by Sara Bennett
“I don’t expect you to,” he said, raising his dark brows. “I don’t want you to. It was an explanation, not a plea for pity. Pity is the last thing I want from you, Lady Meg. Don’t you know that yet?”
What did he mean? What was he saying? What was it she could see in his eyes, looking so directly into hers. “Gregor—”
“Meg, I want—”
But whatever it was he wanted, she would have to wait to find out. He had stopped and was looking toward the door, and Meg herself was suddenly aware of the raised voices coming from the Great Hall. At that very moment they were lifted another notch, and she realized it was a man and a woman. Arguing.
Gregor jumped to his feet, spilling his wine across the table, and went to the door. Meg was not far behind, but when she made to move past him, he placed a large, warm hand on her shoulder.
“Stay behind me, Meg.”
She might have laughed at his concern, or simply refused to obey, but she was stopped by the seriousness of his still, clear gaze. Meg was used to being in charge of her own life, she preferred it that way, and yet she found herself stepping back and allowing him to open the door.
The noise from the Great Hall drifted up the stairs, and they moved down, Gregor still in front, to find its source.
“Yer boots are dirty!”
Alison was standing in the middle of the high-ceilinged Great Hall, her hands on her plump hips, looking pointedly down at Malcolm Bain’s feet. Malcolm was before her, his fair hair straggling around his shoulders, his expression dismayed. For all his large and tough bulk, at the moment he looked like a child.
“Well, they are, aren’t they, ye canna deny it?”
“Och, I’ve been working, what do ye expect?” was his reply, as he cast his eyes to heaven.
“Then ye should have taken them off outside the door.”
“If I did that, my feet would be cold.”
“Better ye have cold feet than I have mud on my floor!”
“Yer floor!”
Gregor turned to look up at Meg on the step behind him, and his expression was bemused. Meg smiled; clearly her brave protector needed help in dealing with this particular situation.
“Malcolm! Alison!” Meg spoke loudly and authoritatively, brushing by Gregor and hurrying down the remaining stairs. Her voice rang out in the shadowy space.
The pair turned, startled, a little guilty.
“Enough,” Meg went on, before either one could mount a counterattack. “I want no more of this. Malcolm, what are you doing here?”
Malcolm Bain stood stiffly, as if he were under attack. “I wanted to speak with Captain Grant, my lady.”
Gregor came to put his arm about the other man’s shoulders, leading him firmly toward the door, saying, “Then come outside, Malcolm, and we will speak there.”
Meg waited until they had gone, then gave Alison a long, stern look. “You are making a fool of yourself.”
Alison bristled. “I am not, my lady! I speak as I see fit.”
“I think it is time you put the past in its place.”
“I will never forget the past,” Alison retorted in a low, thrumming voice. “He abandoned me.”
“He had a duty to his laird.”
“He had a duty to me!”
There was pain in the other woman’s voice, a great deal of pain. Clearly Alison had loved Malcolm Bain, had expected to spend her life with him. Gently, Meg touched her hand. “He did, Alison. He did have a duty to you. But he made his choice. He cannot change what has been, and neither can you. You must put it behind you and move on. ’Tis the only way.”
“Is it? Well, I want him to suffer as I suffered.”
“Have you told him?”
Alison’s eyes widened, and she didn’t pretend to misunderstand the question. “Nooo! And I won’t, and neither will anyone else, if they know what’s good for them.”
“Alison, you know that someone will tell him, eventually. Or he will simply realize the truth. They are very alike, you know, Malcolm and Angus. Wouldn’t such a thing be better coming from you?”
“I dinna want him to know. Angus is my son!”
Meg spoke gently. “He’s Malcolm’s son too, and sooner or later Malcolm will discover it.”
Alison shot her a look of mingled rage and fear, and bolted toward the kitchen.
Meg stood alone in the Great Hall.
