Beloved Highlander

And yet she had come so far!

Meg took a breath, opened her mouth to try again, to say…something. But before she could begin to form the words, there was a loud noise outside the inn. The clatter of a horse’s hooves as it was drawn to an unruly halt on the uneven cobbles. And then a voice like gravel at the bottom of a pail, echoed through the building.

“Gregor Grant! Gregor Grant come out here and face me, you bloody bastard! You yellow-livered worm!”

Gregor went still. The muscles on either side of his mouth went white. He took a harsh breath and, with an obvious effort, sat up in the bed. Meg gasped and put out her hands to stop him. The skin of his chest was smooth and hot, and shocked, she quickly pulled her hands away. But he was already swinging his legs over the edge and, grasping the post of the bed as support, hauled himself up onto his bare feet. He was certainly an impressive-looking man.

If Meg had had any doubts about his state of undress, then they were answered now. He wasn’t wearing a single stitch of clothing. Naked skin gleamed, the muscles in his shoulders bunched as he clung to the wooden post, his legs trembled, and what was between them…

Meg felt her face flame, but refused to allow her maidenly sensibilities to overcome her now. She was no shrinking violet, she had seen men before, just not quite so…naked. And none quite so astoundingly good-looking as this one.

“Captain Grant,” she said urgently as he swayed, his head bowed, the muscles on his arms standing out like ropes. “You are not fit to go anywhere. Please, get back into bed.”

“No. I will be all right.” He spoke faintly but with a stubborn determination Meg couldn’t mistake.

“You will not! I will handle this. Get back into bed.”

She started for the door. Behind her he called out something, but she didn’t stop to listen. She was already out in the corridor, moving toward the front of the inn, where all the noise was coming from.

“Gregor Grant, you bastard! Come out here and look me in the eye, if you can! I willna be beaten by you. I’ll never be beaten by you. Hide if you must, but I’ll have my vengeance on you!”

Meg had reached the open door now, and the glare made her blink. It was a beautiful sunny day, the only incongruous thing about it was the man atop the dun horse who was screaming out insults. His dark hair was loose and wild about his white face, a livid gash decorating one cheek. He wore the red jacket of a government dragoon, and breeches of buff yellow with black boots.

He was clearly very drunk. If Meg hadn’t been able to smell the whiskey from where she stood, she would have known it by the way he was rolling about in his saddle, waving a pistol in a singularly dangerous manner.

He caught sight of her and stopped, staring, his mouth ajar.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” he demanded.

Meg straightened her back and stepped froward, out of the inn and into the cobbled courtyard. The dun horse shuffled nervously, snorting, but she ignored it. Now was certainly not the time to show fear.

“I might ask the same of you, my good man,” she said in her most haughty voice. “Would you mind keeping your voice down? It doesn’t seem necessary to shout when you can just as easily send a message. If you wish to communicate with Captain Grant, I will see he gets it.”

He narrowed his eyes but that did not make them any more reassuring. Meg noticed, with distaste, that the gash upon his cheek had begun to bleed, a slow trickle that ran down to stain his white neckcloth.

“Barbara’s run off.” He said it as if that was the answer she was seeking.

“Indeed. I am sorry to hear it. Who is Barbara?”

The dun horse tried to turn, but he wrenched brutally at the reins, turning it back so that he was facing her.

“Barbara is my wife.”

“Is she? Then perhaps you’d better go and find her.”

“Where is that bastard Grant? She’s with him, isn’t she?”

“If you mean Captain Grant, then she most certainly is not!”

“I want to see him!”

“I’m afraid he is—”

“I am here.”

Meg tried not to jump. He was directly behind her. Cautiously she glanced over her shoulder, and saw that he had managed to fasten the belt that kept his kilt about his waist, though the upper portion was only roughly twisted over one of his naked shoulders, hiding the bandaged arm. White-faced but steady, he was leaning hard against the doorjamb. In one hand he held his sword, point resting on the ground by his bare feet.

His eyes flicked briefly to her, as if he were aware of her perusal but did not want to be distracted. “What do you want, Airdy?” he asked reasonably. “Wasn’t beating you yesterday enough? Do you want me to beat you again today, and tomorrow too?”