by Sara Bennett
He was false and sly, he was a mountebank, but such men were often weak. Did that make them any less dangerous? Like a slender snake, Lorenzo lay in the shadows, ready to strike when one least expected it. Together, Lorenzo and Abercauldy made a formidable enemy. How could Meg continue to live peacefully here in Glen Dhui if she did not agree to Abercauldy’s demands?
“So how will I escape him?” she whispered to herself. “How will I rid myself of this menace?”
But she already knew the answer. There was only one way that she could be free from Abercauldy, and that was to bind herself to another.
To give up her own freedom, and marry Gregor Grant.
Glen Dhui Castle looked peaceful, and apart from the men in white clothing waiting with their horses, nothing might have been different. Lorenzo had gone in alone then, Meg thought, to deliver whatever message he had for the general. Another veiled threat, probably. Another of the duke’s demands to make a sick, old man even more frantic for his daughter’s safety than he already was.
If she had not hated Abercauldy for her own sake, then Meg could readily have hated him for what he was doing to her father.
At the stables, Meg dismounted and stood, stroking the mare’s nose, making much of her before the groom led her away. She had no other option but to dawdle reluctantly while she headed for the castle.
The Great Hall was empty, and cold even during the day. The grim antique weapons fixed to the walls reminded her that the Grants were used to fighting, to holding on to what was theirs. That knowledge was somehow comforting, she thought, as she moved toward the stairs. Lorenzo was probably still with her father, his slim, black-clothed figure quivering with malice. The general could hold his own with Lorenzo, but even he would grow weary of the Italian. It was time she put an end to his unwelcome visit.
Meg placed her booted foot on the first step, and looked up, straight at Gregor Grant.
He was descending, and his face was thoughtful. Not quite the taciturn Captain Grant, but something close. He saw her a moment after she saw him, and stopped. They stayed, gazing at each other in a reversal of their places of the other night. He seemed bigger, stronger, in his old faded kilt and worn linen shirt. His hair was tied back—Meg remembered she still had his black ribbon in her room—and he was freshly shaved.
His dark brows came down. “Meg. You look…What is it?”
“I was out riding.”
His mouth quirked up at one corner. “I can see that.”
Suddenly, like sinking into a warm bath, Meg felt a tremendous sense of relief. Her mind had been made up for her, and she would do it. She would! It was the right and proper thing to do. And beyond that, it was what she wanted to do.
But first he must be warned. Meg could no longer pretend that what she was about to embark upon was not without its dangers. To herself. To her father.
And to Gregor Grant.
“Lorenzo is here,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Abercauldy’s Italian servant? Aye, I know.” He was watching her intently, as if he were trying to make her out. “He said he had a message for the general.”
“He has already heard about you from someone in the glen. I do not trust him, Gregor. He will carry news of you back to Abercauldy.”
Gregor frowned, and with a measured tread descended the last few steps to stand before her. “Is there anything wrong in that?”
“I told him you were visiting my father, but…” She bit her lip and shook her head. “He has seen you. He will describe you to Abercauldy. He will let him believe the worst—Lorenzo enjoys making mischief. He hates me. He doesn’t believe me good enough for his master.”
Gregor appeared to sort through this. “The man is a fool.” His dark brows rose suddenly. “Why will he believe the worst, simply through a description of me?”
Meg gave him a wry smile, and moved closer, she couldn’t help it. Apart from the feel of his warmth in the big, cold room, there was something that drew her to him, and for a moment she gave up on resisting it. “If you did not know it already, you are too handsome, Gregor,” she said boldly. “He will think you have swept me off my feet. He will demand I wed him at once.”
Momentarily, Gregor looked taken aback. A faint flush colored his thin cheeks. Didn’t he really know how handsome he was? Didn’t he realize how women must covet him? Or did the truth annoy him, rather than puff him up with pride?
“You aren’t such a fool, Meg, as to be swept off your feet by me, or anyone else,” he answered her crossly. “Are you?” he added, uncertainty creasing his brow.
