by Sara Bennett
Just then, maybe drawn by his long silence, she turned to face him. Something in his expression must have hinted at his intentions. Her eyes widened, her lips parted. Meg shivered, desperately wrapping the shawl closer about her body. Her voice was a husky whisper.
“What do you think of Shona’s tale?”
Gregor was confused. Who was Shona? And then the world righted itself, tipped back onto its proper axis, and he knew he couldn’t kiss her, couldn’t touch her, couldn’t do any of the things that were clamoring in his head. She was no lightskirt, but a born-and-bred lady. She had asked for his help, and that brought with it certain responsibilities. He had no rights to her, whereas she had every right to order him.
Briskly, hands shaking only slightly, Gregor pulled his shirt on over his head, leaving the wet cloth to flap loosely about his damp, cold torso. He smoothed his hair back from his face with both palms, twisting the ends to wring out the water, taking his time. Giving her time to regain her natural composure. When at last he shot a sideways glance at her, he noted that she had lost her bright color and was now regarding him with her usual pale, clear gaze.
“You asked me what I thought of Shona’s tale?” he repeated. “I think it sounds possible. You say there are other rumors? Stories of Abercauldy’s evildoing?”
“Yes, there are stories. Many of them told by good and honest people. Too many, I think, for us to disregard them.
“No, we canna afford to disregard them.”
“So the Duke of Abercauldy is a murderer? He did kill his wife?”
Gregor believed just that. He opened his mouth to tell her so, and then hesitated as another thought struck him. His eyes narrowed. She was very tense, watching him anxiously. Did she want him to say aye or nay? Did she—and the idea that had come into his brain made it burn, made his eyes flare—did she love the Duke of Abercauldy? Was she hoping to hear that he was innocent, so that she could go ahead and wed him with a clear conscience?
As soon as the thought occurred to him, he knew it was not so. Could not be so. Had the cold seeped into his brain? Of course she did not love Abercauldy! She had told Gregor herself that she had fought against the marriage and only given in for her father’s sake, because she was worried about his health. She had loved no man in such a way, nor did she wish to love one—he could see that, he had seen that. She was the sort of independent woman who very much preferred to be in charge of her own life. Where had this sudden surge of jealousy come from? Why had he imagined, even for a moment, that it was otherwise? And why had it made him so angry?
Best not to think of that.
“It is a distinct possibility that Abercauldy killed his wife, aye.”
She nodded, swallowed, glanced at him uneasily, her shawl still wrapped tightly about her. Did she think that piece of woollen cloth would protect her from whatever threat she believed he posed? And what threat was that? Did he make her nervous? Suddenly Gregor wanted to know exactly what it was about him that made her as restive as a filly in the spring. Was it a woman’s natural fear of a man she did not know well? Was it maidenly modesty? Or was it the fact that she was as attracted to him as Gregor was to her?
He wanted to know, he needed to know, and he didn’t stop to ask himself why.
Gregor took a lithe step toward her. Her body stiffened, her mouth tightened, her eyes widened. And yet even as he saw the signs of her tension, she tried to disguise them, easing her stance, tossing back her long hair, playing a game he knew only too well. I’m not really interested in you, she was saying, when everything about her told him otherwise.
He hid a smile. Och no, she was not as unmoved by him as she would like him to believe. What would she do if he reached for her now? Kissed her now? Would she jump like a scalded cat? Would she run screaming into the cottage, calling for dour Duncan Forbes? Or would she capitulate, melt into his arms and beg him for more?
And what would that accomplish, he asked himself wryly, other than to prove his point? What would he do with a screaming woman, or for that matter, a compliant one? Better to keep the status quo; after all, there was no room in his life for these sorts of complications. And had he not sworn, after Barbara, that he had had enough of women and the troubles they always seemed to bring to him?
She needed his help, and she was willing to pay him for it. He was performing a job for her. And that was all.
