by Sara Bennett
“Lost your way?”
Impatiently, Meg dug her heels into her restive mare’s sides and set off again in the lead.
There she was. Ahead of them. Her red hair burned against the blue sky as she rode off on her mare. She was wearing her trews and jacket again, with long boots of soft leather. Her hair was fashioned into a long, thick plait that hung down her slim back. She rode well, without fear, as if she had been born to the saddle. But despite the masculine attire, there was no way Meg Mackintosh could be mistaken for a man. Everything about her was most definitely feminine: the curve of her breasts beneath the tight jacket, the swell of her hips, the tender curve of her jaw, the full shape of her lips…
Gregor felt his body respond despite his discomfort. A sort of miracle, considering the way he was feeling, and the fact that he had just been used by beautiful Barbara Campbell for her own selfish ends.
Meg wasn’t even his type. Freckles on her nose, tart tongue, bossy manners—nothing there to attract him. And yet it did, all of it. He didn’t just find her interesting, he actively lusted after her. Last night he had slept fitfully, only to wake from hot, feverish dreams in which Meg Mackintosh played a prominent part.
What would she think if she knew? If she knew exactly what he had been imagining her doing, in those sweaty, frantic fantasies? Would she be horrified and disgusted? Would she withdraw from him?
Possibly.
Probably.
Better she never know, then….
“Lady Meg has a mind of her own.”
Duncan Forbes’s toneless voice interrupted his thoughts. Gregor met those dark eyes, wondering what the tacksman had seen in his expression that made him aware Gregor was thinking of his lady.
“Doesn’t the general keep her reined in?” he asked.
Duncan smiled—it looked as if it hurt his face to assume such an unfamiliar expression. “The general indulges her.”
“In all things?”
“Aye. Well, almost.” Now Duncan appeared troubled. “It was her impending marriage that they were at odds over. She has refused to wed any of the men her father put before her. She was…is fussy. There is always some reason…some excuse why they are unsuitable.”
“She is hard to please, then?”
“Aye, she is difficult when it comes to suitors.”
“Until the Duke of Abercauldy.”
Duncan looked worried. “He came calling often, but we thought ’twas more to see the general than Lady Meg. The duke would spend hours with the general, flattering him by listening to his stories. A man like the general, who all his life has been busy and important, whom people have looked to for advice—such a man finds it more difficult than most to grow old and feeble, to be set aside. When the duke flattered him, he believed him. They made the marriage deal between them and the general signed the papers. When he told Lady Meg, she was verra angry. She wept, too. But in the end I think she would have accepted the arrangement, for the general’s sake, if they hadna found out the Duke wasna the man they had thought him. But by then it was too late. The Duke seems set on her and he isna a man to change his mind.”
Gregor believed the story as Duncan told it; it tallied with Meg’s, and sadly, it sounded all too plausible. “So, tell me, is it the land he wants? Or the lady?”
“I dinna know that, Captain. There is a look in his eyes when he gazes upon her. He wants her, aye. He…he covets her, I think. But then there is the land, too. With Glen Dhui added to his estate it will stretch far. He will be thought an even greater man than he already is.”
“Do you trust him, Duncan?”
Duncan’s sour expression soured even more. “He has the manners of a London gent, and no, I dinna trust him an inch.”
Gregor nodded. If the Duke was not to be trusted, then Lady Meg must not wed him. Therefore they must find a way of extracting themselves from this mess without bringing his wrath down upon their heads, and without starting a war they would be sure to lose. The general was the man for that—strategy had always been his strong point. Gregor wondered why his own presence was so necessary, but he was content to wait. Soon enough he would be able to ask the general that question for himself.
It would be strange to see him again.
He moved in the saddle, forgetting. The throb in his arm was an agonizing reminder that all was not well. Gregor bit his lip and sought to distract himself. He looked to Duncan again.
“I remember when we fought in the 1715, the Glen Dhui men were armed…in a manner of speaking. What happened to those arms, Duncan? Were they confiscated by the English?”
