Beloved Highlander

by Sara Bennett

  Gregor smiled, a broad, genuine smile. “Och, Malcolm, you’re a loyal friend to me. But no, I dinna want to ride away from all this. I want to wed Meg. I…I feel as if it is right. Dinna ask me how or why, but my heart tells me it is the right thing to do. As you know, I havena been listening to my heart of late, and mabbe it’s time I did.”

  Malcolm Bain nodded, still looking more than a little bemused. “Then if that is so, ye must do what you feel to be right. Dinna do what I did, Gregor, and ride away without a backward glance. I have a son,” he added bitterly, “and I never even knew it!”

  Gregor patted his back in a gesture of comfort, and they fell silent. After a moment they glanced guiltily towards the door that led into the Great Hall. “Should we return then?” Gregor asked.

  “I dinna think I can face it,” Malcolm Bain groaned. “I think I’d rather get back to training the men. At least I can shout at them without them taking offense. At least I dinna have to try and guess what they’re thinking.”

  Gregor hesitated and then nodded decisively. “Aye, I’ll come with you.”

  Chapter 18

  All day, people had been arriving at Glen Dhui Castle. Lassies barefoot but in their best dresses, come to help cook and serve. Lads come to help fetch and carry. Alison set them their tasks, and they joined in with the rest. The place hummed with antlike activity.

  Meg had wished they could perform the ceremony quietly, but when she saw how much pleasure the people of Glen Dhui were deriving from the thought of a grand occasion like this—not to mention the general—she decided it was better not to complain. This was a celebration for them, something for them to remember and tell their children, and their children’s children. One of those tales that makes grown men cry. How the Laird of Glen Dhui was cast out, and then returned to marry the Lady and live there happily, forevermore…

  But would it end so neatly? Could it?

  Deep in her heart Meg didn’t think so. Abercauldy would not let it be so. And Lorenzo, when he was released, would be fit for any mischief. Meg had taken food to his cell, and seen him glaring up at her through the black grill, his face full of a sullen fury.

  “Ah, Lady Deceitful!” he had called to her. “Do you mean to poison me now?”

  Meg had set down the food basket, nodding to the guard to open the grating so that it could be lowered down. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lorenzo,” she had said mildly. “And do not talk as though I have done something wrong. I have told your duke many times that I will not wed him; he just refuses to listen.”

  “So you will marry a handsome face instead!” Lorenzo had sneered. “I wish you happy of your pretty soldier, Lady Meg, and hope he will not break your heart when his eyes stray elsewhere.”

  Meg had felt a shiver run over her as Lorenzo’s sword tip found its mark. He knew it, too, for his smile widened. “Enjoy your meal,” she had called, and then, in a pretended whisper, “but do not eat the mutton pie. You are right, Lorenzo, it is poisoned!”

  She had turned her back on him then, but she had seen the doubt flicker in his eyes. Lorenzo probably knew she would not poison him, but there would still be a question hanging over him, as he sat in his cell and contemplated that succulent slice of mutton pie…

  She shouldn’t have done that, Meg thought now. But she had wanted to give him something to worry about, just as he had done for her. She wished she could take a gallop on her mare, to blow these worries from her head, to forget her troubles in the sheer joy of riding through the place she loved best in all the world. But apart from her allotted tasks, it was too dangerous just now, and chafe though it might, she had to accept that, and stay put.

  Gregor was busy with the men, he and Malcolm Bain keeping well out of the way of the preparations and—[ ]thought Meg—Alison Forbes. Not that Alison had gone looking for Malcolm Bain. Meg had spied her talking with her brother Duncan, and her face had been as white as the oatmeal coating her hands, so she must know that Malcolm knew about Angus. As for Angus himself, the lad was kept busy with the rest, and as far as Meg was aware, he didn’t know a thing of what was happening around him.

  Meg had taken a tray in her room the previous evening, pleading a headache, but really she had been unwilling to sit with Gregor, alone, in the dining room. The reasons for their wedding were clear enough, and they were good and practical reasons. Yes, she accepted them. But paradoxically, those same very good and practical reasons caused a sense of disappointment in Meg that just kept growing.

