Beloved Highlander

by Sara Bennett

  Satisfied he had not lost his ability to capture expressions and emotions with a few deft strokes, Gregor went to find Meg. Alison told him that she was working, and had asked not to be disturbed.

  “Though I dinna see ye taking much notice of that, Captain…sir.”

  “Oh, and why not?”

  Alison sniffed. “Ye have that look.”

  Gregor’s eyebrows soared. “That look, Alison Forbes?”

  “Ye know what I mean,” was all she would reply.

  That look? Gregor smiled as he climbed the stairs to Meg’s hidey-hole. If he did have a look, then it was frustration. Lorenzo being set free meant that their time together may well be finite. They should enjoy themselves while they could.

  Meg might be cautious, but Gregor wasn’t about to deny himself any longer. If she would not come to him, then he would find her.

  The memory of her, soft and warm, was already making his blood hot. Her breasts in his hands, the creamy flesh so plump and sweet, and the feel of her tongue on his cock. Her mouth opening delightfully to his, just as he pushed between her thighs. The dreamy, sensual look in her eyes, just as she shattered.

  By the time Gregor reached her door, he was fully erect beneath his kilt, and burning with the need to quench his desire.

  He didn’t knock, just flung open the door. His strength was greater than he had thought, or he was more desperate. It slammed back against a chest of drawers, causing the window frames to rattle, a lamp to totter and several papers to flutter to the floor.

  Meg was seated behind her solid, functional desk—nothing spindly and decorative for her. She held a pen in one hand, and the other was raised to her lips, while her blue eyes were big and anxious, and fixed on him.

  “Gregor?” she demanded in a squeak. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  He cursed himself for frightening her so. Of course, she would think he had come to give her bad news, that Abercauldy was at the door with a hundred of his men, or some such thing. In an attempt to make amends, he forced a smile that probably looked ghastly.

  In contrast, she looked beautiful. Her remarkable coloring always struck him first, and then he noticed the other things. Her smile, her long lashes, her pert little nose, and that delightful gap between her teeth.

  “Gregor? Can you answer me?”

  “There’s nothing wrong, morvoren. I wanted to see you. I’m sorry if I have broken anything.”

  Meg blinked, once, twice, clearly thinking him quite mad, and then she set down her pen. He noticed she had made a large blot on her nice clean page. She cleared her throat, and he could see by the color slowly climbing into her cheeks that she wasn’t as happy to see him as he was to see her.

  “I asked not to be disturbed.”

  “Och, but surely when you gave those orders you dinna mean me, Meg?” he said, with pretended surprise.

  Her mouth opened, then closed again, in a thin, straight line. She gave him a sideways glance, trying to decide whether he was being serious. She might be cross, but she was also disturbed by him being here, where he had never been before. In her sanctuary. Perhaps this is a day, thought Gregor, for doing things they had never done before.

  Gregor smiled and closed the door softly behind him.

  Meg looked panicked. “Gregor, I don’t—”

  “You have a smudge of ink on your face.”

  She stared at him, frowned, and put her hand up to her cheek. “Have…have I?”

  “Och, you have.” He prowled closer still, rounding the end of her desk. He heard her catch her breath. She wasn’t afraid of him, she was afraid of herself—he was almost sure of it. It was time he put a stop to this before she started running in the opposite direction whenever she saw him.

  Gregor brushed his fingers through a curl of her hair, lying loose against her shoulder, and twirled it around. “I’ve missed you, Meg.”

  “I have my work,” she said, but she did not move. She seemed frozen to the spot, her mouth unsmiling, her eyes fixed straight ahead. But Gregor could see the pulse in her throat, there under her fine skin, beating wildly. He stooped and set his lips against it.

  She jumped as though he had threatened to cut her throat.

  “Gregor!”

  “Dinna ye like that?” he asked her softly, his mouth hovering over her collarbone, his tongue dipping in the hollow there. “What about this?”

  “It’s not a matter of whether or not I like it—”

  “But it is, Meg. It’s exactly that.”