Why then did the way in which the cool morning breeze played with her hair fascinate him to the point where his fingers actually twitched with the need to touch those long, silky strands?
“I will keep you safe, Lady Meg,” he told her reassuringly, knowing that the heat in his eyes was anything but reassuring.
Meg’s eyes slid to his and just as quickly away again. “I–I can keep myself safe, thank you, Captain.”
Her color was back, and brighter than ever. His smile broadened—he couldn’t help it. He took the few remaining steps and came to a stop immediately before her. Very close—too close—until he could feel the warmth from her body. Her pale eyes were lifted to his, fixed there unblinkingly. He saw the pupils dilate, while the pulse in her throat fluttered like butterfly wings, begging for him to touch his lips just there. Aye, there was some great emotion inside her, something tumultuous. If things were different, he would have liked to discover what it was.
But things weren’t different, so Gregor pulled back from the brink, and instead of kissing her, made his voice playful and teasing, made himself into something she could dismiss and despise.
“Och, but you are paying me to do the looking after, Meg. I wouldna want you not to get your money’s worth, now, would I?”
Meg could have said she had had her money’s worth from him last night, when she had lain comfortably, asleep, in his arms. She could not have said what it was she dreamed, but it had been a sweet dream. Gregor Grant was not a man to give any woman nightmares. When she had awoken this morning, refreshed, her first thought had been: Where is he? He already seemed so much a part of her life….
So she had come looking for him, and seen far more than was good for her peace of mind.
He was still smiling at her—that crooked, rueful smile that twisted something in her chest, until she wanted to reach out with her fingers and trace his mouth, very slowly. The full lower lip, the arch of the upper lip, and on from there.
As if he had read her mind, he moved, and believing he meant to touch her, Meg jumped back. But he only chuckled and walked on past her, lengthening his stride until he had vanished around the corner of the building.
Meg closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding furiously and she felt breathless and lightheaded. Utterly ridiculous! she told herself. How could she be so affected by seeing a man bathing? Was she such a child? She had seen men bathe before, she had seen men naked before and taken such things in her stride. If one lived beyond the civilized boundaries, then one learned to accept such awkward moments.
And yet, when she had seen Gregor, the water running in rivulets over the firm, golden skin of his back, spearing through the crisp hair that grew on his chest and down his belly, vanishing into the waist of his kilt…Oh yes, she had been dizzy! Dizzy with desire! Lightheaded with lust!
Meg laughed at her own flowery prose, but her humor had a bitter edge to it. She chewed her lip to regain control. Was she going mad? She was a woman grown, a sensible spinster who had never yet had the urge to wed. Why did this tough man affect her so? Did she still believe that somewhere, beneath his hardened exterior, dwelt her artistic hero?
Whatever the truth of that, she had learned something new today. She had learned that the longing to find love, and the feeling of desire, were two separate entities. She may not love Gregor Grant, but she certainly desired him. It did not matter that such feelings were completely inappropriate; they could no more be denied than the sun rising up now, shining over the glen before her.
“You are paying him,” she murmured crossly to herself. “He may be the former Laird of Glen Dhui, but
he is your employee. You must not compromise him, or yourself.”
Meg nodded to herself. She would have to keep a tight rein on her feelings. Not just for the sake of propriety, but because she would simply die of embarrassment if Gregor Grant ever discovered that Lady Meg Mackintosh was mad with lust for him.
If he didn’t know it already…
Of course he did! Why else had he smiled at her just now? And looked at her just so? Because her feelings amused him. A man like that, he must have known countless women, fought duels over hundreds of them! What was Meg Mackintosh to him but an amusing moment? Best, for her own dignity, that it go no further.
With a sigh that was half regret and half wistful thinking, Meg turned back toward the cottage.
Chapter 9
By afternoon they had reached the pass through the mountains.