Meg had wondered that herself, but she wasn’t about to let him know how much he affected her.
Gregor’s face had cleared, and he took her hand in his, his fingers closing hard. “If he will think that, if that is so, then we must act at once! We must wed as soon as possible, Meg. If Abercauldy is as determined as you say, and he discovers our plans, he will move to stop us. We cannot risk that.”
That was true, Meg knew it was true.
She took a deep breath. “Gregor…I do not think you realize how much danger you will be placing yourself in by marrying me. No, listen! If you…if we wed, then it is possible Abercauldy will see you as an object in his path, that he will seek to remove you. Destroy you. If he has murdered before, then it will hardly matter to him.”
Gregor’s smile grew irritatingly smug, even a little patronizing. “I am not afraid of the Duke of Abercauldy. Dinna let that influence your decision, Meg. I have survived worse than him. But whatever your decision is, you must make it verra soon.”
Meg knew she was in danger and her choices were limited. She could face Abercauldy alone, or she could wed Gregor and they could face him together. For three days she had been agonizing over her decision, and now it was simple.
“I will keep you safe, Meg,” Gregor’s voice was soft and low. He had moved closer, his chest brushing her shoulder, his breath in her hair. “I will protect you. That is part of my vow, and be in no doubt, I will honor it.”
They were words she had wanted to hear, and yet they were all about honor and protection. There was nothing about holding her, kissing her, taking her to his bed. Meg’s face flamed at her own thoughts, and the sudden realization that maybe Gregor did not want her in that way. Why should he? She was plain, tart-tongued Meg Mackintosh. Why should he desire her? How humiliating, if he were to feel obliged to bed her!
The words spilled from her lips.
“I…A marriage does not mean we must share other than our vows. It could be in name only. We are near enough to strangers, after all. I do not mind if…”
His amber eyes stared into hers, and then he shook his head slightly, as though clearing it. “We are no more strangers than many other husbands and wives when they first wed. And you forget, Meg, if a marriage is not properly done, it can be turned aside. Do you want that?”
She gazed up into his face, trying to read him.
It was impossible.
“What are you saying?” she asked in a low voice. “That you think it would be wiser to…to consummate it? That it is in our best interests to do so?” Her breath was quick and fast, but she controlled it. Was this his reasoning? That they must sleep in the same bed to make their union legal? Was that all that mattered to him?
“Aye, it would be sensible. Don’t you agree?”
Sensible.
His amber eyes were still searching hers, as if he sought to read something in them that wasn’t there. Meg closed her own eyes a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. What had she wanted? A passionate avowal of lust and desire? She was a fool, and thus she was bound to be disappointed. This was a business arrangement between two strangers, not a love match. As Gregor had said, sensible…
“Meg?” His voice had an edge to it. And suddenly his hand closed on her arm, and her eyes opened, finding his face very close to hers. His breath brushed her skin like a caress.
Impatience tightened his lips and made a frowning crease
between his brows. “Och, if you marry me, Meg, then I want all of you! I dinna do things by half measures!”
Well, that was plain enough! And somehow comforting, even if it wasn’t the speech she had dreamed of since she was a girl. Meg nodded, once, then twice. “Very well then, very well. I will wed you, Gregor. But you must be laird in fact as well as name. You must have the authority of Glen Dhui behind any orders you give. In such circumstances I cannot hold Glen Dhui alone. We will hold it together.”
She had made that decision on her ride home. As much as his rejection of his rights as laird had pleased her and shocked her, she could not allow him to have his way. If he was to fight for her and Glen Dhui, maybe give his life, then he deserved to be laird in fact as well as name.
He was watching her, gauging her, and then he too nodded his head. “Verra well, Meg, it will be as you say. We will hold Glen Dhui together. The Grants and the Mackintoshes, there’s a combination to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies! Abercauldy won’t stand a chance against us.”
