Beloved Highlander

He did not know the voice, but he felt he should. Quiet yet determined, tart yet with a breathlessness that caught in his chest and gripped, hard. The voice tugged at him, like a line thrown to a drowning man, bringing him up from the shadowy place where he had been dwelling all evening.

Gregor turned and looked up from the colorless swirl of liquid at the bottom of his cup. And blinked to clear his vision. A figure hovered by him. A redheaded woman in a blue jacket, her long slim legs encased in tartan trews and dusty riding boots. Briefly her image shimmered, as if she might vanish altogether, but then instead of going away it steadied. This was indeed a woman, a woman in trews. Gregor blinked again, owlishly, studying her face. White skin, pale blue eyes and flame-red hair. A flame-haired angel, risen from the sputtering candlelight.

Was such a thing likely? Or was he now having visions?

But if she was a vision, he was not alone in seeing her. The groups of men around him had fallen strangely silent. Hardened soldiers, men from his own barracks rubbing shoulders with artisans from the town and crofters from the surrounding countryside. They were staring at her, as astonished and mystified as he by her sudden appearance in their midst. Women did not normally drink at the Black Dog…nor did they want to.

“It is Captain Gregor Grant?”

The angel spoke again, in her English accent, a voice oddly precise and demanding for such a heavenly creature. Gregor frowned and looked into her eyes. They were, he thought with surprise, the exact blue of a Highland summer sky. For the first time in a very long while he had the urge to paint, to draw, to capture somehow her vibrancy. He fought it, concentrating instead on the dull, heavy throbbing in his arm where Airdy’s sword had slashed deep, and the dry whiskey burn in his throat. The vision wanted conversation? Aye, then he’d give her conversation!

“I am Gregor Grant,” he admitted at last, his voice a little slurred from the whiskey but mostly from the pain.

The angel took a deep breath, her breasts swelling under the fitted jacket in a manner that caught and held his attention. They were not large breasts, but nor were they small. Just right, he thought, plump and round. A perfect fit for his large hands. To his surprise, desire sprang to life in his groin. Would she sit on his knee, he wondered feverishly, and let him unfasten those buttons one by one?

It was the silence that recalled him from his warm imaginings. Gregor peered up into her eyes, and realized she was waiting to regain his notice. There was a wash of pink in her cheeks, and now the pale blue gaze held an edginess.

“I require your help, Captain Grant,” she said, tightening her mouth. “For that I need you sober. Are you often under the influence of strong drink? It is my rule that all men in my service are sober when in my presence.”

He frowned, trying to puzzle out the difference between what she was saying and what she meant. His head felt as if it were stuffed with sheep’s wool. “I am in no woman’s service,” he said slowly, “although it is sometimes my pleasure to service women.”

She did not appreciate his ribald wit. He had insulted her. The pink in her cheeks ripened and her blue eyes turned stormy.

Gregor shook his head in bewilderment. The effect of

the whiskey was almost entirely gone, and instead he had begun to feel sick from the relentless, agonizing, drumming in his arm. “Who are you? What’z it you want’f me? Why ’ave you sought m’out in this place?”

The words had sounded fine in his head, but his mouth had difficulty forming them. “This place,” he said again, and waved at the scene around them, at the watching men. And then noticed the ugly cut on the back of his hand. Yet another reminder of his dawn duel.

The woman with the red hair had also seen the jagged slash across the back his hand. Her eyes widened and the color drained from her face. She had freckles, he thought in wonder. There was a light sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and on her pert nose. He had the mad urge to test each one with a kiss.

“You are hurt!” she cried, and it was more of an accusation than a sympathetic statement. As if he had wounded himself apurpose, to thwart her plans.

He was hurt. Maybe far worse than he had realized when he had tended to his wounds himself. He supposed he should have found a surgeon, but in Gregor’s experience such men caused more harm than good….

Gregor felt the room shift about him.

It was just like Airdy to take him by surprise, slicing upwards when Gregor had expected him to thrust forward. Airdy knew him too well when it came to sword fighting. They had practiced together too often, playing at combat which had far too many times turned into the real thing. Airdy did not like to be beaten. He would never forgive Gregor for championing Barbara, never mind that Barbara had begged him to free her from her jealous and unstable husband. And now she had gone back to him, and Airdy would see that as his victory, just as he would see his defeat in the duel as something he must rectify.

How could they ever soldier together again? How could he ever trust Airdy at his back again?

He couldn’t. That was the trouble. Gregor knew he would have to send Airdy away…or go himself.

“Lady Margaret!”

The exclamation shattered his wandering thoughts. Gregor focused on the small, dark-haired man pushing his way through the crowded room, his visage grim enough to scare children. With a frisson of shock, Gregor realized he knew the man. It had been a long time, aye, but despite the dizziness in his head and the poor light, he recognized him.

The flame-haired angel had spun around at the sound of her name. A sweet scent of rose and woman drifted from her clothing and the body beneath it. Familiar, and yet new and different. Gregor tried to hold on to the moment, to concentrate on what was being said, but darkness was gathering at the edges of his sight. He should have sought out Malcolm Bain after the duel, even though he had known what Malcolm would say. He had not wanted to hear the lecture about being taken in by a pretty face, being too much of a gentleman to tell her to save her own skin, being too much of a bloody hero for his own good, and did he never learn!

“Duncan.” The angel spoke the name in surprise, reclaiming his wandering attention. There was something in the tilt of her head, a combination of guilt and annoyance, decided Gregor. She looked like a woman who had been caught out in a prank she knew very well Duncan would not approve of.

Duncan had already begun to admonish her in a loud whisper. “Lady, ye should have waited at the inn for me and the lads to return and accompany ye! This is no place for quality. Ye could have been accosted….”

Her sweetly freckled nose jerked up another notch. This was a woman used to getting her own way, and moreover one who did not like to be told off by her inferiors. Her voice was so cold even Gregor felt its chill.

“When I discovered Captain Grant was just across the square I thought it best to act at once, Duncan. We have little time to waste. As you know.”

Duncan’s jaw tightened and he visibly swallowed back a further rebuke. Just as well for him, Gregor thought with a grin. Duncan had always believed he knew what was best, but the lady did not look the type to stand being scolded in public. The two of them glared at each other, neither willing to back down.