Beloved Highlander

A perfect match, Gregor thought dryly.

Well, perfect or not, it was too late now. The die was cast; Meg was his.

The knowledge sent a shiver of relief through him, as if he had secured something far greater than a woman’s hand.

“I was planning to visit Glen Dhui Castle in the next weeks in any case,” Major Litchfield was saying. “When the priest told me his mission, it seemed a good idea to come now. My replacement is due. It has happened sooner than I planned. He is some relative of a great man, who has to be put somewhere quiet for a time. A troublesome relative, by the sound of it. I do not like to leave such a one in charge of the place and people I have grown to like—very much—but I am afraid it is beyond my control.”

“And I say again, I’m sorry to hear you are going, Major,” the general called, turning in their direction. “I’ll miss our conversation, and thrashing you at chess!”

Major Litchfield laughed. “I’ll not regret that, sir. You are a master of the game.”

“He played a fine game when I first met him,” Gregor added with a smile. “I never did win against him.”

“The trick is to put yourself into the mind of the other man,” the general instructed him. “To…to…” He seemed to lose the thread of his thought, and turned away, diverted by some new arrivals.

After watching the old man for a moment, the major said in an undertone, “I do not like to say so, Grant, but the general isn’t the man he was when last I was here. Time seems to be catching him up rather swiftly.”

Gregor knew it was so. Since his own arrival the general was fading, but despite that, tonight it was clear he meant to enjoy himself. And he was right; it would be soon enough tomorrow, to face their myriad of problems.

“You will have a monumental task before you,” the major went on, eyeing a plate of crisp oatcakes. “Stepping into the general’s shoes, I mean.”

“Och, and I know it, Major.”

Major Litchfield turned his gaze to Gregor, and suddenly he gave him a more genuine smile. “Oh, I think you will manage it, Captain Grant. You have the look of one who can manage most things.”

Gregor was still pondering this unexpected compliment, when a movement at the top of the stairs caught his eye. He looked up, and all thought left his head.

A morvoren—that was what she was. A mermaid in a green silk ocean, her long curling hair streaming about her like fire. Something to be desired from afar, unobtainable, a mystical creature.

And yet Gregor both desired and meant to obtain this mystical creature. He swallowed. Desire had turned his body hard, and the blood was rushing through every inch of it. Beside him, Major Litchfield murmured his approval, while the crowd in the hall smiled and nodded, and gave of their opinions in hushed whispers. This may be a surprise wedding, a rushed marriage, but Meg was no disappointing bride. It was clear they loved her, had taken her to their hearts, and that this moment was one they would never forget.

Certainly not Gregor.

But unlike the others, he wasn’t content to admire from afar. He had never been a man to sit and gaze at a woman across a room, or to pen a poem to her untouchable beauty. And right now he wanted to do desperate things to Meg, ungentlemanly things, things he should not even be allowing himself to think, before all these good people.

Gregor groaned softly.

In short, he was dreaming of bounding up the stairs, grabbing her, and finding an empty bedchamber so that he could satisfy his lust on her. Hardly the way to soothe the fears of a virgin, for he had no doubt that so she was. How in God’s name was he to hold himself in check, with such thoughts as these writhing through his fevered brain?

“Meg?” The general had risen to his feet, supported by Duncan Forbes. “Meg, are you ready? Gregor?”

The spell was broken. Gregor watched as Meg came down the stairs, careful of her skirts, Alison hovering behind her. He stepped forward to meet her, his hand outstretched to take hers. Her eyes were wide in her pale face, and she seemed to be trying to read his expression as she placed her fingers lightly in his. He hoped to God he had his thoughts well hidden.

“You look very beautiful, Meg,” he said with quiet sincerity.

She smiled, shyly lowering her head and at the same time running her gaze over him. Gregor was wearing his best dark blue jacket, its sleeves slashed in the popular Scottish manner, his best white shirt, and a kilt that had been lent him by the general. It was woven of dark cloth with a yellow stripe, and when he walked, it swung jauntily.

“So do you,” Meg murmured.

He chuckled.

Cheeks burning with color, Meg realized what she had said. She looked up at him in dismay, her blue eyes wide and her lips parted. Gregor found her confusion completely adorable.

“Meg?” The general said again, impatient for the wedding to begin.

It gave her an excuse to turn away, smiling at the people who smiled at her as she passed, making her way to her father’s side. Gregor followed in her wake.

“I’m here, Father.”