The familiar voice brought Gregor up from the faintly unpleasant dream he was struggling through, where women with red hair clung to him and men with wild, dark eyes waved pistols in his face. He blinked and then focused on the worn, lined face that he knew as well as his own.
“Malcolm Bain,” he said, and his mouth twitched into the smile that
was not seen by many people. Captain Grant was sober and taciturn; Gregor Grant was another matter entirely. “Where were you?” he asked. “What do you mean by leaving me here in the hornet’s nest?”
Malcolm Bain chuckled. “Ye wouldna by any chance be meaning a red-haired hornet? What does she want of ye? I have a feeling that one is used to getting her own way.”
Gregor shrugged. “She’s no match for me,” he said smugly.
Malcolm Bain’s eyes slid over his face but he said nothing, keeping his thoughts to himself. “Did ye know Airdy’s wife has run away from him?” he asked instead. “He’s been ranting and raving the whole day, swearing one moment to kill her and the next that he canna live without her. ’Tis a pitiful sight, mon!”
“Then it’s one I’m glad to forego. Does he know I’ve resigned my captaincy?”
“That pleasure yet awaits him.”
Gregor nodded, shivering, and carefully pulled the covers around himself with a sigh. “You’re not surprised by the news, then?”
Malcolm Bain shrugged. “It was only a matter of time, lad. Ye’ve been restless for months now. I think the Campbell dragoons doesna have the same flavor for ye that it once did. As long as ye’re certain ’tis the right thing to do…?”
“Aye,” Gregor said softly, “I’m certain. She’s offered to pay me, Malcolm Bain. Pay me to go home.” He laughed, but there was sorrow and bitterness in it, emotions he rarely showed to anyone else. “If she pays me enough, I’ll use the money to buy myself some land, enough to live on.”
“No life for a Grant laird,” Malcolm Bain murmured.
“I am no longer a Grant laird,” was the retort. “Tell me, what do you know of the Duke of Abercauldy?”
Gregor was determined to change the subject. Malcolm Bain contented himself with straightening aspects of the room that displeased him and stoking up the fire. “I know little enough of him. I know he fought for the English during the 1715 and made himself rich on the estates and fines of those who dinna. He’s a clever man, but as far as I know that is not a crime.”
“No, it isn’t. Did you ever hear that he had a wife?”
“No. Has he a wife?”
“She’s dead. Rumor has it he did away with her. Now he has set his eyes on Glen Dhui and flame-haired Meg. That is why I am to go home, Malcolm, to see that our clever duke does not take what is not his.”
“The land, or the lady?” Malcolm asked, with a sly glance up from the fire.
“Both, Malcolm, both.”
“Then ye will need to build yer strength for the ride south, and the fight when ye get there,” was the reply. “I’ll fetch ye some food and some ale, and then I’ll take a peek at yer arm.”
Gregor grimaced, clearly disliking the thought of his arm being touched again. “As you say, Malcolm.”
Malcolm paused on his way out of the door, looking back. Gregor lay still and pale, no doubt in some pain and with a fever. But that would not stop him from riding all day tomorrow and the day after that to reach Glen Dhui. Strange that a twist of fate had seen to it that he must return to the one place he had denied himself for twelve years. Gregor Grant had made another life for himself, he had no option—he was no longer the boy he had been when he fought the English and was imprisoned for it. That boy had watched others around him die in the filthy gaol, and then barely escaped transportation to the plantations. He was a man who had known much pain and hardship, and it showed.
Malcolm wondered now how Gregor would cope with returning to a place he had loved, a place which was now no longer his own. And how would he manage to obey orders from a woman who was clearly used to giving them? It would be…interesting, to say the least. And Malcolm would be there, he must be there, for Gregor’s sake. He could hardly abandon him now, although he was sorely tempted.
For there was an ache in Malcolm Bain’s heart that had nothing to do with Glen Dhui and Gregor Grant. Waiting at Glen Dhui, as she had, according to Duncan, waited all these years, was Alison Forbes. His sweetheart, the woman he had planned to marry and grow old with, the woman he had put from his mind when he left.
Did she still hate him, as she had hated him the day he rode away from her? Or was she indifferent to him, having long ago shut his memory away? Duncan might be wrong—the Alison he had loved and remembered could well be so changed now that he would not recognize her.
Malcolm Bain didn’t know what he hoped for. One choice felt as dismal as the other.
Chapter 6
Meg drew her mare up from a gallop. While it stood blowing and tossing its head, she turned to look back. The men were following in the distance at a steady pace, although that seemed to be more for Gregor Grant’s sake than any wish to tarry. The former Laird of Glen Dhui rode stiffly, as if any sudden movement pained him, but he had not asked for them to stop. Nor would he, Meg suspected.
As she watched, he turned his head, gazing to the high mountains that lay before them, their jagged, snowy peaks gleaming in the sun. They would have to cross those mountains tomorrow, traversing the narrow pass that cut through their towering mass. For Glen Dhui lay beyond.
This morning Gregor had sat down to breakfast with a pale face and a determined expression. He wore a fresh shirt beneath a brown jacket, and his kilted plaid, as well as all his weapons. He had spoken little and eaten less. His only reply, when Duncan questioned him as to whether he was fit to ride, was a long, unsmiling stare. “Of course,” he had said at last, coldly, as if Duncan was impertinent to suggest otherwise.