Alison’s child had already been born when Meg came to Glen Dhui. She had told Meg the father had died in the Rebellion, but gradually Meg had come to understand, through overheard remarks and chance snippets of chatter, that the father had been Alison’s sweetheart, and that he had left Glen Dhui years ago.
Duncan would not speak of it, but it was obvious he believed his sister had been cruelly deserted, and his animosity toward Malcolm Bain had been made abundantly clear upon their first meeting in Clashennic. There was no hope of a cool head then, in that quarter—the Forbeses were renowned for their tempers.
Still, Meg hoped that something could be sorted out of the mess. It would have to be, if they were to live peacefully together once more. And yet it was doubtful any progress could be made, if Alison and Malcolm did nothing more than shout and argue.
Meg smiled wryly to herself. She was a fine one to give advice! She had not spoken to her own father since the evening before, when he had sent her from the room. How could she ever win him to her point of view, if she did not speak to him? It was time to go upstairs and sit down and put an end to this nonsense. Whatever had been said to Gregor, and Gregor had said to him, was something she had a right to know. Meg meant to make a determined attempt to discover exactly what was going on between them….
In that moment she realized Gregor was standing in the shadows by the main door, watching her.
Tonight he had caught his hair back in its habitual black ribbon, the fair strands shining in the flare of a torch set in a sconce on the wall. His piercing eyes were hollows, and the hard planes of his face were etched in dark and light. In his old, faded kilt and brown jacket he looked like the ghost of some ancient Highlander, some handsome Grant chief, come to reclaim his home.
How long had he been there? She felt herself shiver at the idea of him observing her without her knowledge, of his gaze examining her, minutely, inch by inch, while she stood in the Great Hall in her green silk dress. Such a thought made her squirm with discomfort…and something else that was suspiciously like pleasure.
“Is Malcolm gone?” she asked abruptly, more to still her own discomfiting thoughts than to break the long silence between them.
“Aye.” His voice echoed in the room, a whisper of sound. “Alison?”
“She, too.” She smiled ruefully. “But I fear their battle is far from over.”
“I think you are right, Meg.”
He stepped forward, and now the gold in his hair caught the candlelight, the silver buttons of his jacket glinted against the dark cloth, and the red stones in the ancient-looking brooch that fastened his kilt at his shoulder gleamed.
“Are you still hungry?” he asked her in a quiet, deep voice.
Meg thought of their half-eaten meal. Whether because of Malcolm and Alison, or Gregor himself, there was a fluttering in her stomach now, an edginess, that would not let her eat. She did not want to eat.
“No, I am not hungry.”
“Then will you walk with me? The night is fine and I have questions I wish to ask. And I feel…awkward in this place.”
Awkward? Well, he probably did. She could not blame him for something that was perfectly natural. She had felt awkward herself, having him here. Outside they could be themselves, and the darkness would give her a certain sense of freedom that the candlelight denied her.
“I should go up and see my father,” she began, even knowing she would say yes. The thought of walking with Gregor in the gardens at night was far too tempting for her to resist. Even her former resolution to be cool and distant was rapidly crumbling.
“Och, please
? A verra little stroll, Meg.”
Meg nodded, pretending to be reluctant, as she moved toward him. He held out his arm, and she laid her hand upon it, feeling the coarse stuff of his sleeve and the warmth of his flesh beneath. He bent his head close to hers, almost touching, and said, “I feel as if I had never left this place. It is like one drawing upon another, almost matching but not quite, the lines just a wee bit out of kilter.”
“I understand, Captain Grant.”
“Call me Gregor. I am not a Captain of dragoons now. I am…I am nothing much.”
“I think the people of Glen Dhui would disagree with you.”
“But as you reminded me so properly, they dinna know me, not anymore.”
Best not to answer that, Meg thought. He had a way of filling her heart with the need to take him into her arms and hold him, to offer comfort, even though it was something he had told her he did not want.