“No, they were set aside for a rainy day.”
Gregor smiled. “I thought that might have been the case.” He supposed the guns would be rusty by now; they had already been old when they were used last time around. The Duke of Abercauldy would probably have a small army of his own: well-trained men and up-to-date equipment. Glen Dhui had never been modern; it was out of step, isolated, a place where time seemed to stand still, or where it moved along at a very slow amble.
Gregor had always believed the glen could be improved without being spoiled. During his school years in Edinburgh, he had looked into new methods of agriculture, of managing the land. He knew there were better ways than those presently in use. But his father had sneered at his ideas and called them “Sassenach foolishness.”
“There will be nay changes here while I live!” he had declared.
Gregor had tried to persuade him differently, but he had been a boy and his father would not listen to him. So he had put aside his sense of restlessness and dissatisfaction, telling himself that there would come a time when he would be able to do as he wanted, when the estate would be all his.
Instead the Stuarts had come, the Rebellion had happened, and they had lost everything.
Again Gregor fixed his eyes bleakly on the woman riding at the head of the little troop. He was going home. It was true, it was real. He was going home, and with that knowledge came all the painful emotions he had been avoiding. Suddenly he didn’t know whether to hate her for obliging him to return to something that could never now be his. Or to love her, because he was going home to Glen Dhui.
The day was fading fast. Long shadows were draped across the glen between shards of gentle light. The mountains were dark monoliths against the rose sky, where high upon one onyx cliff, a tiny spume of white water arced downward, catching the last of the sun in a spray of diamonds.
Not far now to the croft where they would spend the night, thought Meg gratefully. She cast a glance at the grim, tired little group at her back. Gregor Grant was riding as if he were asleep, his face a white blur in the muted light, swaying in the saddle. As she watched, Malcolm Bain reached out to steady him, murmuring encouragement.
Ahead of them, down the shadowy glen, she saw the flicker of a lantern. Relief flooded her. Shona was there, waiting. Meg needed to speak to her friend, the village healer, to hear again the stories that had first turned her and her father against an alliance with the Duke of Abercauldy. To hear the reasons she should not wed such a man, and in refusing to do so must put at risk herself, her father, and all her people.
Meg thought of Shona’s croft as cozy, though she supposed some would call it crowded and close. But for Meg, Shona’s greeting was always so warm that she never noticed aught else.
Shona came from her doorway, lantern held high, to bid them welcome. “My lady!” she cried gladly. “Come in, come in all of ye. Kenneth will see to the horses.” With her classic Highland coloring of dark hair and blue eyes, Shona was a lovely woman, with a smile that encompassed them all.
“I have but two hands, wife,” Kenneth grumbled.
Shona clicked her tongue at her man. “Away with ye,” she said, gently scolding. “How often do we have guests? What is a little bother, when the sight of Lady Meg cheers me so?”
Kenneth smiled. Their eyes met in a moment of perfect understanding, in a manner that made everyone else feel slightly left
out. Meg experienced a catch in her throat and wondered, as she always did in their presence, whether she would ever find a man who loved her and whom she could love, as Shona and Kenneth loved each other.
Anything less than that was not to be contemplated.
It was a stance she had taken long ago, and one her father did not understand. For him, prestige, family ties, and important bloodlines meant more than his only daughter’s fancy for love.
They began to dismount, and it was only when Shona’s eyes widened that Meg realized something was wrong. She turned swiftly, just in time to see Gregor sink limply into Malcolm Bain’s meaty arms. He was on his feet again in an instant, pushing himself upright, but his face was ghostly in the pale light and the sweat shone on his skin like dew.
“What is wrong with this one?” Shona demanded sharply. “Is he sick with some malaise?”
Meg found her voice, for she seemed to have lost it in the moments when Gregor fainted. “No, no, nothing like that. He was wounded, his arm cut open. We…I sewed it up, but it is not good.”
Shona was watching her, a glint of amusement in her blue eyes. “Ye sewed it up, Lady Meg? When ’tis known up and down the glens that Lady Margaret Mackintosh faints at the sight of blood?”
