Beloved Highlander

The old priest stepped forward, his face rosy from the whiskey and the company, his somber clothes still a little dusty from the long ride. “Lady Meg, this is a wee bit unusual!” He tried to look stern, but there was a gleam in his eyes.

“The circumstances are a wee bit unusual,” the general retorted sternly, more like his old self. “We are prepared for a wedding here, Father. I hope you do not mean to disappoint us?”

Receiving this stern interrogation, the priest replied in the only manner he could. “No, no, I do not mean to disappoint you, General Mackintosh. I am here and ready to do God’s work.”

The general nodded, pleased with his answer. “Then let us begin!”

It was a dream, Meg thought. The familiar faces of the people of Glen Dhui and her father’s bright smile, the priest’s voice droning on, Major Litchfield looking as if he was determined to enjoy himself. Meg could not look at any of them, and especially not at Gregor Gran

t, her groom.

He took her hand as they stood before the old priest, his fingers hard and warm. Meg wanted to cling to them—[ ]perhaps he expected her to—but she resisted. He was a stranger, and she did not want to lean on him—she dare not. In all her life Meg had only ever leaned on one man, and that was her father—and even he had let her down.

She did not know Gregor—she had thought she did. Visions of him had filled her girlhood, and she had ridden about the glen with dreams of him in her head. The man at her side was not the boy she had dreamed of, and yet in a strange way he was. She’d had glimpses of that boy. As if Gregor Grant had built a stout wall about himself but occasionally, very occasionally, a brick came loose and left a gap, and through that gap she caught a glimpse of the boy.

“Meg? Come, come, what is your answer?” Her father sounded impatient.

Meg realized with a start that they were all waiting for her response, their expressions amused and knowing. Quickly she gave it, feeling her face color yet again. Gregor spoke then, sounding more like a soldier than ever. No hesitation from him, and probably no doubts. And then it was done. They were joined as man and wife.

A cheer went up from the gathering, lifting in joyous echoes to the roof above. Glen Dhui had given its approval.

Malcolm Bain stepped around a pair of children who were mock-fighting. “I am the Laird of Glen Dhui,” one of them insisted. “Nay, I am,” the other retorted. “I will fight ye for the right!” “Nay, I will fight ye!”

“Ye are neither of ye the laird, ye wee devils,” Malcolm said with mock sternness, setting them apart. “Now off with ye both.”

The two boys took to their heels, weaving around startled guests and groaning tables. Malcolm smiled after them, hands on his hips.

He sensed her before he turned—a warm, wary presence at his back. And then he was looking into Alison Forbes’s dark eyes.

For a moment time retraced its steps. It was twelve years ago, and Alison was his woman, his future. And then the Rebellion had happened and he had gone off with Gregor and his father, and everything had changed. Changed so completely that when Gregor had lost his lands and ridden away, Malcolm Bain had gone with him as easily as if there was nothing to keep him.

How could that have happened? Why had it happened? What had changed him into a man who no longer believed he had a future at Glen Dhui with Alison? That he must flee and suffer among strangers, for the sake of his young laird? Had he done the right thing, all those years ago?

How could he know?

If he had not gone with Gregor, the lad might now be dead. If he had stayed…he and Alison might have ended up fighting like cat and dog. How could anyone truly read the future, although Alison tried? Malcolm Bain had never paid much heed to her gift—he believed a man made his own future.

The words came from his mouth without conscious thought, his pain turned into sound. “Why didn’t ye tell me I had a son?”

Alison’s dark eyes flashed, and the famous Forbes temper shone in their depths. “Because ye left me.”

“I had no choice!”

“Ye did have a choice, Malcolm. But it wasna even that…. It was the way ye left me, without a backward glance. Why should I have told ye, after that? I was on my own and ye made certain I knew it.”

“If ye had told me—”

“What? Ye never would have gone? I dinna want ye to stay because ye thought ye should!”

“I have a son!”

“Alison!” Duncan stepped warily between them. It was only then that Alison realized, from the silence about them, that they were now the center of attention for some twenty or so guests. Luckily, outside that circle, the noise and joviality went on. She had meant to stay away from Malcolm Bain tonight, not to spoil Lady Meg’s wedding day with her own problems.

“I am sorry,” she said, to no one in particular, and walked away.

Duncan glared at Malcolm Bain. “See what ye’ve done,” he hissed. “Stay away from her, ye bastard.”

“I’ll do what I think is right, Duncan, now will ye leave me alone!”