  He tilted her chin up, turning her to face him. There was fear in her eyes, and something else. A desperate need to keep control, to disguise her passion for him beneath her role as the practical Lady of Glen Dhui. Well, Gregor thought determinedly, he’d soon topple that house of cards. And he bent his head and claimed her mouth.

  This was no soft, teasing kiss. His mouth was hot and moist, his tongue darting, his hands gripping her face, giving her no escape from his attentions. Not that she struggled. She gasped, yes, but more from surprise than a dislike of what he was doing. And then she gave a soft little moan, and slipped her arms about his neck and clung on.

  He took advantage of the moment to unfasten a number of hooks at the back of her gown, so that he could slip it down and caress her breasts. He broke the kiss at last, bending to suck at her nipples.

  More papers fluttered to the floor, the pen with them.

  To his surprised delight, he felt her hand beneath his kilt, cautiously feeling its way up his thigh. He held his breath, as inch by inch her fingers drew closer. At first her touch was light, tentative, and then she took hold of him, gripped him firmly, and gently squeezed.

  “Oh Meg, Meg,” he groaned. “Ye’ll kill me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she squeaked, letting go. “I didn’t realize I was hurting.”

  “Hurting?” he mocked. “Hurting! I mean ye’ll kill me with pleasure, lass.”

  Meg stared, and then she smiled. Gregor found himself unable to look away from her, she was so gorgeous. Her blue, blue eyes alight with laughter, her luscious lips curling up at the corners and that sweet gap between her front teeth. He wanted to eat her up. He wanted to…

  He lifted her up out of her chair and set her on her desk. Right on top of her book and her papers. The ink well tipped over and rolled off, thudding onto the rug, dripping ink everywhere. Meg tried to wriggle out of his grip, looking in horrified dismay at the mess he had made, but Gregor was in no mood to stop and wait for her to set things to rights. She’d run away from him. Instead he slid his hands under her skirts, running them up the soft length of her thighs. His finger found that moist, hot place and slipped within.

  Meg forgot the ink and the figures to be tallied and everything else. She gazed into his amber eyes, and then her lashes swept down in an attempt to hide her own reaction. But he knew. He could feel her passion building, until it was as hot as his.

  Savoring the moment and her eager response, Gregor claimed her mouth again. And this time when she kissed him back, her hands sought under his kilt, finding him, holding him. He gave a shaky laugh, and moved between her open thighs, feeling her stockinged legs wrap around him.

  He wanted her, Meg, with a need that was beyond his ken. Never before had a woman had this effect on him.

  Bewildered by his own reactions, trying to hold back, while the urge to thrust hard and deep inside her was savage, Gregor stilled. He took a breath, and slowly released it, regaining some sense of control.

  Meg moaned, moving her hips, and digging her fingers into his hard buttocks beneath the kilt.

  “Ye want me, Meg,” he said, and there was no laughter in his voice now, no gentle teasing. It was a statement of fact.

  Her lips trembled, tears filled her brilliant eyes. “Oh, I do, Gregor. I do, I do…”

  “Hush,” he murmured. “’Tis all right, Meg. I just needed ye to say it. A vow, if ye like. I needed to hear it.”

  She managed a shaky smile, and then her eyes went dazed, as
he entered her the first little way, stretching her, trying to ignore the tremor in his own hands. “Meg,” he whispered. “Let me in, morvoren.”

  “Yes,” she said in a husky voice. “Gregor, yes.”

  He thrust deep, and then adjusting the tilt of her hips, thrust deeper still. Meg gripped her legs tighter about him, holding him inside her. He felt the little quakes and shivers already beginning in her. He had never known a woman so quick to come to pleasure. Gregor was tempted to withdraw, to make her wait, but he was too hot himself. So he thrust again, deep as he could, scattering more papers to the floor and sending Meg’s precious teacup after them.

  Meg cried out in ecstasy, her head thrown back, her hair tumbling about her. Abruptly she went soft and limp in his arms, but Gregor had not finished with her yet. Lifting her, still joined to her, he sat himself down in her chair and settled her comfortably upon his lap. Her lashes lifted lazily, and she looked at him with glittering blue eyes.