“I am ashamed to say that I do, usually, but on this occasion I managed to stay on my feet. Shona, can you look at Captain Grant’s wound? You are skilled with such things, and I would count it a special favor.”
Shona searched her face a moment, as if she saw something interesting there, and then she nodded her head. “Of course I will, my lady.”
Meg felt such utter relief she hardly heard the rest of what Shona said. And her relief confused her, because it seemed more concerned with the man himself than bringing him home safe to her father.
“Come inside now, my lady, and settle him by the fire, and I will take a wee look. Kenneth! We need whiskey for these men, and see to their horses, won’t ye?”
With Malcolm Bain supporting him on one side, Gregor staggered into the cottage. Meg followed, helping to ease him down onto the bench by the fire, and then holding the cup of whiskey that Shona poured to his lips. He took a deep swallow and seemed to revive, for his dark lashes lifted and he looked at her with fever-bright eyes.
“I am all right,” he insisted.
Meg shook her head. “Anyone can see you are not all right, Captain.”
Shona laughed, glancing from one to the other. “Ye should know better than to argue with Lady Meg. Now, let me see yer arm, Captain! Anything I don’t know about healing is not worth the learning.”
He hesitated, but only for an instant. To Meg’s relief, he began to shrug off his jacket as best he could. The process was a painful one. Meg and Malcolm helped ease down the sleeve, and then the shirt was unlaced and pulled down from the bandages. The wound looked even more swollen and inflamed than it had that morning, the stitches tugging into the flesh in a manner that must be very painful.
Meg shuddered and leaned back against the wall in case she fulfilled Shona’s prophecy and fell over. She watched, silent, as Shona pressed and prodded, ignoring her patient’s swift intake of breath and his alarming pallor.
“Well,” she said at last, “’tis clear Lady Meg and yer Malcolm here did their best, but I can do better. I’ll need to snip some of these fine stitches, Captain. Bear with me, and believe me, ye’ll feel better when ’tis all done.”
With deft, practiced fingers, Shona set about snipping some of the tight stitches at the very edge of the wound. Pressing firmly but gently, Shona began to clean it thoroughly with clean water. Finally she set about preparing a poultice, crushing some herbs into a paste and smearing it upon the wound. Then she heated up a greasy mixture in a cup and pressed it to his lips with some whiskey added. Gregor drank it with a grimace, while Shona found fresh, clean bandages and busily rewrapped his wound.
It was all done quickly and competently.
“I will look again come the morning,” Shona said, “but I think ye will heal now.”
Meg’s legs quivered and she held herself up through sheer effort of will. When her vision cleared, she met Shona’s bright, piercing gaze.
“Never fear, Lady Meg,” the other woman murmured gently, the words meant for her ears alone. “He will be as good as new again. No part of him will be lacking vigor.”
Meg felt the color rush to her face. She heard Malcolm snort his laughter and knew Shona’s voice had not been as discreet as she had thought. She prayed that Gregor had not heard. She cleared her throat in a manner she hoped showed her authority.
“Captain Grant is coming to Glen Dhui to help my father and me, Shona. That is all. There is nothing of a…a personal nature between us.”
“Oh?” Shona raised her eyebrows.
“I want you to tell him now what you told me and my father,” Meg went on, gathering up her confidence and position. “Tell him what the Duke of Abercauldy did to his first wife.”
Chapter 7
Meg’s men had found places to sleep—some in the stable and barn, others in the cottage itself. Now Kenneth sat beside his wife in the front room, his hand holding hers, while Meg and Gregor sat on the settle opposite, anxious for her to speak. Since Meg’s asking Shona to tell her story, there had necessarily been a waiting time, during which Shona insisted her guests be fed and made comfortable before she would talk. At last all was quiet and she was ready to begin.
“Are you going to help Lady Meg?” she asked Gregor now, in the proud Highland manner which gave favor to no man.
