Beloved Highlander

“No!” Her anger betrayed her, and Meg swallowed it down. “No, I…I have something more to do first.”

“Then I bid you adieu. Lady.” Yet another bow, another false smile, and Lorenzo was gone, waving cheerfully at the others to follow him.

Meg stood and watched them go—a thin white spear with a dark tip, heading down the green glen. Her stomach fluttered. She had fooled herself into believing that Abercauldy would release her, that he would give up. Now she must face the fact that that was most unlikely to ever happen. He wanted her; he meant to have her. And nothing she had said so far, no argument she had come up with, had had any effect upon changing his mind or his plans for their future together.

And now he would hear about Gregor—Lorenzo would make certain of that. Had she given herself away? Had he seen by her demeanour that she was enamored of this man? She did not think so, but Lorenzo had sharp eyes. Meg climbed upon her mare, using the tree branch as a mounting block, and slowly turned her head for home. She had lied to Lorenzo, she had nothing else to do, but she had had no intention of riding with him and being subjected to more of his stinging comments.

He was false and sly, he was a mountebank, but such men were often weak. Did that make them any less dangerous? Like a slender snake, Lorenzo lay in the shadows, ready to strike when one least expected it. Together, Lorenzo and Abercauldy made a formidable enemy. How could Meg continue to live peacefully here in Glen Dhui if she did not agree to Abercauldy’s demands?

“So how will I escape him?” she whispered to herself. “How will I rid myself of this menace?”

But she already knew the answer. There was only one way that she could be free from Abercauldy, and that was to bind herself to another.

To give up her own freedom, and marry Gregor Grant.

Glen Dhui Castle looked peaceful, and apart from the men in white clothing waiting with their horses, nothing might have been different. Lorenzo had gone in alone then, Meg thought, to deliver whatever message he had for the general. Another veiled threat, probably. Another of the duke’s demands to make a sick, old man even more frantic for his daughter’s safety than he already was.

If she had not hated Abercauldy for her own sake, then Meg could readily have hated him for what he was doing to her father.

At the stables, Meg dismounted and stood, stroking the mare’s nose, making much of her before the groom led her away. She had no other option but to dawdle reluctantly while she headed for the castle.

The Great Hall was empty, and cold even during the day. The grim antique weapons fixed to the walls reminded her that the Grants were used to fighting, to holding on to what was theirs. That knowledge was somehow comforting, she thought, as she moved toward the stairs. Lorenzo was probably still with her father, his slim, black-clothed figure quivering with malice. The general could hold his own with Lorenzo, but even he would grow weary of the Italian. It was time she put an end to his unwelcome visit.

Meg placed her booted foot on the first step, and looked up, straight at Gregor Grant.

He was descending, and his face was thoughtful. Not quite the taciturn Captain Grant, but something close. He saw her a moment after she saw him, and stopped. They stayed, gazing at each other in a reversal of their places of the other night. He seemed bigger, stronger, in his old faded kilt and worn linen shirt. His hair was tied back—Meg remembered she still had his black ribbon in her room—and he was freshly shaved.

His dark brows came down. “Meg. You look…What is it?”

“I was out riding.”

His mouth quirked up at one corner. “I can see that.”

Suddenly, like sinking into a warm bath, Meg felt a tremendous sense of relief. Her mind had been made up for her, and she would do it. She would! It was the right and proper thing to do. And beyond that, it was what she wanted to do.

But first he must be warned. Meg could no longer pretend that what she was about to embark upon was not without its dangers. To herself. To her father.

And to Gregor Grant.

“Lorenzo is here,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Abercauldy’s Italian servant? Aye, I know.” He was watching her intently, as if he were trying to make her out. “He said he had a message for the general.”

“He has already heard about you from someone in the glen. I do not trust him, Gregor. He will carry news of you back to Abercauldy.”

Gregor frowned, and with a measured tread descended the last few steps to stand before her. “Is there anything wrong in that?”

“I told him you were visiting my father, but…” She bit her lip and shook her head. “He has seen you. He will describe you to Abercauldy. He will let him believe the worst—Lorenzo enjoys making mischief. He hates me. He doesn’t believe me good enough for his master.”

Gregor appeared to sort through this. “The man is a fool.” His dark brows rose suddenly. “Why will he believe the worst, simply through a description of me?”

Meg gave him a wry smile, and moved closer, she couldn’t help it. Apart from the feel of his warmth in the big, cold room, there was something that drew her to him, and for a moment she gave up on resisting it. “If you did not know it already, you are too handsome, Gregor,” she said boldly. “He will think you have swept me off my feet. He will demand I wed him at once.”

Momentarily, Gregor looked taken aback. A faint flush colored his thin cheeks. Didn’t he really know how handsome he was? Didn’t he realize how women must covet him? Or did the truth annoy him, rather than puff him up with pride?

“You aren’t such a fool, Meg, as to be swept off your feet by me, or anyone else,” he answered her crossly. “Are you?” he added, uncertainty creasing his brow.

Meg had wondered that herself, but she wasn’t about to let him know how much he affected her.