by Sara Bennett
The door closed behind her. Beyond the window, he could hear voices. The men he had ridden with from Clashennic, he thought. Where was Malcolm Bain? Well, no doubt he would find himself a bed—he was no stranger to Glen Dhui either. With a smothered groan, Gregor sank down in the chair by the fire, absently rubbing his arm and letting the comfort of Glen Dhui seep into him at last.
Meg hurried up the staircase with light running steps toward her father’s room. She tapped briefly on the door panel, and opened it.
The general was seated by the window, his back to her, staring out as if he could see the dark sweep of the glen beyond. He must have heard her, for when he turned his head, an expectant look in his cloudy blue eyes, he was smiling.
“Meg?”
“Father.”
She came to him, quickly kneeling by his chair and taking his hands in hers. His smile showed a mixture of relief and anticipation. “Is he here?” he demanded. “Did you bring him?”
“Yes, he is here.”
The general took a deep breath and his eyelids dropped down over his sightless eyes. “You have done well, Meg. Thank you.”
“’Twas not such a chore, father. He came like a…a lamb.”
He smiled again, but wryly now, for by her tone he had guessed otherwise. “I will speak with him when he has eaten,” he said, with a quiet and grim determination.
Meg looked into his face, seeing the deep lines and folds of age and illness. Her father seemed to have grown more feeble even in the short time she had been away. “Are you sure the morning wouldn’t do as well?”
“No, Meg, we have no time to lose. There was a message from Abercauldy yesterday, asking after you. He says he wants a firm date for the wedding, so arrangements can be made. He wants to bring his servants here to Glen Dhui, to oversee it, to be sure that ‘all is in order,’ as he puts it! The man is intolerable, Meg. Read it yourself. Now, where did Alison put the letter after she’d read it to me…?”
Meg felt herself pale. Dear God, after she had tried her best to explain to the duke that she had no intention of marrying him, he was carrying on as if everything were to go ahead as normal! Meg fumbled for the letter in the pile on the table beside her father. She remembered when she had spoken to the duke upon their last meeting, when she had told him she did not want to marry him. He had cocked his head to one side, as though listening to a voice she could not hear. And then he had smiled at her. A humoring smile. At the time Meg had feared he didn’t believe her, or simply chose not to. Now here was the proof!
The letter was just as her father had said, a request for a firm date, the tone gently scolding rather than demanding. Why, Meg thought, is that velvet glove so much more frightening than a bare fist? Why was the duke’s studied, blind patience with his bride-to-be so much more terrifying than a show of rage? And why did the look in his eyes frighten her so—as if she were already his?
“Gregor Grant,” her father’s murmur drew her back to the shadowy room.
Carefully she laid the letter, with its emblazoned crest, aside. “I will send him up after supper, father, but I do not understand what—”
“Leave it to me, Meg. I created this mess, I will clean it up. With Gregor’s help.”
His tone reminded her of the old days, when he gave orders to his men. Meg was sorely tempted to remind him that the mess had been created because he had gone against her wishes in the first place, made a decision without consulting her—and now he seemed to be about to repeat the same mistake. But he was old and sick. Besides, she had already made up her mind that she would be present at this meeting with Gregor, so she held her tongue.
“Very well, father,” she said with uncharacteristic meekness.
She had reached the door again before the sound of his voice made her turn.
“I am so glad you are back safe, Meg. You mean more to me than I can say. I…” But the words failed him, or the tremble in his voice threatened to stifle it, and he shook his head and fell silent.
“Things will come around, father,” Meg said gently. “I know they will.”
Gregor was still by the fire, but now he stood leaning against the mantel, his arm resting along its edge, while he gazed into the flames. The General Mackintosh he had known had never been one to do anything without a purpose. Why had he wanted Gregor back? What did he have planned for him? Why was his presence so crucial?
Gregor found himself watching Meg’s face, trying to guess from her expression what might have been said between father and daughter. He thought she looked as if she had something on her mind, but whatever it was, she was not sharing it with him. She had changed from her riding attire into a green silk gown with lace falling from the tight, elbow-length sleeves. The low, square neckline was made more modest by a fine gauze scarf. It suited her vivid coloring and creamy skin, making him think of mermaids on sunlit shores. Morvoren.
If he had any doubts about his need for her, after their encounter by the loch, he was certain now. He felt every muscle in his body tighten, instantly, every sinew harden.
She came to stand beside him, her skirts rustling, and held out her hands to the heat. Maybe he looked as stunned as he felt, for she cast him a quick, searching glance before she turned away again, and concentrated on the fire. But Gregor didn’t turn away, couldn’t turn away. Instead, he noted how the light sparkled and shone in the glory of her hair, the tilt of her nose, and the pensive set of her mouth.
“Your father is well?” He broke the silence.
“Thank you, yes. He says he will see you once you have eaten and rested. He does not sleep much these days, so it will not matter to him if the hour is late.”
He nodded, and his eye caught a small box beside the mantel clock. Frowning, he stretched out one long finger to touch it. The lid was inlaid with an oval-shaped painting, the delicate likeness of a beautiful, smiling woman with a cloud of fair hair.