They were outside, their shoes crunching on the gravel path that led to the herb garden set within its sheltering gray stone walls. Away down in the glen, lights flickered where people were going about their lives, and the smell of peat smoke was strong on the summer breeze. Gregor pushed open the wooden gate and they stepped through.
Meg drew a deep breath, trying to sort out the different aromas, the different plants, enjoying all those heady scents. Lavender, of course. It brushed her skirts, drifting about her, clearing her head. And roses, white and red, some of them long past their spring flowering, others abundant with blossom. And there was rosemary, fennel, thyme, honeysuckle and sweet lilies. Pale moths hovered over them, gorging themselves, and night insects buzzed. On the far side of the stone wall the burn rushed by, under the old bridge, and down the glen.
“This was overgrown in my day,” Gregor told her, looking about.
“So it was when we came here. But I have always had an interest in gardening, so I set about repairing the damage and replanting what was old or dead. Shona comes here to replenish her stocks for her medicines.”
There was a silence while they walked slowly between the beds, pausing by a round pond. “I have been thinking of the Duke of Abercauldy,” she said quietly. “Should I write him a reply to his letter? I can tell him again that I will not marry him, but I warn you now he will dismiss it. He tells me I am full of foolish fears and doubts, and I must disregard them, just as he does. He will then set about persuading me just how happy we will be, when we are wed.”
Gregor was watching her, and although she could not see all of his face properly, she felt as if she could. He would be frowning, looking down at her with that intensity that made her so uncomfortable and yet conveyed so clearly that, unlike the duke, he really was listening.
“He is determined to have you, then, Meg?” he murmured.
“I think he must be,” her voice was a whisper.
He nodded. “Aye, the general said as much. Your father is suffering for what he did, Meg. He will not rest until all is made well again.”
Meg turned her face away. “But how can it be? Oh, I know he suffers, and I am sorry for it. I have forgiven him. But how can it be?”
She felt his fingers on her cheek, and stiffened. His skin was rough and callused, and yet so gentle. His hand cupped her jaw, his thumb caressing back and forth as though he wanted to remember the feel of her. He bent his head and whispered in her ear.
“I can make it well again, Meg.”
His breath was warm, and she shivered. He slid his fingers into her hair, dislodging a curl, twining it around and around his forefinger.
“You dinna have to do everything on your own, Meg.”
And she couldn’t think. When he stood this close to her, when he touched her, she couldn’t think. She needed to escape, to be alone, to gather her thoughts. She needed…
His lips brushed her cheekbone, soft as a petal from one of her roses. Once, twice, and again, moving inexorably toward her lips. Meg gasped, and turned to face him, to…what? Tell him to stop? That was what she made herself believe, but as she opened her mouth to speak, his lips reached hers and, with a sigh, closed over them in the sweetest, most gentle kiss she had ever been given.
For Meg had been kissed before, many times. Sometimes she had kissed reluctantly, sometimes out of curiosity, sometimes because she wanted to be kissed. But never like this. There was something different about this kiss. Something she had never felt in all the embraces and kisses she had received from all the men who had come to secure her hand, and her inheritance, since she had grown to be of age. When Gregor Grant kissed her, it was as if she had been waiting all her life for his lips to find hers.
Her heart gave a great lurch. She leaned into him, into his arms as they reached to enfolded her. And she was there, held fast against his chest, his silver buttons pressing against her breasts, the lace at his cuffs tickling her skin.
His mouth was no longer soft. Any illusions of sweet gentleness had vanished, and he was kissing her with a rough and desperate intensity. For a moment he paused, taking time to trace the shape of her upper lip with his tongue, and then the shape of the bottom one. His mouth was hot and moist, as it closed again on hers, and it sent a spear of sensation straight down into her belly.
Her legs went to water. She felt as if she had drunk several drams of Cragan Dhui whiskey, directly from the still. Her fingers found his hair, held by the black ribbon, and she tugged upon it as if it would hold her upright. His mouth was hot on her throat now, in the hollow there, and he let it trail down to the gentle rise of her breasts.
