Beloved Highlander

She had kept his son from him.

Anger built within him. It was like a peat fire, sullen, smoldering, but gradually getting hotter. Until the heart of it was as fiery a red as Lady Meg’s hair.

“Will the priest be here tomorrow?”

The general’s voice was querulous as he asked the question for the dozenth time. Meg glanced at Gregor, wondering if he felt as tense and anxious as she did. He certainly looked grim, but he had looked that way since this morning, since he had put Lorenzo in the cell with the iron grating set in the floor beneath the storeroom. In a way she was glad her father could not see their faces—he would not find much to celebrate if he could.

“The priest will come with all haste, father. He will surely be here tomorrow.”

“He had better! I have my heart set on a banquet tomorrow evening. A wedding feast, Meg! Why has it taken you so long to find a husband, eh? Well, well, I won’t complain. I am happy with your choice.”

He held her hand in one of his, and with his other, reached out toward where he sensed Gregor stood. Gregor glanced questioningly at Meg and then clasped the general’s hand in his. The old man smiled enigmatically and, with the air of one performing a wondrous act, pressed their two hands together.

Gregor hesitated, and then his fingers closed on hers, warm and strong. Meg knew she was blushing, looking anywhere but at Gregor, wishing herself anywhere but here. They were not an ordinary couple—this was not an ordinary situation. They were marrying because of desperate circumstances—why did her father have to pretend it was otherwise?

“Father, please!”

And yet she could not really begrudge him his joy. She supposed it was a great thing, to bring Gregor Grant home again, to have him back where he belonged, and to join her name to his. It was a cause for celebration. If it had been anyone else but herself playing one of the central roles, Meg would probably have been cheering along with the general.

“I am a happy man,” her father went on a little petulantly. “Why should I not be? Out of catastrophe has come joy. I am glad Abercauldy set his sights upon you, Meg. Otherwise you would not have gone to fetch Gregor home. There, I have said it!”

“Father, do not say such things.”

“General, I do not think—”

But it was no use, the general did not wish to hear their objections, or perhaps he could not. Gregor had begun to wonder whether the old man’s health was failing more swiftly than Meg had believed. Over the past days, his conversation had been a mixture of rambling memories and complete fabrication. He had many lucid moments, yes, but there were just as many that were worryingly vague. It was clearly distressing for Meg, who had enough to contend with just now.

Gregor conquered the urge to take her in his arms and hold her. She would not thank him for it. Ever since their decision, she had withdrawn into her own world, within her own strong self-contained walls. Gregor knew that breaching them would not be an easy task.

“The priest must hurry,” the general was saying now, nodding to himself, unheeding of the feelings of his daughter. “If Lorenzo were to carry word back to Abercauldy…”

“He will not,” Gregor swiftly assured him, but his attention was still upon Meg. His words might be directed to the old man, but they were actually meant for Meg, to reassure Meg. “The deed will be done before the duke can prevent it. And once we are wed, then all will be well.” His fingers tightened on hers, trying to channel some of his own confidence into her.

She purposely did not look at him. Meg Mackintosh may be marrying him, he thought, but she did not trust him and she did not believe in him. She was a strong and independent woman, and she probably told herself that, apart from this minor problem with Abercauldy, she didn’t actually need him.

Gregor wondered what he would have to do to win her over. She may be able to live in a world of her own devising, but he did not want to. Not anymore. He had learned since he met Meg that he did not want to be alone anymore. He wanted a wife with whom to share his future, someone to whom he was everything, and who was everything to him.

He had believed that Meg might be that woman. Now he was not so sure.

Meg had heard his words, but all she could think was: It’s a lie. He could not know that all would be well. How could h

e know it? Meg was fairly sure that all would not be well at all! Lorenzo would be released, a whirlwind of fury, and if he did not whip the duke into a frenzy of revenge, then the duke’s own pride would ensure he took action against them.

And yet, despite knowing all that, she was almost convinced by the overwhelming confidence and sincerity in his voice. As if he were mesmerizing her with the sheer force of his personality. All will be well. Why would he say that, when he must know it wasn’t true? In his own life all had rarely been well!

For your sake, of course. Her inner voice mocked her obtuseness. He wants to make you feel secure, he wants you to trust him.

Gregor’s grip on her fingers tightened, but she pulled away. It was her father she should be thinking of now, her father she should be comforting. Her father, who seemed to grow frailer every day.

“I am sure Gregor is right,” she told him now, striving for that same confident note in her voice as Gregor’s. “Abercauldy will simply give up when he hears I have wed another. What man would wish to fight for a woman in such circumstances? A woman who showed him all too clearly that she didn’t want him.”

Gregor’s mouth curled in a thin smile. He knew and she knew that the duke would be more likely than ever to fight. His pride would be dented, and his pride would demand he make some sort of effort to save face. Five hundred guests invited to a wedding that would not now take place! If he sent his men into Glen Dhui for some pillaging and burning, he could say he had made them sorry for causing him to look like a fool. But would that be enough? Or would he feel it necessary to take out his anger on the couple themselves? Would he believe it was necessary to actually hurt Gregor?

Kill Gregor?

Meg did not want to think of such things. She did not want to imagine them. Gregor dead and gone? Gregor taken from her before she had had a chance to live her life with him?

At the thought of Gregor hurt or dead, something within her twisted, like a breaking bone. Agony, pain, heartbreak. She caught her breath sharply, fighting it back. Now was not the time for emotion. She must be strong and calm. She must be the practical Lady of Glen Dhui, ready to lead her people.