  “I can feel you,” she said, moving a little, rubbing herself against the length of his erection, her hands resting upon his chest for leverage.

  He groaned softly, planting his own hands firmly upon her bottom to hold her still. “Wait,” he murmured. “Wait until I cool down a little, and then it will last longer.”

  Meg gave him a wickedly teasing smile. “I don’t think so,” she said, and began to move against him, watching his face as she did so.

  Gregor felt himself dissolving inside her, lost in her tight heat. He resisted for a moment more, gritting his teeth, but she had his measure. She leaned forward and began to kiss him, not for a moment stopping her sensual up and down movement. Her tongue mated with his, doing a dance he found impossible to resist.

  She won. He erupted forcefully within her, arching his back and crying out so loudly, Meg put her hand across his lips to smother the noise. But she was laughing. Doubled over with it, clinging to him, tears running down her cheeks. He held her in his arms, rocking her, content to wait.

  “Do you think they know?” she asked at last, lying quiet and restful against him.

  “Who knows what?” he murmured, kissing the top of her head.

  “The servants. Do you think they know what we have been doing?”

  “Och, Meg, who cares what they know or what they think?”

  Meg tilted her head and gave him a look. “You may not care, but I do. You are very arrogant to speak like that, Gregor Grant.”

  Gregor lifted a lazy dark brow. “I am arrogant. Or I was. Now I am beyond caring. There is too little of pleasure in this world, Meg. Better to take what you can, when you can, and bugger what anyone else says to it.”

  She considered that unembellished advice a moment, and then she sighed and lay her head back against his shoulder. “Maybe you’re right,” she acceded.

  Gregor smiled to himself. “Does that mean you have stopped running away from me and hiding?”

  “I didn’t run away from you, nor did I hide!”

  “Dinna you, Meg? I think you did, and if you do it again, I’ll just have to come and find you again.”

  He waited for her sharp response. But Meg had always had the power to surprise him. She did so now, as she smiled up at him and, with one finger, carefully traced the shape of his mouth. “Promise?” she murmured.

  Gregor left her in no doubt as to his reply.

  The general came downstairs and joined them for supper, but by the time the meal had finished he was weary and sagging in his chair. Gregor helped him back up to bed. Meg watched them go, the two men she loved most in all the world. When Gregor returned, he was thoughtful and a little melancholy.

  “He told me that you are my responsibility now,” he said, when Meg asked him what was wrong.

  Meg frowned. “I am no one’s responsibility but my own, Gregor. You know that.”

  “Och, I know it, my little hornet. But your father is of the old school, Meg. He believes it is a man’s duty to care for the women in his household. I felt as if he were handing you over to me, and he was doing so in the belief and with the knowledge that I will take good care of you.”

  Meg’s lip trembled. “Oh, Gregor! It’s as if he’s letting go, now that you have come.”

  He held her in his arms, comforting her as she wept. His heart was heavy, but it was far worse for Meg. She was losing her father, every day watching him sink deeper into old age and infirmity, every day watching him take another step toward death.

  After a time she wiped her eyes and found a plain handkerchief on which to blow her nose. “What of your father, Gregor?” she asked curiously. “Do you still miss him?”

  Gregor smiled. “I do. When he was alive we fought over most things, but he was my father and my laird. You can love someone, Meg, and still be at odds with them most of your life. Love is not a simple thing; it can make our lives more difficult.”

  She was quiet, her face pale in repose, his brave, beautiful Meg.

  Gregor held out his hand to her. “Come to bed,” he said, but there was no innuendo in what he said, only a wish to comfort in whatever way he could.

  She stared at him a moment, as though trying to gauge the secret meaning behind those simple words, and then she put her hand in his.

  Meg had been asleep for a little while, when she felt his hands on her body, touching her, learning her. He cupped her breasts, his thigh sliding between hers, and his tongue traced a journey down the arch of her throat. She pressed closer, tangling her fingers in his unbound hair, no longer caring what he thought of her. He was right. Life was uncertain, and one must take what pleasure one could.