Once this narrow and treacherous road had been open to everyone, but since the 1715 Rebellion, military roads had begun to be built throughout the Highlands under the supervision of General Wade. This was to enable government troops access to the seething, rebellious clansmen in their isolated glens, and to keep order where it was considered trouble was most likely to occur. A small garrison of soldiers now manned the way through the pass, and anyone travelling through was sure to be questioned closely before being allowed to move on.
Meg and her band of men were no different.
“Madam!” The private on guard, well turned out in his red jacket and breeches and white, spotless stockings, straightened himself as Meg rode forward. That was one thing Meg always noticed about Major Litchfield’s men, they looked like proper soldiers, not the ragtag bands that sometimes terrorized the Highlands for no better reason than that they could.
“I am returning home, Private,” she said now. “May we pass through?”
The soldier opened his mouth to answer, but before he could do so, a second voice interrupted them.
“Lady Margaret!”
An older man, wiry, with a thin, intelligent face strode from the direction of the soldiers’ quarters. He wore his red coat and waistcoat embellished with gold trimmings, but it was quite plain in comparison to some of the officers Meg had encountered. He had doffed his hat, and was beaming at her from beneath his plain, brown wig.
“Back so soon, Lady Meg? Did your journey go well?”
Meg returned his smile. She genuinely liked Major Litchfield. He was not the sort of biased, narrow-minded Englishman she had met before and abhorred—the type of Englishman who believed civilized life began and ended at the Thames. Glen Dhui was only a half day’s ride from here, and if the soldiers had been inclined to, they could have made life very difficult for the people. Meg felt they were fortunate indeed with Major Litchfield in charge of his men.
“I am very well, thank you, Major,” she said now. “I did not expect to see you here.”
“I am on my weekly inspection. Have to keep the men on their toes. You are on your way home?”
“Yes, and looking forward to getting there and seeing my father.”
“The General.” The Major shook his head sadly. “’Tis a rum thing to see such a great man brought so low. Tell him I will call on him soon, before I leave the Highlands.” He glanced up at her as he spoke the last words, something speculative in his gaze.
Meg’s smile faded. “Before you leave? Are you leaving, Major Litchfield?”
“Sadly, yes,” he said, and there was real regret in his voice, and something more, that suddenly Meg preferred not to delve into too deeply. As with the Duke of Abercauldy, she had always considered Major Litchfield to be her father’s friend. She enjoyed his company and was appreciative of his attitude toward the Highland people, but she had no romantic inclinations toward him.
“I am being ordered to join a regiment in Ireland. As you know, Lady Margaret, I have been kicking my heels here for over two years. That’s not to say I haven’t enjoyed my stay in Scotland, for I have found it most interesting, but it is time to move on. As soon as my replacement arrives I will go. If I may, I will call at Glen Dhui beforehand. Tell your father I look forward to a last game of chess with him, if he is well enough.”
Meg smiled. “Of course you may! And I’m sure he will be well enough for that, Major.” She held out her hand to him. “I will be sorry to see you go, sir. Take care in Ireland, and we hope to see you back here again, one day.”
His eyes lit up and as if it were made of glass, he took the hand she stretched down to him. “I pray that will be so,” he said, and raised it to his lips.
His fervency was a little too much for her. Meg felt her face color as she turned hastily away. She caught Gregor Grant’s eye without meaning to, not realizing he was so close behind her. And found she could not look away.
There was something in his very stillness, the rigid set of his shoulders, the glint of his eyes through his dark lashes, that spoke of danger. He simmered with it. Startled, Meg searched her mind as to why that should be so. Major Litchfield had been perfectly friendly to them, and yet Gregor was acting as if they were under threat.
Now the Major was greeting the other men by name. He knew them all, because upon his arrival here he had made a point of meeting and learning about the people who lived on the estates nearby. It was one of the reasons Meg liked him. When he came to Gregor’s large figure upon his horse, the Major paused and arched a graying eyebrow.
“Why, it’s Captain Grant, isn’t it? I am not mistaken, am I, Captain?”
Gregor nodded once, not returning the smile. “Major Litchfield.”