“Morvoren,” he murmured, the word unfamiliar to her but sounding very much like an endearment.
His ribbon came loose in her fingers, his hair falling forward, and she tangled her hands through it, enjoying the sensation. His mouth was still upon her, teasing, promising, making her wild for him to go further. And the spear of sensation in her belly had lodged between her legs.
With a gasp, Meg pulled away.
He did not let her go, instead giving her enough room to lean back from him but not break the contact entirely. She heard his breath, as hard and fast as hers, and wondered if his heart was beating as wildly.
From somewhere, she found a laugh. The same brittle laugh she had used on all those suitors who came to her door when she was younger, those men who had had an eye to her fortune and pretended they were drawn by her person. When she spoke it was in the voice she had always used on such occasions, the voice that was designed to make the suitor feel like a fool.
“Captain Grant, I can only think you have lost your mind.”
He let her go. She took a couple of clumsy steps back, away from him, out of danger, and felt the loss of him like a bereavement. Now he was a dark shape against the stars, big and angular with his wide shoulders, and his head tilted toward her.
“Mabbe I have,” he said at last, his voice deep and somber. “Lost my mind, that is.”
“Then you had better find it again before the morning,” she advised him a little breathlessly. “I am no young lassie to be flattered with your kisses, you should know that. If you want a…that is, if you require some feminine company, then you’d better go and look for it elsewhere.”
Gregor made a sound suspiciously like a snort. “I dinna want a trollop, if that’s what you’re asking. I had a strong need to kiss you, Meg. I find you desirable. I like you. ’Twas as simple as that.”
But it wasn’t simple, not at all. It was very, very complicated.
“I must go in,” she said, sounding flustered. Where had the sophisticated lady gone? The woman who was going to hold herself distant? She had been sent into flight. “Good night, Captain Grant.”
And Meg turned for safety, only noticing when it was too late that she still held his ribbon between her fingers.
Her footsteps hurried away, and the gate creaked shut. Gregor stood and looked into the darkness and wondered what on earth had possessed him. He had not meant to kiss her. He had not meant to frighten her or make her angry or wary of
him. She was a virgin, that much was clear, but she was no young and frightened miss. She was a woman who had lived in the world and knew her own mind.
And he wanted her.
He had wanted her from the moment he saw her, in the Black Dog, when she had stood over him and demanded to know if he were drunk. He had fought it, told himself he was a fool, told himself he could not have her. And then—[ ]when he had stood watching her in the Great Hall, standing in her green dress with her hair afire, lost in her thoughts, her mouth sad, her eyes dreamy—he knew. The taste of her, the feel of her, had only heightened that knowledge. He wanted her, he had to have her, and he would do just about anything to achieve his aim.
Chapter 15
Meg tapped lightly on the general’s door. She felt flushed and agitated after her encounter with Gregor Grant. Not at all the cool, calm woman she had planned on. Her lips were bruised and swollen from his; he had kissed her as she had never been kissed before.
I had a strong need to kiss you, Meg. I find you desirable. I like you. ’Twas as simple as that.
Had he meant what he said? How could she believe him when she knew there was nothing in her face or figure to attract such a man as this? She had known men like Gregor Grant before. Tough, handsome Highlanders who had no difficulty catching the eye of any woman who took their fancy. They rarely looked at her, and if they did it was with the thought of her father’s land and money uppermost in their minds.
If he could have any woman he wanted, thought Meg, why choose her? Well, he would not, and there was an end to it.
Her father’s call of “Enter” brought her into the room. The single candle tried hard to hold back the shadows, but even so, it was not a cheerful scene. The general sat silent, gazing into the darkness that was now his world. Guilty that she had taken so long to return, Meg came forward. The fact that he had hurt her should not make her react in like. He was her father, ill and old, and who knew how much longer they had together? Meg wished she was able to set aside her anger and wounded feelings, but she found it difficult. First the Duke of Abercauldy and now Gregor, they had both come between father and daughter.