So easy, Meg thought. After all, it was such a simple thing. And if she were not quite as ecstatically happy as she had hoped to be at this moment in her life, if it had not gone quite as she had always dreamed, then she must learn to live with disappointment.
“So it is yes, Meg?”
Meg managed a serious little smile. “It is yes. Yes, I will wed you, Gregor, and it will be as you say. I will tell my father when Lorenzo is gone and—”
“I am finished with your father, my lady.”
The voice came from above them.
They looked up.
Meg was shocked to see that thin, smiling face at the head of the stairs. Lorenzo. He was standing, hidden in the shadows, spying on them. It was impossible to know how much he had heard, or whether it had been enough to give their secret away, but Meg was quite certain of one thing. Lorenzo would make whatever mischief with Abercauldy it was in his power to make.
Chapter 17
There above them on the stairs, Lorenzo smiled down, like the black devil he was. Meg had stiffened her shoulders, preparing to bluff it out, but Gregor spoke first, his voice calm and commanding, as befitted a Captain of dragoons. The moment was a dangerous one, and he did not intend to relinquish control to this smirking assassin.
“Signor Lorenzo. Are you done already?”
Lorenzo came down the stairs to join them, stopping a couple of steps above, so that he would not have to look up at the taller Gregor. Lorenzo was observing him, but Gregor was secure in the knowledge that Lorenzo could not read his face. Gregor had long ago learned to hide his feelings from his enemies, and he had known from the first moment he saw him that Lorenzo was his enemy.
“My message was brief and to the point.”
Meg frowned. “You have not upset my father?”
Lorenzo bowed with pretend concern, playing her like the master he was. “Of course not, my lady. Why should I do such a thing to a man who will soon be my master’s father-by-marriage? Or…perhaps not?” Lorenzo gave his famous smirk.
Meg met Gregor’s eyes, a look that spoke of caution and doubt and fear, all the things she could not say to him aloud. He read her easily, and felt a burning anger at the sudden turn of events. The man before them threatened all he had worked for, all he had just believed he had won.
Meg had agreed to wed him, agreed to be his wife in fact as well as name. Gregor wasn’t quite certain of her reasons, other than that she needed his help in the matter of Abercauldy, but he intended to make sure that before too long she forgot those practical considerations. He had had enough women to know he enjoyed them, and they enjoyed him. He was arrogant enough to think that Meg would find what they did in bed similarly enjoyable.
And this grinning creature before him was not about to ruin his one chance for a real and proper life.
“He knows,” he said quietly to Meg, not taking his eyes from Lorenzo.
Lorenzo gave a startled laugh, but he was too sure of himself, he was enjoying his moment too much, to play games. “My hearing is acute,” he agreed. “And even if it were not, my eyes see very well. My lady gazes at you as if she would ravish you entirely, Captain. A woman like her is not worthy of His Grace, and so I will tell him when I return to—”
“I don’t think so, lad,” Gregor interrupted grimly.
Lorenzo’s brown eyes flashed, and he struck a dramatic pose. “You would not dare to lay a hand on the Duke of Abercauldy’s man!”
“Wouldn’t I?” Gregor reached up and caught the front of the other man’s shirt, tearing it a little, and pulled. Lorenzo came down the last remaining steps with a clumsy clatter and fell against him. He struggled like a fish on a hook, but he could not wriggle out of Gregor’s powerful grip. When Lorenzo opened his mouth to shout, Gregor swiftly drew his dirk from its place on his belt, and held the blade against Lorenzo’s throat.
Lorenzo went suddenly very still, in contrast his eyes rolling and wild in his white face.
“Gregor!” Meg gasped, and he noticed that her blue eyes shone with a mixture of horror and glee. The glee won. She was enjoying this. Lorenzo had taunted her for too long, and she would not be human if she was not keen to have her revenge on him.
“We will lock him up nice and safely,” Gregor told her in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice.
“No, no, ye dinna understand! The duke canna be left alone, he needs me!” Lorenzo shrieked, his accent slipping into Scots. “He is…he is no’ well, sometimes. Fools, fools, let me go!”