  “Meg,” he whispered, “my morvoren.”

  Meg stilled him, holding his face close above her own. “What does that mean?” she asked softly. “That word you say? It sounds so beautiful.”

  “Morvoren?” He smiled. “Mermaid.”

  The word had puzzled her since he first used it, but she hadn’t asked. How many other women had he call his “mermaid”? She had not wanted to be forced to face the fact that she was not special to him after all.

  “My beautiful mermaid,” he whispered into her hair. “Take me deep under the waves with you, Meg. Drown me in your kisses.”

  She gasped as he began kissing her, forgetting about the others as he branded her flesh with his lips, making his journey down, until he found the place that gave her most pleasure.

  If he was drowning, then so was she. And she didn’t care. Loving him was everything she had ever hoped it to be. And even if it lasted only a week, Meg was determined to be content with that. Her memories of him would just have to last her all her life.

  Chapter 22

  In fact, Meg had three weeks of perfect happiness. Long, dreamy days and hot, sultry nights. Always, there was the fear of danger hanging over them, but she and Gregor used their time fully and well. They rode out into the glen, visiting their larger tenants and the smaller crofters, bathing in the warm glow of their people’s joy at their union.

  Gregor, seated in one tiny cottage with an elderly, wizened couple, listened to Meg ask after the health of each of their relatives by name. She knew them all, he thought proudly, and clearly she cared about them all. She was their lady, and they belonged to her.

  He had known Glen Dhui meant a great deal to her, but until now he had not understood the nature of her relationship with the glen and its people. She loved them—[ ]genuinely loved them—and she had dedicated her life to looking after them and making their lives easier—whether they liked it or not!

  “I dinna know aboot these ’tatties, m’lady,” the old man said, eyeing her from beneath his grizzled brows.

  “What don’t you know about the potatoes, Iain? Did you plant some as I told you?”

  “Aye, I did.”

  “How did they taste?”

  “They tasted fine, m’lady,” Iain’s wife interrupted, giving her husband a quelling look.

  “I suppose they would be well enough, if a person was desperate,” Iain went
on, ignoring the look. “But they have no taste.”

  Gregor hid his smile, lowering his brows sternly. “They may have no taste, Iain, but they’ll fill your belly in difficult times. Remember the last time the oat crop failed? It was in my father’s day. People in Glen Dhui died.”

  Iain looked suitably chastened.

  “Dinna worry,” Gregor went on. “They taste better if you mix them with milk and butter, or mash them up with kale and fish and cook them on the griddle.”

  Iain and his wife exchanged wondering glances.

  As they were leaving, the old woman took Meg aside. “’Tis fine that the laird likes to cook, m’lady, but ye shouldna encourage it. ’Tis no’ proper for the Chief of the Grants of Glen Dhui to be holding a pan and doing women’s work.”

  Meg nodded sagely, and it was not until they had ridden away that she burst out laughing. When she told him, Gregor laughed too, but he refuted the “women’s work” claim.

  “A soldier has to learn to cook for himself,” he said, “or else he starves. And the Duke of Argyll has potatoes in his garden, too. And he is just as bossy as you, Lady Meg, in making his people eat them.”

  “If I am bossy, then it is for their own good,” she retorted primly.

  He grinned at her back, as she rode away.

  As the days passed, their usual tasks were set aside, or given to others to complete. Malcolm Bain seemed happy enough to take over the forming of their little troop, and Alison the household chores. The general slept, rousing himself in the evening to greet Meg and Gregor when they came to take their supper with him.

  On one warm, still day, Gregor took Meg swimming in Loch Dhui, holding her slippery body in his arms and kissing her cold lips until she burned. Then they lay upon the smooth stones and let the sun dry them.

  “I used to come here as a boy,” Gregor told her, lazily running his eyes over her naked back and the curve of her bottom. “I had my favorite places in the glen.”