by Sara Bennett
It was Gregor who looked edgy. Pale and serious, his eyes shadowed. In Malcolm Bain’s opinion he had hardly slept a wink the past few days. Something was certainly up. And Lady Meg, following along behind the two men and hovering like a demented moth, looked as if sleep had been eluding her, too.
“We will have a banquet!” General Mackintosh’s voice had risen with excitement and echoed about them. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had something to celebrate at Glen Dhui Castle!”
Malcolm Bain thought it was interesting, how Gregor and Meg had, after one brief glance, worked hard at avoiding each other’s eyes. He suspected Gregor was playing the bloody hero again—dinna the man ever learn!
And now here was Duncan Forbes, creeping around behind him like the grim reaper himself. Suddenly it was all too much. Malcolm Bain spun around and strode quickly toward the other man. Taken by surprise, Duncan stumbled back a step, almost tripping himself over, before he regained his balance and stopped. The two men came face to face, barely an inch between them. Malcolm Bain was pleased to see Duncan’s eyes flicker.
“Have ye no’ something better to do, mon?” he asked in a low, tight voice. “If ye want to join in, then come and stand in line and I’ll see what ye are made of. Otherwise, get lost.”
“Ye are the one should get lost,” Duncan growled, pushing against Malcolm’s chest. “We dinna want ye here. Ye are no’ welcome.”
“Who are ye to say so, Duncan Forbes? Ye dinna own this place. I was asked to come here by Lady Meg, and I willna go until she tells me to!”
“Have ye no sense, mon! Go now, before ye ruin Alison’s life entirely!”
There was passion and anger in his voice, and something more, that stopped Malcolm Bain when he may well have punched Duncan in the nose.
“What is it?” he asked quietly. “There is something. Tell me, Duncan, tell me!” And he caught Duncan by the front of his shirt and shook him the way a terrier shakes a rat.
“Let me go—”
“Tell me! Or I’ll go to Alison now and ask her mysel’.”
Duncan’s eyes swiveled in his head.
“Be a mon and tell me to my face.”
The dark Forbes eyes flashed, and Duncan pulled away from the other man’s grip. “I’ll tell ye then,” he hissed. “Ye’ve ruined my sister, that’s what ye’ve done! Left her without a backward glance when ye had promised to marry her. Left her with a child in her belly, and no one to care for her or it but her own kin. No wonder she hates ye, Malcolm Bain! No wonder!”
Malcolm Bain was stunned, shocked into stillness. He did not feel Duncan pull away, did not see him walk away, shaking his head in disgust. He was adrift in a sea of memories. Alison’s smiling dark eyes and long hair, loose about her pale shoulders. Her body, soft and warm beneath his, and her cries of pleasure. He had loved her, thought to be forever with her, promised to care for her…
And instead he had left her.
Duncan was right. He had abandoned her, never thinking, never imagining she was carrying a child. His child. Why hadn’t she told him? Why hadn’t she got word to him? Didn’t she know he would have come straight back to her? Nothing in this world would have stopped him, if he’d known.
And where was the child now? Was the boy here, at Glen Dhui? Perhaps he had seen him, smiled at him, spoken to him. All the while unknowing that this stranger was his son…
Malcolm Bain put his head in his hands and groaned.
He had thought to at least make amends with Alison, to try and patch over the past. Now he knew for certain he could never do that. She hated him, and she must have hated him all that time ago, if she had not told him. Aye, and her hate had only grown with each year since.
She had kept his son from him.
Anger built within him. It was like a peat fire, sullen, smoldering, but gradually getting hotter. Until the heart of it was as fiery a red as Lady Meg’s hair.
“Will the priest be here tomorrow?”
The general’s voice was querulous as he asked the question for the dozenth time. Meg glanced at Gregor, wondering if he felt as tense and anxious as she did. He certainly looked grim, but he had looked that way since this morning, since he had put Lorenzo in the cell with the iron grating set in the floor beneath the storeroom. In a way she was glad her father could not see their faces—he would not find much to celebrate if he could.
“The priest will come with all haste, father. He will surely be here tomorrow.”