Gregor gave him a shake, and when he was still again, went on. “Send someone out to the duke’s men to tell them Lorenzo-lad will be staying on for a day or two, and they’re to go home without him.”
Meg thought a moment. “I’ll tell them I need Lorenzo to help me with preparations for the wedding.”
“There will be no wedding!” Lorenzo hissed, spitting hate despite the sharp blade pressed to his throat.
Gregor leaned closer, his mouth very close to Lorenzo’s ear. “Oh, but there will be a wedding,” he whispered. “As soon as your men are on their way home, lad, we’ll send for the priest. There will indeed be a wedding, but it just will not involve the duke. I am the fortunate man who is going to marry Lady Meg.”
Lorenzo went rigid with fury, but this time, wisely, he said nothing. His gaze slid to Meg, piercing her with his contempt and loathing.
She ignored him. “I’ll go and see to the men,” she said, and hurried away to do Gregor’s bidding. Gregor gave Lorenzo another little shake. “Come along, laddie,” he said cheerfully. “I know a nice, warm cell that is just your size.”
He didn’t listen to Lorenzo’s angry reply, a garble of Italian and Scottish swear words. He was thinking about Meg.
He was to be wed. Wed to Lady Meg Mackintosh, his redheaded termagant. She had said him yes, given him his answer right under the nose of the duke’s servant! He might have laughed if the matter were not so serious.
Gregor had sworn he had had enough of playing the hero after Barbara Campbell, and here he was again, playing champion to a lady against the odds. And the odds this time were formidable.
But there was another reason why this time was different. Why, this time, he could not afford to lose.
This lady was his lady.
He felt it in his very bones. She was the one. And if he did not catch her now, and hold on to her, he would regret it all the rest of his days.
Duncan Forbes stood behind him. Malcolm Bain could feel him, feel the disapproval, like pin-prickles on his flesh. And he didn’t need to turn and look to know what expression would be on the other man’s face. A sneer. Because he considered Malcolm Bain had betrayed and deserted his sister, all those long years ago.
And desert her he had, but it had not been an easy choice, and if he were to make it again…Well, such things as that were best not thought of when it was too late to do anything about them, and Malcolm Bain was never one to be crippled by regrets. In his opinion, life was the
re to be lived, and one had to just get on with it.
Malcolm Bain and Gregor had chosen a core of twenty men, to train up to the standards Gregor considered necessary. The rest of their small army could manage well enough, given orders to follow, but these twenty men had to be precisely taught and well drilled. It was Malcolm Bain’s job to see that they reached that standard in as short a time as possible.
Duncan had been watching, that sneer on his face, as if he could do better. He was almost as big a nuisance as the lad with the fair hair, who, whenever his work permitted him, hovered about on the edges of the training ground. As far as Malcolm Bain could tell, the lad was a servant in the big house, carrying wood and seeing to the horses. He was young, too young to grow a beard, but tall for his age, and with a keen eye. He was desperately keen to be one of the elite men Malcolm Bain was training, and desperately disappointed that he was too young.
Each of them was as big a nuisance as the other, thought Malcolm Bain, but at least the lad didn’t sneer. He just looked sort of wistful.
If Gregor were here, he’d have gone over to the lad, made him smile, made his eyes light up with hero worship. But Malcolm Bain wasn’t much good with children. He was used to shouting at tough, hardened old soldiers, and putting the fear of the devil into them to make them do as they were told. Children didn’t take much to being bawled at.
Malcolm Bain wasn’t certain what had gone on this morning—he had had other things on his mind—but after the duke’s men had come and gone, several of the Glen Dhui men had been sent off to fetch the priest, with instructions to bring him back, willing or no, and as quickly as possible.
At first Malcolm Bain thought the old man—the general—[ ]must be ill, possibly close to death for there to be such urgency. But shortly thereafter, he had been passing through the Great Hall and seen the general himself, descending the stairs on Gregor’s arm, looking as spry as a two-year-old.
