Beloved Highlander

No, he was not as Meg had expected. Not as she had ever imagined in her wildest dreams.

She still felt shaky from the incident in the Black Dog. She was still reeling from the heavy weight of his much larger body pressed to hers, the hot brush of his breath on her cheek, his rough jaw rasping her soft neck. The memory of it caused a trembling feeling deep inside her that worried her.

Meg followed as the men carried the unconscious former laird across to the inn and set him down in a big, wooden chair by the fire. His head drooped low upon his chest, as if he were asleep, and his kilt had ridden up to show a large amount of muscular and hairy thigh. Meg tried not to look, but her eyes kept sliding back in that direction.

A branch of candles was brought. The light shone across his face, illuminating flesh flushed and beaded with sweat. No wonder, Meg thought, when he had fallen into her arms, it had been as if his body burned and seared hers. It wasn’t so much that he was drunk; he had a fever.

But there was worse.

Blood darkened the sleeve of his green jacket. The fact had gone unnoticed in the confines of the inn, but now it was plain as the sleeve glistened wetly in the light of the candles. Meg’s stomach twisted. She had never been one of those women who dealt unflinchingly with wounds; rather she was the sort of woman who instructed, directed, or gathered about her those more gifted. However, there was no way on God’s earth she was leaving now, not until she had made certain that Gregor Grant would recover from whatever ailed him.

Malcolm Bain MacGregor was reviewing the sticky sleeve with a grim look, while Duncan Forbes shifted uneasily, clearly not keen to take charge. Meg sensed a tension between her tacksman and Gregor Grant’s man that puzzled her, but she had no time to tease out the riddle now. Whatever dark secret lay between them would have to wait.

Curiously, warily, as if she were approaching something half wild, Meg let her eyes take in the length of the man who sprawled on the chair before her. The candles flared, and his brown-gold hair gleamed in the changing light, as did the tarnished silver buttons of his green jacket. His plaid was woven in a pattern of blue and green, very faded, and a length of the woollen cloth left from the kilt section had been swept over one broad shoulder and fastened with a barbaric-looking brooch. The leather belt about his waist would be used for carrying sporran, dirk, and pistols. A thick sword belt came over his right shoulder to support the broadsword at his hip, and a narrower strap over the left held the priming flask for his pistols. It was the usual warlike fare for a Highlander, soldier or otherwise. Meg thought he looked more than capable of employing them all.

Where was her slim boy? Her pale and precious laird? This man was not he. He was too real. He made her uneasy, with his faded kilt and shiny coat. He was a Captain of a troop of Campbell dragoons who lived rough and tough, and drank desparately in gloomy taverns. This was no gentleman, no duine-uasal, as the people of Glen Dhui said in the Gaelic. He might be handsome enough, Meg admitted, to make some women swoon, but his high cheekbones and strong jaw and aristocratic nose did nothing for her. Nor did she admire his dark, slashing brows and eyes of amber that gleamed through equally dark lashes. No, Meg told herself, she was not in the least impressed by the man before her.

Why, oh why, had she allowed her imagination such free rein? Until she had fooled herself into believing she knew him? Many times she had perused the former laird’s sketches, dreaming of the hand that had made them, the eyes that had seen so true, the heart that had so loved the glen. Now she was forced to admit that that man didn’t exist, except in her own imagination. He wasn’t real. This man, this man, was real. And Meg didn’t know him at all.

His very maleness made her uneasy, threatened her in a way she had never felt threatened before.

“Och, Gregor lad, what have ye done to yersel’,” Malcolm Bain’s muttered words broke through her reverie. He turned to Meg and raised a hairy eyebrow. “I need to strip him, my lady, to properly see the damage.”

Meg raised a much slimmer eyebrow back at him. “Then go ahead and do so.”

Malcolm Bain and Duncan exchanged a look of resignation, their first moment of accord since they’d met. The two of them then proceeded to unbuckle Gregor’s belts, laying aside a dirk with care. They unfastened the brooch and dropped the plaid that had looped over his shoulder down to his waist. The green jacket was more difficult. Awkwardly they unbuttoned it, removing it from the unconscious man’s uninjured arm, but when Malcolm Bain attempted to ease the bloodied sleeve down his injured arm, Gregor gave a loud groan.

His lashes fluttered and lifted, the amber eyes blazing in his white face. “What are you doing to me, Malcolm, you ham-fisted oaf!” he said between clenched teeth.

“I’m doing what I always do, lad. Repairing the damage ye’ve done to yersel’.”

“Then you’ll need to cut the sleeve away,” Gregor said practically, his voice growing fainter.

Malcolm fingered the once-fine stuff of the former laird’s jacket and grunted his regret. Reluctantly, with the air of a man going against his deepest-held beliefs, he slipped out his dirk. The sharp blade caught on a seam and ripped through, slicing away the sleeve, while Gregor held himself rigid. It fell away at last, leaving only the white shirt now, the cloth so worn and so thin, Meg could see the warm glow of his flesh beneath it. Her throat felt a little dry, and she swallowed as Malcolm tried to unlace the ties at his master’s throat, struggled for a moment, and then gave up and once again used his dirk. The shirt fell open and was quickly stripped away.

Meg held her breath.

There was something pagan about that broad sweep of naked muscle and golden flesh, furred with dark hair. A thin line of that same dark hair grew down the hard plane of his belly to vanish like an arrow beneath the folds of his kilt. Slowly Meg drew in her breath. Her eyes slid to a makeshift bandage that was fastened about his upper arm, now much bloodsoaked, with rivulets of blood dried upon his flesh.

“Good heavens, what happened?” Meg demanded of Malcolm Bain, unable to disguise her horror. “Was he in a battle?”

At the sound of her voice, Gregor stirred again. Beneath the dark veil of his lashes, his eyes were bright and restless, searching. They passed over Malcolm Bain and Duncan, and fixed upon Meg. She did not look away, although there was something in that golden gaze that made her very uneasy, just as everything about Gregor Grant seemed to make her uncomfortable.

His handsome mouth had curved up at the corners in a smile that was at once rueful and very attractive. “I fought a duel.”

“A duel?” Meg repeated sharply. She had never heard of anything so ridiculous. “A duel over what?”

The smile faded, his lashes lifted on hard amber. “A woman.”

Meg rolled her own eyes in disgust. Just as she had feared, he was a womanizing drunkard! So much for the boy hero. She had come all this way for nothing. Frustration and disappointment overcame caution. “Oh, a woman! And did she go off with the victor and leave you to your drink? Is that why you were lolling about in the tavern just now, Captain Grant?”

Malcolm Bain was busy unwrapping the bandage, tugging it away from the wound on Gregor’s upper arm.

Gregor winced. “I am the victor,” he said, rather breathlessly. “Sh’ wen’ off with the loser.”

“Even I know that isn’t supposed to happen,” Meg answered him in her acerbic way. “What did you say to her to make her do that?”

Gregor laughed, grimaced again, and closed his eyes. He looked even paler. “You dinna know the half of it, lass,” he said, his voice gone bitter.