“He had better! I have my heart set on a banquet tomorrow evening. A wedding feast, Meg! Why has it taken you so long to find a husband, eh? Well, well, I won’t complain. I am happy with your choice.”
He held her hand in one of his, and with his other, reached out toward where he sensed Gregor stood. Gregor glanced questioningly at Meg and then clasped the general’s hand in his. The old man smiled enigmatically and, with the air of one performing a wondrous act, pressed their two hands together.
Gregor hesitated, and then his fingers closed on hers, warm and strong. Meg knew she was blushing, looking anywhere but at Gregor, wishing herself anywhere but here. They were not an ordinary couple—this was not an ordinary situation. They were marrying because of desperate circumstances—why did her father have to pretend it was otherwise?
“Father, please!”
And yet she could not really begrudge him his joy. She supposed it was a great thing, to bring Gregor Grant home again, to have him back where he belonged, and to join her name to his. It was a cause for celebration. If it had been anyone else but herself playing one of the central roles, Meg would probably have been cheering along with the general.
“I am a happy man,” her father went on a little petulantly. “Why should I not be? Out of catastrophe has come joy. I am glad Abercauldy set his sights upon you, Meg. Otherwise you would not have gone to fetch Gregor home. There, I have said it!”
“Father, do not say such things.”
“General, I do not think—”
But it was no use, the general did not wish to hear their objections, or perhaps he could not. Gregor had begun to wonder whether the old man’s health was failing more swiftly than Meg had believed. Over the past days, his conversation had been a mixture of rambling memories and complete fabrication. He had many lucid moments, yes, but there were just as many that were worryingly vague. It was clearly distressing for Meg, who had enough to contend with just now.
Gregor conquered the urge to take her in his arms and hold her. She would not thank him for it. Ever since their decision, she had withdrawn into her own world, within her own strong self-contained walls. Gregor knew that breaching them would not be an easy task.
“The priest must hurry,” the general was saying now, nodding to himself, unheeding of the feelings of his daughter. “If Lorenzo were to carry word back to Abercauldy…”
“He will not,” Gregor swiftly assured him, but his attention was still upon Meg. His words might be directed to the old man, but they were actually meant for Meg, to reassure Meg. “The deed will be done before the duke can prevent it. And once we are wed, then all will be well.” His fingers tightened on hers, trying to channel some of his own confidence into her.
She purposely did not look at him. Meg Mackintosh may be marrying him, he thought, but she did not trust him and she did not believe in him. She was a strong and independent woman, and she probably told herself that, apart from this minor problem with Abercauldy, she didn’t actually need him.
Gregor wondered what he would have to do to win her over. She may be able to live in a world of her own devising, but he did not want to. Not anymore. He had learned since he met Meg that he did not want to be alone anymore. He wanted a wife with whom to share his future, someone to whom he was everything, and who was everything to him.
He had believed that Meg might be that woman. Now he was not so sure.
Meg had heard his words, but all she could think was: It’s a lie. He could not know that all would be well. How could h
e know it? Meg was fairly sure that all would not be well at all! Lorenzo would be released, a whirlwind of fury, and if he did not whip the duke into a frenzy of revenge, then the duke’s own pride would ensure he took action against them.
And yet, despite knowing all that, she was almost convinced by the overwhelming confidence and sincerity in his voice. As if he were mesmerizing her with the sheer force of his personality. All will be well. Why would he say that, when he must know it wasn’t true? In his own life all had rarely been well!
For your sake, of course. Her inner voice mocked her obtuseness. He wants to make you feel secure, he wants you to trust him.
Gregor’s grip on her fingers tightened, but she pulled away. It was her father she should be thinking of now, her father she should be comforting. Her father, who seemed to grow frailer every day.
“I am sure Gregor is right,” she told him now, striving for that same confident note in her voice as Gregor’s. “Abercauldy will simply give up when he hears I have wed another. What man would wish to fight for a woman in such circumstances? A woman who showed him all too clearly that she didn’t want him.”
