Beloved Highlander

It was dawn. Here, outside, the air was cool and sharp, removing any lingering webs of sleep from Gregor’s mind. Mist clothed the surrounding mountains and pooled in the glen. The loch lay still and glassy, shining in its cradle of dark hills.

Gregor stripped off his shirt and bent to splash the cold water over his chest and shoulders, ducking his head into it until his hair was plastered to his head like a dark cap. He avoided the bandage about his arm as much as possible, but the wound felt more comfortable this morning and his fever was gone. Whatever magic Shona had worked on him was still doing its job.

Shaking his head so that water sprayed outwards, Gregor straightened, stretching out the muscles of his back and legs, rolling his arms—carefully in the case of his injury. He breathed deeply of the cold mountain air and felt glad to be alive.

Home was over there. Beyond that cluster of dark peaks. He could almost smell it. Suddenly he felt dizzy with longing. Gregor wiped his face with his hands, sluicing off the dripping water. Don’t be stupid, he thought. Don’t let yourself feel like that again. Life was so much simpler if one did not care. For twelve years he had worked at pushing away the memories, the caring, and now they were back, resonating in his head. But he couldn’t let them in. Losing Glen Dhui had hurt him in a way that was physical as well as mental. He had been like a boat whose ropes were cut, let loose, drifting with nowhere to go.

Gregor had hated Edinburgh: the tall tenements, or “lands,” as they were known there, home to numerous, pale-faced families. The twisting, narrow streets with their cargo of refuse and noise. Everything felt so close and dirty, it was as if he were choking, as if he couldn’t breathe. Within an hour of arriving, he had known he didn’t want to live there, couldn’t live there.

But his mother and sister had taken up residence, and his mother had soon re-formed old friendships and made new ones, and had settled into the rich social life to be found in the city. She was happy, and he suspected it was for the same reasons he was miserable. She was glad to be away from the isolated wilds of Glen Dhui; she had been born and bred in Edinburgh and she had never transplanted well to the Highlands, when she was wed to Gregor’s father.

Gregor’s sister was morose about her change in circumstances, but she made the best of it, following her mother about, somewhat mollified when she was decked out in the latest fashions. She was young, Gregor had told himself to ease his conscience when he left her. She would soon learn to forget the past, to fit in to her new life. Young enough to set aside the memories, as Gregor could not seem to.

He had known then that Glen Dhui was a part of him, his flesh and blood. Aye, he could live without it—the fact was, he had no choice—but that did not mean it did not hurt. It hurt so much that it ached. And it very nearly destroyed him. In twelve years he had built a new life for himself, but the old one had never left him. It had been waiting, biding its time, until now.

Gregor realized he had been standing as still as a rock, wearing only his kilt, and up to his knees in the freezing loch, staring into the past.

With a shake of his head, he bent down again, cupping his hands in the water and splashing it over his face, letting it trickle over his chest. The chill made him gasp and catch his breath, but at least it cleared his head. This was not a time to be regretting what was, what could not be changed. This was not a time to be keening for what was long ago lost….

The sound that came from behind him was slight, but his hearing was acute. Gregor turned his head sharply, wishing he had strapped on his weapons, and found Lady Meg standing some paces behind him. She was on the rocky shore, a shawl wrapped about her shoulders and her red hair loose and streaming down her back. She was pale, her skin almost translucent in the early light, and her breath was a misty cloud.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice sounding more tentative than he had ever heard it. “I wasn’t spying on you, Captain. I thought to take some air. It is stuffy inside, and Shona and Kenneth need their privacy.”

Gregor nodded. “I am finished now, anyway,” he offered, watching her as he slowly waded out of the loch. He reached down to pick up his shirt, and began to dry his naked arms and chest with it, mopping up the water with the fine but worn cloth.

Meg Mackintosh was a puzzle to him. He expected women to behave in a certain way, to be manipulative like his mother and Barbara Campbell, or kind and motherly like Shona. And yet this woman was different. She c

ould be cool and formal, an icicle, and then in the next breath she could be authoritative and tough, very much in charge. And then again, she could be achingly vulnerable, bringing to the fore all his protective instincts.

She unsettled him.

And she was blushing.

Surprised, Gregor watched the color burning in her cheeks, and rising in a tide from her throat, where she was clutching at the shawl with stiff fingers. Why on earth was she blushing? And pretending she wasn’t? Was she embarrassed by his presence? She cleared her throat, and stared out across the loch behind him, as if there were something other than empty water on view.

He understood then. It was the sight of him, half naked, that had made her blush. It was Gregor Grant himself who had disturbed Meg Mackintosh’s equilibrium.

Did his informality offend her? Because she was not used to men being half naked around her? Or was it because she found herself as drawn to him as he was to her?

The last thought stilled him, opened a door on new and interesting possibilities. He didn’t know whether to laugh at her maidenly modesty, or fumble on his wet shirt like a callow youth. Women found him attractive, it was something he knew and accepted. He had never felt self-conscious about his body, although he was not a man who naturally displayed his wares to all and sundry.

Why then, quite suddenly, did Gregor have the urge to walk over to where she stood, so particularly not looking at him. To force her to look up at him, to really look. To place her palms upon his skin and make her touch him, press them to him, make her aware of each contour, each muscle. To bend his head and take her pink lips with his cold ones, and see how warm she was inside. To slide his hands down over her body and see if all those warm curves were as soft and inviting as they had felt last night, when she slept in his arms.

As if in a dream, Gregor took a step toward her.

Just then, maybe drawn by his long silence, she turned to face him. Something in his expression must have hinted at his intentions. Her eyes widened, her lips parted. Meg shivered, desperately wrapping the shawl closer about her body. Her voice was a husky whisper.

“What do you think of Shona’s tale?”

Gregor was confused. Who was Shona? And then the world righted itself, tipped back onto its proper axis, and he knew he couldn’t kiss her, couldn’t touch her, couldn’t do any of the things that were clamoring in his head. She was no lightskirt, but a born-and-bred lady. She had asked for his help, and that brought with it certain responsibilities. He had no rights to her, whereas she had every right to order him.

Briskly, hands shaking only slightly, Gregor pulled his shirt on over his head, leaving the wet cloth to flap loosely about his damp, cold torso. He smoothed his hair back from his face with both palms, twisting the ends to wring out the water, taking his time. Giving her time to regain her natural composure. When at last he shot a sideways glance at her, he noted that she had lost her bright color and was now regarding him with her usual pale, clear gaze.

“You asked me what I thought of Shona’s tale?” he repeated. “I think it sounds possible. You say there are other rumors? Stories of Abercauldy’s evildoing?”

“Yes, there are stories. Many of them told by good and honest people. Too many, I think, for us to disregard them.

“No, we canna afford to disregard them.”