  She had dreamed of all-consuming love, of wild passion, of tears and joy, with all the highs and lows such a love would bring her. Loving so fiercely might make her cry, sometimes, but at least she would feel alive. She would be alive.

  Instead, the motto for her marriage was to be convenience and necessity.

  The priest arrived in the late afternoon. Meg happened to be passing the windows that looked out upon the yew tree avenue. She watched as the old man on his ancient horse, surrounded by the men of Glen Dhui, made his way toward the castle. Except there was an unexpected visitor among them. A straight-backed man in a red coat and buff breeches was riding with them. It took only a moment for Meg to recognize Major Litchfield.

  During his stay at the military post, the major had come often to Glen Dhui to visit her father. At least, she had always believed it was her father he had come to visit—now she was not so sure. She hesitated, watching the men approach, wondering why the major was here now. But there was too much else to occupy her. The food was almost ready, the Great Hall had been made up into a bower of leaves and branches and flowers. Her father had donned his best clothes and had found a wig to wear that he had bought once in London, and she had chosen, with Alison’s help, her wedding gown.

  Now that the priest had arrived, all was ready.

  The moment had come for her convenient marriage.

  “Ye look beautiful,” Alison assured Meg, surveying her with a satisfied smile.

  With her long auburn hair loose down her back, and simply caught up from her face at the sides with narrow green ribbons, and her favorite green silk gown rustling about her as she walked, Meg did look beautiful. Though she didn’t feel it. She felt…well, she felt like herself. Plain Meg Mackintosh—the same as always. Alison had dusted powder over her face, but the freckles were still there. It seemed like a sign, a reminder that no matter how she tried to deck herself up in her finery, she was the same woman, the same Meg—and she always would be.

  Downstairs the noise was deafening. People from up and down Glen Dhui were arriving, eager to participate. The general had sent a messenger on horseback through the glen, spreading the news and inviting all to come to the laird’s house for the celebration. Even at such short notice, they had dropped everything and come, wearing their best clothes, and with a determination to enjoy themselves.

  In the Great Hall, children squealed, women chattered and men laughed, spilling out into the balmy evening, taking up every available space. The general had had his chair placed in the very center of the hall, so that he could greet the guests as they arrived and converse with the rest. So that he would not miss a single moment.

  Meg knew she should go down now, and see that all was well. There were probably some last minute problems, and she was the one that everyone looked to to do the solving. And besides, she should show the people her face; they would be expecting a smiling bride. The fairy tale could not be complete without a happy bride.

  Meg took a deep, steadying breath.

  She was about to wed Gregor Grant. The priest was awaiting her, her father was awaiting her, the guests were awaiting her.

  And Gregor, her bridegroom, was waiting, too.

  “Are ye ready now, my lady?” Alison sounded slightly anxious.

  “Almost, Alison. Just a moment.” Meg fiddled with the ribbons in her hair. “You have had no more ‘feelings,’ Alison?” she asked, more to delay leaving the room than because she really wanted to know. Alison had not mentioned any forebodings of lat
e.

  Alison’s brow had furrowed at the question, but her eyes were clear. “I think there is a shadow ahead, my lady, though ’tis not clear. Ye must make merry tonight.”

  “You told me that Captain Grant would bring trouble to us, do you remember?”

  Alison nodded. “Aye, that I did. And I do see trouble, now he is here, but I dinna believe anymore that he is the cause of it. The shadow has been coming for a while, Lady Meg.”

  “What is this shadow then? Is it Abercauldy?”

  “I dinna know, but I do know this: There is light through the shadow, on the other side. Ye must look through it, toward the light, my lady.”

  All very well, thought Meg in frustration, but how did one do that?

  Alison touched her hand, her eyes warm, her mouth wide in a smile. “Dinna be afeared. If I see more I will tell ye soon enough. For tonight be merry, my lady. Be happy! That is my advice.”