“What do you in Lady Meg’s train, Captain?” he asked politely, but curiosity was alive in his eyes and a glint of something more.
Gregor smiled without humor, as if he accepted the other man’s right to ask the question, but he didn’t have to like it. “I know General Mackintosh. He and I are old friends.”
“I see.” There was doubt in his face now, and a trace of suspicion. “I heard you had left Glen Dhui after the 1715, Captain.” Major Litchfield spoke politely, and yet it was clear he wanted answers, and as the superior officer he expected to get them. “Why have you returned now? You are stationed to the north, are you not? Have you leave?”
Gregor shifted slightly on his horse, but not enough to give away emotion. Meg searched his face, but whatever he had been feeling before was gone. Wiped clean, as if it had never existed. “Northwest, at Clashennic. I was there with the Duke of Argyll’s dragoons.”
Major Litchfield’s face cleared. “Of course, I remember now. I have heard good things about you, Captain, from His Grace, the Duke of Argyll, and the people of Glen Dhui. But that still does not explain what you are doing here, now, with Lady Margaret. I really do need an answer.”
He glanced at Meg as he said it, and suddenly she had the inkling that perhaps the Major was being so insistent because of her. He was being protective of her.
“We have traveled a long way, and Captain Grant is weary. Is this really necessary…?” Meg began, in turn finding herself protective of Gregor. There was surely no need to interrogate him for her sake.
Gregor turned his head and looked at her in surprise. His amber eyes searched hers thoroughly in less time than it took for her to draw a sharp breath, and they seemed to like whatever it was they found. Meg felt the color in her cheeks again; she couldn’t help it. Clearly her urge to protect him was misplaced; he could well look after himself.
“I have resigned my commission,” Gregor was speaking to the major, and suddenly he sounded almost cheerful. “I am visiting the general while I decide upon my future. We met after the 1715,” he added, with a rueful grin. “But I was a Jacobite in those days, Major.”
Gregor was baiting him. Meg bit her lip, and waited.
But the corners of Major Litchfield’s mouth lifted. “I remember. You are not a Jacobite now, I comprehend?”
Gregor laughed. “Och, no! I do not think it worth my life to set a man upon Scotland’s throne who will care no more for its
people than the English king in London. They are much of a muchness, these great men. I prefer to leave them to their work, and for them to leave me to mine.”
The major must have agreed with those sentiments, for he nodded. Satisfied his questions had been answered, he turned again to Meg. “I will call, my lady.”
Meg nodded and smiled, and urged her horse onward, down the steep road that led into the glens, her men behind her. An osprey flew high overhead, drifting on the air currents. Meg tilted her head back to gaze up at it, and at the same time breathed a sigh of relief. For a reason she didn’t properly understand, there had been tension between Gregor Grant and Major Litchfield. She told herself it was to do with their pasts and their politics, but that wasn’t entirely true.
She had the oddest feeling that it was to do with her.
As the road wound lower they found themselves in a land of more hills, covered with a forest of great pines and firs, and the finer, silvery birches. Above them, to the northeast, Liath Mhor lifted its somber head, while Cragan Dhui peeped around its shoulder. A bitter little wind reminded them that summer would soon be done, and in a few months all this would be under snow. Despite the long shadows of evening, the landmarks of home were visible all around them, and one by one the men fell silent. They were all weary, longing for their loved ones and other familiar faces.
Just as was she.
The general would be pleased. She had done exactly as he had asked. She had sought out Gregor Grant and brought him home with her. She still did not understand just how he could help them, apart from the more obvious ways of training and leading the men of Glen Dhui. But it was what her father had wanted.
The general wasn’t well enough to travel, so it had been left to Meg to make the journey. Now it was nearly over, and they were nearly home.
Duncan Forbes galloped forward and drew rein beside her.
“I’ll go on ahead, if ye’ll allow me, Lady Meg. Let them know yer coming, so things can be readied.”
“Of course, Duncan.”