Gregor’s mouth curled in a thin smile. He knew and she knew that the duke would be more likely than ever to fight. His pride would be dented, and his pride would demand he make some sort of effort to save face. Five hundred guests invited to a wedding that would not now take place! If he sent his men into Glen Dhui for some pillaging and burning, he could say he had made them sorry for causing him to look like a fool. But would that be enough? Or would he feel it necessary to take out his anger on the couple themselves? Would he believe it was necessary to actually hurt Gregor?
Kill Gregor?
Meg did not want to think of such things. She did not want to imagine them. Gregor dead and gone? Gregor taken from her before she had had a chance to live her life with him?
At the thought of Gregor hurt or dead, something within her twisted, like a breaking bone. Agony, pain, heartbreak. She caught her breath sharply, fighting it back. Now was not the time for emotion. She must be strong and calm. She must be the practical Lady of Glen Dhui, ready to lead her people.
“Meg?” But Gregor had heard her sharp breath and moved closer, peering down into her face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I just thought of…I…” She bit her lip. To feel such pain, and for a man she hardly knew! As if she were dying herself at the very thought of losing him. How could she possibly explain that to Gregor, without seeming to be as vulnerable and confused as she felt? Meg did not want him to see that in her, she did not want him to know her weakness. He would use it against her, just as all those other men had searched her smile and her conversation for a chink, a crevice, a way inside her. So that they could strip her of all she owned—money, land, and self-respect.
Meg would not let Gregor do that to her, no matter how much she craved his arms around her. To him she must remain the sharp-tongued and autocratic Lady Meg.
“’Tis nothing,” she said at last. “I have not slept well, that is all.”
Gregor searched her face a moment more and then he lapsed into a smile. “Neither have I.”
Meg only managed a faint smile in return. “We will sleep better when this is all over,” she assured him, in what was meant to be a coolly comforting tone. “After we are wed.”
Gregor blinked at her, and then he laughed: a low, suggestive chuckle. “Do ye think so, lassie?”
Meg felt her face flame. There was no mistaking his meaning, despite her own words being completely innocent. It was there in the hot amber of his eyes, the tension in his broad shoulders and muscular body. She could smell him, the smell of soap and leather and wool, and male. Without meaning to, the memory of their last kiss flashed into her mind. Heat—raw, sensuous heat—filled her. Her body turned to fluid, her breasts ached, and the very air around her seemed to shimmer with need.
She wanted him. She wanted him so much that it honestly hurt.
Abruptly Gregor had turned his head, removing that intent gaze from her. Whatever the interruption, it was welcome. Meg was filled with dizzy relief, in the moment before she heard the loud footsteps.
Malcolm Bain, his face an angry blur, swung his fair head back and forth, as if searching the room for someone. Even before he spoke, Meg had a very good idea who that someone might be.
“Where is she? Where is Alison Forbes? Alison! Show yersel’.”
Not again! Meg shook off her own concerns, and started toward the man, ready to intervene.
But Gregor was before her. “Malcolm! What do you mean coming in here shouting like this! This is no barracks, man!”
Malcolm’s eyes were as wild as his demeanour, but he lowered his voice and spoke with a raw intensity. “I need to find her, Gregor. I need to speak with her.”
“Then you can do so when you have quietened yourself down. Come with me now.” And when Malcolm Bain appeared stubbornly frozen to the spot: “I said NOW!”
Meg jumped, as did everyone else within earshot. If that was how Gregor gave orders, how could anyone refuse to obey him? She knew she wouldn’t dare! She had never seen Gregor like this—an officer in command. It came as a revelation to her.
And yet still Malcolm Bain hesitated, holding out, until with a low groan of frustration, he spun around and led his captain from the room.
“Meg? What is going on?” Her father was peering toward her, his cloudy eyes uncertain.
“They have run mad,” she said, letting go a shaky breath, trying to make a joke out of it. “’Tis Malcolm Bain and Alison—ever since they set eyes on each other, they have been like two cats in a basket.” She touched his shoulder gently. “Perhaps you should rest, Father. It will be a long day tomorrow, and a long night, if we are to celebrate this wedding as hard as you wish.”