He met her eyes without resentment. In the hours since Shona had redressed his wound and given him her tincture, he had seemed much better. The fever had left him and there was color in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the whiskey he had drunk and everything to do with returning good health. Shona was something of a miracle worker when it came to healing, and Meg was grateful enough not to question her ways.
“I am going to help her, Shona,” his deep voice broke into Meg’s thoughts. “Why don’t you tell me what you know?”
Shona searched his face a moment, as if she would draw the truth out of him, and then at last she nodded. A glance at Meg, accompanied by a smile, and she settled back beside her husband.
“My Kenneth was away,” she began simply. “He was taken from me after the 1715, and sent to Virginia. I dinna know if I would ever see him again. There was no money, so I took work as kitchen maid in the house of the Duke of Abercauldy. Because I was clean and clever, I rose above that station quickly. When he brought his bride home, I was given the task of keeping her room tidy. Lady Isabella had auburn hair and a temper, and I dinna believe she was much in awe of the duke, her husband. She laughed in his face, and she made a fool of him with her sharp tongue, in front of his tenants, in front of his servants.
“Mabbe that was why he found her so fascinating. Most women, I had heard, feared the duke. Isabella dinna. And yet she should have feared him. There were stories of other women, whispers of women who had come to the duke’s castle and then vanished. ’Twas said that one of them screamed for hours, locked away in some hidden place. The next morning she was found dead, below the north tower.”
“The same tower where Isabella fell,” Kenneth murmured.
“Or was pushed,” Shona returned grimly. “Aye, she should have feared him. Isabella walked a narrow and dangerous path by flouting such a man. I saw him strike her once, when she had pushed him too far. Another time, he locked her in her room for a week. And even then she could no’ see the danger she was in. Too strong-willed by far, do ye see? She laughed in his face, driving him on, making him wild with rage. Sometimes I thought it gave her pleasure, to see him lose control. It was as if she had won the battle.”
“Did he love her? Or was it all about winning?”
Shona’s fingers entwined with those of her man. “He watched her. She frustrated him, and yet she fascinated him. It was as if he was trying to discover her secrets, so that he could own h
er entirely. Is that love, Captain Grant? If so, ’tis no’ the kind of love I know. The more he showed himself desirous of winning her affection, the more she resisted him. She was perverse in that way—manipulating. But then, so was he. They seemed to enjoy inflicting pain upon each other.”
“So it was a game between them?”
“Aye, a strange, unhealthy game.”
“And she died…how?”
Meg shifted uneasily, and Gregor looked at her. She appeared tired, there were shadows beneath her brilliant eyes, and her skin was chalky with exhaustion. He wanted to brush his finger along her cheek, cup that delicate curve with his calloused palm. He wanted to lean in to her and close his mouth on hers. He wanted to kiss her until they had both forgotten about the Duke of Abercauldy and his difficult wife….
“Captain?”
“Hmm?” He glanced up into Shona’s knowing blue gaze. She smiled, just enough to let him know she had guessed what he had been thinking.
“Do you want to hear how Lady Isabella died?”
Gregor frowned, carefully shifting his arm. “Go on.”
Shona’s smile slowly faded. “She fell from the north tower. There was talk that she had jumped, through homesickness and unhappiness, but I know neither to be true. She was no’ homesick, and she was no’ the sort to kill herself. She had too much to live for. And she and the duke enjoyed their strange games, so although her marriage was no’ what I would call ordinary, it was no’ the sort of marriage that would cause a woman to kill hersel’ to escape it. ’Tis my belief Lady Isabella could have left anytime she wished—she had powerful relations—but she dinna choose to. Why would she kill herself?”
Gregor thought a moment, considering her words. “So what do you think happened, Shona?”
Shona straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. “I think she was pushed, Captain,” she said firmly. “It just so happened that that day I was in the vicinity of the north tower mysel’. I had been to see the cook’s child, who was feverish, and was coming back that way. I…dinna wish to be seen. Some of the duke’s people dinna like it that I was a healer. So I came by way of the north tower, where I knew it would be quiet and deserted.”