  “Thank you, Alison.” Meg returned her smile, still hesitating.

  Alison gave her a little push. “Go!”

  That made Meg laugh. What was she afraid of? They were all her friends, after all. Picking up her skirts, Meg took her courage in her hands and left the sanctuary of her room for her future.

  “It seems I must congratulate you.”

  Gregor turned and met Major Litchfield’s direct gaze. The other man appeared sincere, but there was a forced look to his smile that spoke of a personal disappointment. Perhaps he had had hopes of winning Meg for himself—[ ]Gregor had thought so, when he had seen the major speaking to Meg at the pass. There had been something eager in Major Litchfield’s eyes that had dumped a thick wave of jealousy on Gregor, despite the fact that he knew he had no rights to Meg. No, she hadn’t belonged to him then, but neither had he wanted anyone else to have her.

  Did Meg realize the major was interested in her? Surely, if she did, she would have turned in his direction rather than Gregor’s? It was clear she trusted him, leaned upon him, and the general liked him, too.

  A perfect match, Gregor thought dryly.

  Well, perfect or not, it was too late now. The die was cast; Meg was his.

  The knowledge sent a shiver of relief through him, as if he had secured something far greater than a woman’s hand.

  “I was planning to visit Glen Dhui Castle in the next weeks in any case,” Major Litchfield was saying. “When the priest told me his mission, it seemed a good idea to come now. My replacement is due. It has happened sooner than I planned. He is some relative of a great man, who has to be put somewhere quiet for a time. A troublesome relative, by the sound of it. I do not like to leave such a one in charge of the place and people I have grown to like—very much—but I am afraid it is beyond my control.”

  “And I say again, I’m sorry to hear you are going, Major,” the general called, turning in their direction. “I’ll miss our conversation, and thrashing you at chess!”

  Major Litchfield laughed. “I’ll not regret that, sir. You are a master of the game.”

  “He played a fine game when I first met him,” Gregor added with a smile. “I never did win against him.”

  “The trick is to put yourself into the mind of the other man,” the general instructed him. “To…to…” He seemed to lose the thread of his thought, and turned away, diverted by some new arrivals.

  After watching the old man for a moment, the major said in an undertone, “I do not like to say so, Grant, but the general isn’t the man he was when last I was here. Time seems to be catching him up rather swiftly.”

  Gregor knew it was so. Since his own arrival the general was fading, but despite that, tonight it was clear he meant to enjoy himself. And he was right; it would be soon enough tomorrow, to face their myriad of problems.

  “You will have a monumental task before you,” the major went on, eyeing a plate of crisp oatcakes. “Stepping into the general’s shoes, I mean.”

  “Och, and I know it, Major.”

  Major Litchfield turned his gaze to Gregor, and suddenly he gave him a more genuine smile. “Oh, I think you will manage it, Captain Grant. You have the look of one who can manage most things.”

  Gregor was still pondering this unexpected compliment, when a movement at the top of the stairs caught his eye. He looked up, and all thought left his head.

  A morvoren—that was what she was. A mermaid in a green silk ocean, her long curling hair streaming about her like fire. Something to be desired from afar, unobtainable, a mystical creature.

  And yet Gregor both desired and meant to obtain this mystical creature. He swallowed. Desire had turned his body hard, and the blood was rushing through every inch of it. Beside him, Major Litchfield murmured his approval, while the crowd in the hall smiled and nodded, and gave of their opinions in hushed whispers. This may be a surprise wedding, a rushed marriage, but Meg was no disappointing bride. It was clear they loved her, had taken her to their hearts, and that this moment was one they would never forget.

  Certainly not Gregor.

  But unlike the others, he wasn’t content to admire from afar. He had never been a man to sit and gaze at a woman across a room, or to pen a poem to her untouchable beauty. And right now he wanted to do desperate things to Meg, ungentlemanly things, things he should not even be allowing himself to think, before all these good people.

  Gregor groaned softly.

