Meg looked into his face, seeing the deep lines and folds of age and illness. Her father seemed to have grown more feeble even in the short time she had been away. “Are you sure the morning wouldn’t do as well?”
“No, Meg, we have no time to lose. There was a message from Abercauldy yesterday, asking after you. He says he wants a firm date for the wedding, so arrangements can be made. He wants to bring his servants here to Glen Dhui, to oversee it, to be sure that ‘all is in order,’ as he puts it! The man is intolerable, Meg. Read it yourself. Now, where did Alison put the letter after she’d read it to me…?”
Meg felt herself pale. Dear God, after she had tried her best to explain to the duke that she had no intention of marrying him, he was carrying on as if everything were to go ahead as normal! Meg fumbled for the letter in the pile on the table beside her father. She remembered when she had spoken to the duke upon their last meeting, when she had told him she did not want to marry him. He had cocked his head to one side, as though listening to a voice she could not hear. And then he had smiled at her. A humoring smile. At the time Meg had feared he didn’t believe her, or simply chose not to. Now here was the proof!
The letter was just as her father had said, a request for a firm date, the tone gently scolding rather than demanding. Why, Meg thought, is that velvet glove so much more frightening than a bare fist? Why was the duke’s studied, blind patience with his bride-to-be so much more terrifying than a show of rage? And why did the look in his eyes frighten her so—as if she were already his?
“Gregor Grant,” her father’s murmur drew her back to the shadowy room.
Carefully she laid the letter, with its emblazoned crest, aside. “I will send him up after supper, father, but I do not understand what—”
“Leave it to me, Meg. I created this mess, I will clean it up. With Gregor’s help.”
His tone reminded her of the old days, when he gave orders to his men. Meg was sorely tempted to remind him that the mess had been created because he had gone against her wishes in the first place, made a decision without consulting her—and now he seemed to be about to repeat the same mistake. But he was old and sick. Besides, she had already made up her mind that she would be present at this meeting with Gregor, so she held her tongue.
“Very well, father,” she said with uncharacteristic meekness.
She had reached the door again before the sound of his voice made her turn.
“I am so glad you are back safe, Meg. You mean more to me than I can say. I…” But the words failed him, or the tremble in his voice threatened to stifle it, and he shook his head and fell silent.
“Things will come around, father,” Meg said gently. “I know they will.”
Gregor was still by the fire, but now he stood leaning against the mantel, his arm resting along its edge, while he gazed into the flames. The General Mackintosh he had known had never been one to do anything without a purpose. Why had he wanted Gregor back? What did he have planned for him? Why was his presence so crucial?
Gregor found himself watching Meg’s face, trying to guess from her expression what might have been said between father and daughter. He thought she looked as if she had something on her mind, but whatever it was, she was not sharing it with him. She had changed from her riding attire into a green silk gown with lace falling from the tight, elbow-length sleeves. The low, square neckline was made more modest by a fine gauze scarf. It suited her vivid coloring and creamy skin, making him think of mermaids on sunlit shores. Morvoren.
If he had any doubts about his need for her, after their encounter by the loch, he was certain now. He felt every muscle in his body tighten, instantly, every sinew harden.
She came to stand beside him, her skirts rustling, and held out her hands to the heat. Maybe he looked as stunned as he felt, for she cast him a quick, searching glance before she turned away again, and concentrated on the fire. But Gregor didn’t turn away, couldn’t turn away. Instead, he noted how the light sparkled and shone in the glory of her hair, the tilt of her nose, and the pensive set of her mouth.
“Your father is well?” He broke the silence.
“Thank you, yes. He says he will see you once you have eaten and rested. He does not sleep much these days, so it will not matter to him if the hour is late.”
He nodded, and his eye caught a small box beside the mantel clock. Frowning, he stretched out one long finger to touch it. The lid was inlaid with an oval-shaped painting, the delicate likeness of a beautiful, smiling woman with a cloud of fair hair.
Meg had seen the direction of his gaze. “’Tis an exquisite thing,” she ventured. “She is exquisite.”
“My mother,” he replied without inflection.
Meg bit her lip, dismayed. “This is very awkward,” she went on after a moment, her voice low. “I feel I should apologize, Captain Grant, but my father did write to your mother. He thought the box valuable, and that perhaps she may wish it to be sent on to her in Edinburgh. She did not, but she informed him of the price she wanted for it. He paid it.”
“You have no need to apologize,” he said abruptly. “What happened isna your fault. My mother is an unsentimental woman. She has a small income and probably lives beyond her means. She clearly needed the money more than the box.”
“You speak as if you do not see her.”
“Not in years.”
Meg worried her lip again. “This is still…awkward. Us being here, in your family home.”
He looked at her bent head, the delicate pallor of her nape uncovered where her hair was pinned up. “I do not feel awkward,” he replied quietly. “I do not covet these things, Meg. When I left Glen Dhui I had nowhere to live, certainly nowhere to keep such possessions as this. I was adrift. I am glad that someone had the use of them.”
Meg tilted her head to look up at him. Her eyes were pale and clear, and he felt their touch like a warm breeze.
“You are a strange man,” she said at last.
He laughed despite himself. Whatever he had expected her to say, it was not this.