wanted it to, or not.

  “I noticed you have the American potato in your garden.” He poured them each a glass of wine. “They are rare enough in England, but this far north…Was it the general’s idea to grow them?”

  Meg looked up, surprised by the change of subject. “No, it was mine. Major Litchfield spoke of them to me, and I had some sent north to me here, because I was interested and it seemed they might be helpful to the people. They do seem to grow well in our soil. Do you know much about the potato, Captain Grant?”

  “Only that one eats the root rather than the leaves. I have tasted them, though.”

  “They are an exotic—or so they are treated. A few of the great houses grow them in their gardens as a curiosity, and although they do not have much taste, they fill the stomach. It is my belief that they will help to feed the people here, something to fall back on when the oat crop fails, or there is famine. As you know, there is always the fear of famine in the Highlands. I have been trying to persuade some of our tenants to grow them in their kaleyards, though they are resistant to change. But I have hopes of changing their minds—I have managed to bring them to the point of growing carrots and turnips, so why not potatoes?”

  Meg smiled at him, but although he responded, he said nothing. She thought that she knew what he was thinking: What does she know of crops and the tenants of Glen Dhui? What does she know of hardship and famine, and why does she care? Such things should be left to men, as Duncan Forbes was always hinting to her. Men who understoo
d the ways of the land and its people, and had done so since Adam.

  “The old ways are not always the best,” she said abruptly, helping herself to some mutton pie, annoyed that his opinion mattered to her. “Sometimes the old ways need changing, for the good of us all. Sometimes, to survive, we need to look forward instead of backward.”

  Gregor looked up with surprise, and swallowed his mouthful of oatcake. “Och, don’t tear strips off me, Lady Meg! I agree with you.”

  Meg blinked. He agreed with her?

  He set down his fork and leaned forward, closing the space between them until she felt that familiar tingle of excitement. “You have an open and innovative mind, my lady. The general is the same. You look to improve, and you are not afraid of new ideas. Things were not so…so forward thinking, as you say, when my father was Laird of Glen Dhui. I tried to change his mind, but he would not listen to me. Sassenach foolishness, he called it.”

  Meg took a moment to grasp that he was not scoffing at her at all. He admired her! He was envious of her success when he himself had failed to affect any change with his own father. He was not Duncan Forbes; he was nothing like Duncan Forbes.

  “I…Thank you,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Unfortunately there are many like your father, who will not listen. Anything new is open to suspicion and superstition. I have heard that some of the men of the church are calling tea the devil’s brew! I drink tea with my breakfast, and I believe in Edinburgh they take it at four in the afternoon, and make a party of it. Tea is very fashionable, and there is nothing wrong in it, that I can see. They said the same of coffee, when it first arrived in this country, but now no one thinks it anything other than a pleasant beverage. Perhaps your father would have come around in time….”

  His smile held bitterness. “I doubt it. In those days I was young and I told myself it dinna matter what my father said, that I would do as I wished, when it came my time to be Laird of Glen Dhui. Unfortunately, that time never came.”

  Meg set down her fork with a clatter. “I am sorry for your troubles, Captain Grant, I really am. But it is not my fault you lost Glen Dhui. I cannot feel guilty for something that is not my fault. And I won’t!”