  In short, he was dreaming of bounding up the stairs, grabbing her, and finding an empty bedchamber so that he could satisfy his lust on her. Hardly the way to soothe the fears of a virgin, for he had no doubt that so she was. How in God’s name was he to hold himself in check, with such thoughts as these writhing through his fevered brain?

  “Meg?” The general had risen to his feet, supported by Duncan Forbes. “Meg, are you ready? Gregor?”

  The spell was broken. Gregor watched as Meg came down the stairs, careful of her skirts, Alison hovering behind her. He stepped forward to meet her, his hand outstretched to take hers. Her eyes were wide in her pale face, and she seemed to be trying to read his expression as she placed her fingers lightly in his. He hoped to God he had his thoughts well hidden.

  “You look very beautiful, Meg,” he said with quiet sincerity.

  She smiled, shyly lowering her head and at the same time running her gaze over him. Gregor was wearing his best dark blue jacket, its sleeves slashed in the popular Scottish manner, his best white shirt, and a kilt that had been lent him by the general. It was woven of dark cloth with a yellow stripe, and when he walked, it swung jauntily.

  “So do you,” Meg murmured.

  He chuckled.

  Cheeks burning with color, Meg realized what she had said. She looked up at him in dismay, her blue eyes wide and her lips parted. Gregor found her confusion completely adorable.

  “Meg?” The general said again, impatient for the wedding to begin.

  It gave her an excuse to turn away, smiling at the people who smiled at her as she passed, making her way to her father’s side. Gregor followed in her wake.

  “I’m here, Father.”

  The old priest stepped forward, his face rosy from the whiskey and the company, his somber clothes still a little dusty from the long ride. “Lady Meg, this is a wee bit unusual!” He tried to look stern, but there was a gleam in his eyes.

  “The circumstances are a wee bit unusual,” the general retorted sternly, more like his old self. “We are prepared for a wedding here, Father. I hope you do not mean to disappoint us?”

  Receiving this stern interrogation, the priest replied in the only manner he could. “No, no, I do not mean to disappoint you, General Mackintosh. I am here and ready to do God’s work.”

  The general nodded, pleased with his answer. “Then let us begin!”

  It was a dream, Meg thought. The familiar faces of the people of Glen Dhui and her father’s bright smile, the priest’s voice droning on, Major Litchfield looking as if he was determined to enjoy himself. Meg could not look at any of them, and especially not at Gregor Gran
t, her groom.

  He took her hand as they stood before the old priest, his fingers hard and warm. Meg wanted to cling to them—[ ]perhaps he expected her to—but she resisted. He was a stranger, and she did not want to lean on him—she dare not. In all her life Meg had only ever leaned on one man, and that was her father—and even he had let her down.

  She did not know Gregor—she had thought she did. Visions of him had filled her girlhood, and she had ridden about the glen with dreams of him in her head. The man at her side was not the boy she had dreamed of, and yet in a strange way he was. She’d had glimpses of that boy. As if Gregor Grant had built a stout wall about himself but occasionally, very occasionally, a brick came loose and left a gap, and through that gap she caught a glimpse of the boy.

  “Meg? Come, come, what is your answer?” Her father sounded impatient.

  Meg realized with a start that they were all waiting for her response, their expressions amused and knowing. Quickly she gave it, feeling her face color yet again. Gregor spoke then, sounding more like a soldier than ever. No hesitation from him, and probably no doubts. And then it was done. They were joined as man and wife.

  A cheer went up from the gathering, lifting in joyous echoes to the roof above. Glen Dhui had given its approval.

  Malcolm Bain stepped around a pair of children who were mock-fighting. “I am the Laird of Glen Dhui,” one of them insisted. “Nay, I am,” the other retorted. “I will fight ye for the right!” “Nay, I will fight ye!”

  “Ye are neither of ye the laird, ye wee devils,” Malcolm said with mock sternness, setting them apart. “Now off with ye both.”

  The two boys took to their heels, weaving around startled guests and groaning tables. Malcolm smiled after them, hands on his hips.