“I am not tired. I am too happy to be tired.”
At least someone knew how they felt! thought Meg. For herself, after that moment of wild emotion just now, she preferred to focus on domestic matters, on the mundane. It seemed safer, somehow.
Alison was in the kitchen, dealing with the enormous task of planning the banquet. Meg wondered what Malcolm Bain had wanted her for, but she had a fair idea. He must have discovered the truth about Angus. Only the discovery of his son could have put him into such a wild state. As if matters weren’t complicated enough! She only hoped Gregor could talk sense into the man, for Alison would not thank him for confronting her in such a public manner.
“Should we have music, Meg?” her father was asking her. “Will we have Geordie the piper? Or Annie with her pure, sweet voice? Or both! Aye, I think it appropriate we have both for such an occasion. The Great Hall will not have been so full of happy people since Queen Mary’s day.”
“Both Geordie and Annie sound fine,” Meg replied. “I will see to it. And we will have dancing, too. How long since you have danced, Father?”
She listened to her father’s rambling answer. It wasn’t simply her own state of mind, she was certain. He really had deteriorated over the past few days. The man she had looked to all her life for advice and comfort was fading. Was that because Gregor was here? Had her father been clinging on until he found someone to take over from him, to protect and care for her, as he would do? Was he releasing his once-tenacious grip on life because Gregor was able to step in and take charge?
Despite their differences, Meg loved her father. He had been her hero, more like a father and a mother to her, since her mother had died when Meg was a baby. How could she live if her father was not there? And yet she would, she knew she must. Gregor was here now. And Meg suspected Gregor was someone she could trust and rely on, as she had the general. It was just that she was so used to protecting her own heart, she didn’t want to risk breaking it.
“You’re certain?” Gregor asked doubtfully, hoping it was not so.
“Of course I’m certain, Gregor! She had a son and he’s mine. Why dinna she send word? Why dinna she write and ask for me to com
e home? She never did. What sort of woman is she, to keep that to hersel’?”
He sounded as if the pain were almost too much for him to bear, a strong man like Malcolm Bain, reduced to wiping the moisture from his eyes. Gregor felt sick with compassion for his friend and companion.
“Alison is a proud lassie,” he said at last, trying to comfort.
“Pigheaded, ye mean!”
“Mabbe. A little.” There was an understatement! Gregor bit his lip. Dear God, what would happen next? Malcolm Bain MacGregor had a son he hadn’t known about for twelve years, a son Alison had kept from him—aye, hidden from him. He had abandoned her for the sake of duty, but she had had her revenge.
“Leave it for a wee while, Malcolm,” he said quietly. “She will not thank you for forcing an answer from her now. And any answer she gives under pressure will be hasty and full of anger. Leave this matter for now, let it bide. At least until after the banquet.”
Malcolm Bain shook his head, his hair waving about him, making him look even more crazed. “Banquet? What the hell are ye talking about, Gregor Grant? What banquet?”
“The banquet tomorrow night, for the wedding feast.” A smile kicked up the corner of his mouth, as he realized Malcolm didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. Here was a way to turn his mind elsewhere. “The fact is, I’m to be wed, Malcolm. Lady Meg and I are to be wed.”
Malcolm Bain looked dazed; he blinked several times. “Lady Meg? Ye and Lady Meg?”
“That’s it. I’m to be the Laird of Glen Dhui again, and she my lady. What do you say to that, Malcolm?”
“I should congratulate ye, I suppose,” he replied gloomily.
Gregor gave a crack of laughter. “You dinna sound too sure about it, man! I am to wed Lady Meg and have back what I lost twelve years ago. I have a duke to fight and lands to protect, and I am marrying a woman whom I dinna even know, who has a tongue like a sword. And I dinna care. I’m happy. Now say your piece, Malcolm Bain.”
Malcolm Bain hesitated, and then his hand closed on Gregor’s shoulder, fingers squeezing painfully. “Are ye sure about this, Gregor? Ye know we can ride away now, go back to Clashennic? We can even go to France, if ye wish it! Just say the word, man, and we’ll be gone from here before the deed is done.”