Meg had seen the direction of his gaze. “’Tis an exquisite thing,” she ventured. “She is exquisite.”
“My mother,” he replied without inflection.
Meg bit her lip, dismayed. “This is very awkward,” she went on after a moment, her voice low. “I feel I should apologize, Captain Grant, but my father did write to your mother. He thought the box valuable, and that perhaps she may wish it to be sent on to her in Edinburgh. She did not, but she informed him of the price she wanted for it. He paid it.”
“You have no need to apologize,” he said abruptly. “What happened isna your fault. My mother is an unsentimental woman. She has a small income and probably lives beyond her means. She clearly needed the money more than the box.”
“You speak as if you do not see her.”
“Not in years.”
Meg worried her lip again. “This is still…awkward. Us being here, in your family home.”
He looked at her bent head, the delicate pallor of her nape uncovered where her hair was pinned up. “I do not feel awkward,” he replied quietly. “I do not covet these things, Meg. When I left Glen Dhui I had nowhere to live, certainly nowhere to keep such possessions as this. I was adrift. I am glad that someone had the use of them.”
Meg tilted her head to look up at him. Her eyes were pale and clear, and he felt their touch like a warm breeze.
“You are a strange man,” she said at last.
He laughed despite himself. Whatever he had expected her to say, it was not this.
“I am…resigned to my life as it is, Meg.”
Was he? Meg asked herself. Or was he simply trying to put her at ease in the home that had once been his, to deflect her attention? He was still watching her, his amber eyes intent.
“Will we be dining here alone?” he asked her abruptly.
“Yes.”
He smiled, a secret amusement tugging at his lips. “And is that proper?”
Meg frowned and said sharply, “Why would it not be? I am no sheltered miss. I am my own woman, Captain, and I do not dance to anyone’s tune but my own.”<
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Now his smile grew broader. Her sharp answer had evidently amused him. He leaned down to her, as if to share a secret, and suddenly they were very close. She felt his soft breath against her face, and she could see the texture of his skin, the dark stubble on his jaw, the mauve shadows under his eyes that spoke of weariness and recent illness. The moment was intimate; took her by surprise. Her heartbeat seemed to quicken, and her breath.
“Does Abercauldy know that?” he asked her in a quiet, deep voice.
Meg raised her eyebrows, refusing to step away, refusing to let him see how uncomfortable his closeness was making her.
“I informed him of it in no uncertain terms, Captain! But he cannot know me well, because I do not think he believed me. He accused me of being over-modest in believing I did not deserve him!” She spoke acerbically, leaving him in no doubt of her true character and opinions.
He laughed.
Meg was stunned. Was there a gleam in his eyes? Did she really delight him? What could it be about her tart tongue that pleased him, when so many other men preferred sweeter fruit?
Meg was not naturally bitter. Her sharp manner was a defense, a way of keeping others at bay, or keeping herself inviolate. She had never been beautiful, though any disappointment she had felt in her looks as a young girl was long past. She was different, unusual, a strong-willed woman who knew her own mind. Did he see something in that that pleased him? His evident enjoyment of Meg made her uneasy, suspicious, and yet…and yet it gave her a sense of wonder.
Captain Gregor Grant delighted in her—he enjoyed her.
What does it mean?
Gregor, too, was busy considering his feelings.
At Clashennic he had had the inkling that if he did not climb out of his sickbed, mount his horse, and ride for Glen Dhui, then Meg Mackintosh would have carried him home upon her own slim back. She would nag at him to turn back from death itself, if she wanted to accomplish her task strongly enough. His mouth twitched at the thought of Meg telling the grim reaper off. What was it about her that piqued his interest? She was certainly no great beauty, like Barbara Campbell, and she had nothing of the languid looks of his mother, who in her day had set the standard. Meg was no beauty, although with her red hair and blue eyes she certainly attracted glances. Apart from that, her manner was abrupt, her speech sharp, and her tongue bitter. She said what she thought, and smiled when she meant it—[ ]both refreshing traits. She did not seem to care if anyone should notice that her two front teeth were separated by a small gap.
A small, enchanting gap.
And the way in which she looked him in the eye…not coyly, not with a coquette’s vapid stare, but honestly, openly, without guile. He found that he liked that about her, liked it very much. And he liked her hair. That flame-red, curling glory forever falling into her eyes. He wondered what it would be like to loose it about her shoulders with his hands, send it tumbling down. To have her enchanting smile beaming up at him as she watched him with her pale blue eyes. And if he bent to kiss her, opened her lips, would her tart tongue mate sweetly with his?
Gregor all but groaned aloud.
In an instant, a mere moment, he was out of control—[ ]teetering on the verge of pulling her hard against him and devouring her mouth with his, of running his hands down her body and making her aware, all too clearly aware, of what she did to him.
How had this happened so quickly? So completely? It was not like him to allow a situation to slip beyond the tight grasp he kept upon his emotions, especially when that situation involved a woman like Meg.
It was almost a relief when Alison, accompanied by a couple of serving maids, chose that moment to enter the room with their supper.
Meg seemed relieved, too, eagerly turning to the women to exchange some chatter. They spoke easily of household matters, friendly with each other.
