“All is well,” she said gently.
He turned sharply at the sound of her voice, as if he had forgotten she was there. He was frowning, those dark brows lowered over his brilliant eyes.
Meg smiled. “Whenever I’ve been away, and I come home to see Glen Dhui like this, laid out before me like a tapestry, it’s as if I’m seeing all the peaceful lives being lived out within it, all the familiar faces, everything in its place and as it should be. I know then that all is well with my world.”
The frown had gone, though his face was still drawn tight by emotion, his slashing brows and the stubble on his jaw dark against his pale skin. He could easily be an outlaw, thought Meg, and a desperate one at that!
“Has it changed in twelve years?” something prompted her to ask.
He shook his head, not taking his eyes from hers.
“I pray…I trust this homecoming will not be too painful for you, Captain.”
He hesitated briefly, and then turned back to the glen. In that moment all his protective barricades were down. He gazed at it with the savage hunger of a man who has not had a proper meal in a very long time; he looked at his former home with a deep and agonizing longing that Meg could barely imagine.
“Och, no,” he said, his voice gruff and raw, “’tis not too painful for me, my lady. I can bear it. Shall we go, before Duncan comes to fetch us?”
Meg hesitated. The former Laird of Glen Dhui was sick with longing for his home, but he did not want her to feel sorry for him. Instead he meant to ride sedately beside her, all the way down the glen to his former home, every step full of heart-wrenching, squirming agony for them both.
Meg knew she couldn’t do it. Not like that. His homecoming should be a joyous thing, or at least it should be gotten over with quickly.
Her mind made up, Meg gave a sudden whoop, and dug her heels into her mare’s sides. The tired animal reared, and then put her head down and flew. Down the turning road, down the steep hill, down into the glen.
She heard his shout behind her—anger, surprise or sheer wild excitement? She wasn’t certain which, only that the thud of his horse’s hooves was quickly following. When she glanced back, she saw the shape of him against the fading sky. Pursuing her.
Her blood drummed in her veins, her body tightened, and Meg found herself laughing aloud.
Home.
The sense of it filled him, completed him, and overflowed. His head was spinning, and not just because of his wound. He felt so alive, so much a part of this place, that he tingled. He was Grant of Glen Dhui, and to have denied it all these years seemed like the worst sort of foolishness.
But what had coming back here done to him? He had opened himself to pain, to the longing for something that was his home no longer. It belonged to her, to the woman riding in front of him. Just as he now belonged to her.
Pride and anger rose up in him, threatening to make him do something foolish—like turn around and ride all the way back to Clashennic. He stifled the impulse, just as he had learned long ago to stifle any impetuous impulses. He could not afford them, not anymore.
She rode low on her mare, her plaited hair spearing out behind her, her slim body at one with the animal. The two of them sped through the night like a shot from his gun. And suddenly he had the feeling that she, too, belonged to this place, that she had the same sense of belonging as he did.
His horse stumbled. He held it up, despite the wrenching pain in his arm, and they were in pursuit again. But it was enough to bring him to his senses. He was behaving wildly, foolishly, more like the lad he had been than the man he had become. Captain Gregor Grant was not likely to race a lady down a dangerously narrow road in the near dark. It was the sort of impetuous behaviour he had just been telling himself he no longer indulged in.
He came abreast of her.
Her face, what he could see of it, was ablaze with excitement. She meant to best him. She was that sort of woman. Best him, or die in the attempt.
He was tempted—the subtle lure was thrown to him again—but he ignored it. He was a responsible man, a tough and practical man. This was madness. If one of them should fall and be hurt—if she should be hurt…In that instant, he snatched her reins from her and dragged at her mare. Both horses began to slow, not putting up much of a fight. They were weary, they had had enough.
They came to a halt. The silence was broken only by the blowing of the horses and the thud of Gregor’s heart. Startled, still in the grip of the race, Meg spun around to face him, her breasts heaving under her jacket, her eyes wild. S
he pushed back a curl of red hair, tucking it behind her ear, and he could see the flush on her skin in the pearly light. She looked hot and mad with excitement, and he wanted her.
It wasn’t the same sort of want as he had felt at the pass, when Major Litchfield had kissed her hand. That had been the kind of jealous feeling that any man might have, when another threatens the thing he has been secretly coveting. He had seen the way the major looked at her, and he knew he had a rival.
This was different. This was a simple, basic, earthy need. Gregor saw her, and he wanted her in his arms. He wanted to taste her skin, to thrust his tongue deep into her mouth. He wanted her under him, her naked skin against his, and he wanted to hear the sound she would make when he pushed himself inside her.
“I would have won.”
He blinked, thrust away his own madness, and leaned closer. She didn’t pull back, but he saw the question in her eyes.
“Do you think it quite proper for the Lady of Glen Dhui to arrive at her doorstep looking like she has been rolling in the heather?”