Beloved Highlander

Meg smiled at him, but although he responded, he said nothing. She thought that she knew what he was thinking: What does she know of crops and the tenants of Glen Dhui? What does she know of hardship and famine, and why does she care? Such things should be left to men, as Duncan Forbes was always hinting to her. Men who understoo

d the ways of the land and its people, and had done so since Adam.

“The old ways are not always the best,” she said abruptly, helping herself to some mutton pie, annoyed that his opinion mattered to her. “Sometimes the old ways need changing, for the good of us all. Sometimes, to survive, we need to look forward instead of backward.”

Gregor looked up with surprise, and swallowed his mouthful of oatcake. “Och, don’t tear strips off me, Lady Meg! I agree with you.”

Meg blinked. He agreed with her?

He set down his fork and leaned forward, closing the space between them until she felt that familiar tingle of excitement. “You have an open and innovative mind, my lady. The general is the same. You look to improve, and you are not afraid of new ideas. Things were not so…so forward thinking, as you say, when my father was Laird of Glen Dhui. I tried to change his mind, but he would not listen to me. Sassenach foolishness, he called it.”

Meg took a moment to grasp that he was not scoffing at her at all. He admired her! He was envious of her success when he himself had failed to affect any change with his own father. He was not Duncan Forbes; he was nothing like Duncan Forbes.

“I…Thank you,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Unfortunately there are many like your father, who will not listen. Anything new is open to suspicion and superstition. I have heard that some of the men of the church are calling tea the devil’s brew! I drink tea with my breakfast, and I believe in Edinburgh they take it at four in the afternoon, and make a party of it. Tea is very fashionable, and there is nothing wrong in it, that I can see. They said the same of coffee, when it first arrived in this country, but now no one thinks it anything other than a pleasant beverage. Perhaps your father would have come around in time….”

His smile held bitterness. “I doubt it. In those days I was young and I told myself it dinna matter what my father said, that I would do as I wished, when it came my time to be Laird of Glen Dhui. Unfortunately, that time never came.”

Meg set down her fork with a clatter. “I am sorry for your troubles, Captain Grant, I really am. But it is not my fault you lost Glen Dhui. I cannot feel guilty for something that is not my fault. And I won’t!”

“I don’t expect you to,” he said, raising his dark brows. “I don’t want you to. It was an explanation, not a plea for pity. Pity is the last thing I want from you, Lady Meg. Don’t you know that yet?”

What did he mean? What was he saying? What was it she could see in his eyes, looking so directly into hers. “Gregor—”

“Meg, I want—”

But whatever it was he wanted, she would have to wait to find out. He had stopped and was looking toward the door, and Meg herself was suddenly aware of the raised voices coming from the Great Hall. At that very moment they were lifted another notch, and she realized it was a man and a woman. Arguing.

Gregor jumped to his feet, spilling his wine across the table, and went to the door. Meg was not far behind, but when she made to move past him, he placed a large, warm hand on her shoulder.

“Stay behind me, Meg.”

She might have laughed at his concern, or simply refused to obey, but she was stopped by the seriousness of his still, clear gaze. Meg was used to being in charge of her own life, she preferred it that way, and yet she found herself stepping back and allowing him to open the door.

The noise from the Great Hall drifted up the stairs, and they moved down, Gregor still in front, to find its source.

“Yer boots are dirty!”

Alison was standing in the middle of the high-ceilinged Great Hall, her hands on her plump hips, looking pointedly down at Malcolm Bain’s feet. Malcolm was before her, his fair hair straggling around his shoulders, his expression dismayed. For all his large and tough bulk, at the moment he looked like a child.

“Well, they are, aren’t they, ye canna deny it?”

“Och, I’ve been working, what do ye expect?” was his reply, as he cast his eyes to heaven.

“Then ye should have taken them off outside the door.”

“If I did that, my feet would be cold.”

“Better ye have cold feet than I have mud on my floor!”

“Yer floor!”

Gregor turned to look up at Meg on the step behind him, and his expression was bemused. Meg smiled; clearly her brave protector needed help in dealing with this particular situation.

“Malcolm! Alison!” Meg spoke loudly and authoritatively, brushing by Gregor and hurrying down the remaining stairs. Her voice rang out in the shadowy space.

The pair turned, startled, a little guilty.

“Enough,” Meg went on, before either one could mount a counterattack. “I want no more of this. Malcolm, what are you doing here?”