Gregor half listened, still reeling from his need to hold her, to kiss her, to make her his. It must not be. It could not be. He must abide by these strictures. He knew this! Why then did he ache to be a rebel again?
Chapter 11
Meg’s mouth was watering. She had always been blessed with a good appetite, and now as she moved toward the table where Alison had set out the dishes, she was very glad of the distraction of her stomach. She sat down quickly, saying, “Please, help yourself, Captain. We can be informal tonight, and I am sure you must be as hungry as I.”
After a moment, almost reluctantly, he came and sat down opposite her. Meg was already helping herself to cold game pie and stewed kale and seethed fish, ignoring him as much as possible. She swallowed a sip of claret, and closed her eyes with a sigh. When she opened them again, he was watching her with a wry smile.
“You really are hungry.”
“I cannot think straight until I eat,” Meg admitted, returning the smile.
He held her gaze across the steaming dishes, and his amber eyes were straight and frank. “I prefer a lass with an appetite.”
“Do you?”
He nodded, and suddenly he was so handsome he took her breath away. “I do.”
And then he smiled, a broad curl of his mouth that she experienced down to her very toes. If, Meg thought, she did not know better, if she did not know herself very well, and the complete lack of attraction she held for handsome men like this, then she would almost think he was trying to…that he was…Meg felt the blush rise slowly up from her neck, turning her face hot and uncomfortable. Anger followed, anger with herself for allowing her feelings to control her, and with him for whatever game he was playing.
They may be man and woman, but that did not mean they must necessarily flirt! Was that how he expected her to behave? Well, he would be disappointed. Meg had no intention of allowing the former Laird of Glen Dhui to be anything more to her than a man she expected to take her orders. And obey them. A man like…well, like Duncan Forbes…
She opened her mouth to tell him so, but he had already turned away. He seemed to have lost interest in her, and was twirling the pewter goblet between his long fingers, watching the metal change color in the candlelight. For a time they ate in silence.
“How is your arm, Captain?” That seemed a safe subject.
He flexed it a little, winced. “It will heal. I have had worse. My trade as a soldier ensures I am set upon on a regular basis.”
“But not usually by your own men?” she responded dryly.
He laughed at the barb. She had amused him again, delighted him again. But this time he did not flirt. Instead his amber eyes grew cool and watchful, as if he too were prepared to keep his distance.
“No, not often by my own men. Airdy is an exception. He is also a fool. A fool with a beautiful wife. Barbara wanted to leave him but Airdy would not allow it, so she came to me for help. Airdy misconstrued our…association. We fought a duel, and I won, but Barbara returned to Airdy. I can’t pretend to understand her reasons; I fear a woman’s mind is a puzzle to me.”
“And now she has run off and left Airdy, and Airdy blames you?”
“Aye, that is about it.”
“I heard him swear revenge on you for what he perceives to be your betrayal.”
“Airdy is a vengeful wee bastard.”
“Do you think he really means it? Or will he forget, given time and distance?”
“Airdy is the sort of man who would follow me to the edge of the world, Lady Meg. He is the sort of man who never forgets.”
Meg picked thoughtfully at a bowl of wild strawberries. So would he find Airdy first, and take action against him? Or wait until the moment of confrontation came, as he seemed to think it would? She was tempted to ask him, but when she looked up, he had that amused look on his face, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, and perversely, she didn’t want him to have the satisfaction of being right.
“Do you think we can turn the Duke of Abercauldy from his chosen course?” she asked instead, setting aside her empty plate. The food had warmed and filled her; she was nicely replete. It was a shame
that Gregor Grant’s presence made her so edgy.
He took a sip of his claret, biding his time in answering. After a moment he looked up at her and sighed. “Abercauldy and your father have signed papers, and that means that legally your life is already bound to his. The next step is the priest’s blessing.”
Meg echoed his sigh. “I feared it was so. I should tell you that Abercauldy sent a message while I was away. It was couched in polite terms but there was iron behind the pretty phrases. He wants a firm date, so that he can set our marriage in motion.”
He was still watching her, but she could read little in his steady gaze.
“You have nothing to say to that, sir?” she asked with irritation.
“I have much to say, my lady, but none of it good.”
Her chin went up, her pale blue eyes sparkled, and a flush colored her pale cheeks. “I would prefer to hear it anyway, Captain Grant.”
“Very well. If your father has signed his agreement for you to wed the Duke, then there is now little room in which to move. It would help if you could persuade Abercauldy he has made a mistake, get him to agree to revoke the terms. But I have to say, it does not seem as though he will. He can insist upon a marriage between you. You will refuse, Lady Meg. Of course, you will refuse,” he said it clearly, his eyes insistent. “But when you do refuse, there is no reason for him to be a gentleman about accepting it. He can demand recompense.”
“Recompense? Do you mean he will ask us for money?”
“He can claim you have damaged his reputation.”
Meg snorted in disgust.
“That is as may be, but he has the right. He can ask for money, or he can ask for something in lieu of money. If he wants Glen Dhui, then he will ask for that…or part thereof.”
“No,” Meg whispered, shocked, “he cannot have it!”
“He may try and take it. He has the means.”