Beloved Highlander

Suddenly a memory came to him: himself, gangly and young, trying not to cry as he sat in the dank darkness and hugged his knees to his chest. He had drawn a picture of some primroses, especially for his mother’s birthday. She had glanced at the meticulous rendering of the flowers with a critical eye.

“Very nice, darling,” she had said, turning back to her own mirror, “but why didn’t you draw roses? They are so much prettier.”

Why had it upset him so? Gregor wondered now. It was not as if she hadn’t done that before, dismissed his efforts as if they were nothing, belittled him through indifference. And yet he had continued to try and please her, endlessly, and all to no avail. Even when he had taken her to Edinburgh, after they lost Glen Dhui, he had walked the streets day and night to find the best lodgings that they could afford. For her.

Gregor closed his eyes. He had sat here, gazing down into the glen, and feeling that sense of hopelessness that always afflicted him when he had had a brush with his mother. She was beautiful, so beautiful on the outside that he had believed she must be just as beautiful on the inside. It was only with maturity that Gregor had realized that was not so. She was a manipulative and shallow woman, rather like Barbara Campbell.

And he was still trying to please her, or women like her.

Well, that was over. He had grown up and learned the value of a woman like Meg. He had no intention of allowing the Barbara Campbells of the world to ruin the wonderful life he had planned.

With new determination, Gregor pushed his wet hair out of his eyes, ignoring his sodden shirt and the way his kilt was dripping into his boots. “Meg?” he said.

The name echoed back from the cave, a soft hissing reverberation. There was a rattle of stones, as if he had disturbed an animal sheltering there. Or perhaps the reverberation of his voice had shaken them loose.

“Meg?” he called again, moving forward, resting a hand against the cold, damp stone and bending to peer into the nothingness. If she wasn’t here, then where was she? If she wasn’t here, what would he do? A bleak emptiness settled in the pit of his stomach, a hollow ache that only she could fill.

“Meg, please…Meg!”

“What are you doing here?”

His heart nearly stopped. As he blinked hard against the darkness and the dripping rain, she stepped forward, at first a shadowy shape, and then her face a pale blur surrounded by brilliant auburn.

“Go away,” she said.

“Kenneth and Shona think they saw Lorenzo in the glen,” he said, ignoring her words, perhaps not believing she meant them. “It isna safe out here alone, Meg. Come home with me, where we can properly guard you.”

“Lorenzo?” She took another step, and now he could see how white her skin was, tinged blue with cold, and how her long hair hung in damp straggles about her shoulders. She looked only slightly less wet than him, and a great deal more chilled.

“Och, Meg, ye’ll catch yer death,” he declared, and reached out toward her.

She backed away, stumbling, nearly falling. The expression on her face had changed from anxiety to revulsion, and Gregor went still.

She didn’t want him.

On his ride here, he had thought only of losing her to Lorenzo, or of how she was hurt when she saw Barbara clinging to him, of how he must explain to her and make all well again. He thought only of how he would feel without her, of how empty his life would be.

He had never once imagined that once he found her it could not be mended, that she would not want it mended.

If she turned from him now, he knew he would be far more abandoned and alone than he had been when he lost Glen Dhui.

“Oh Meg,” he whispered, and pushed back his hair, twisting it at his nape. “She’s a silly woman who thinks only of herself. I couldna love a woman like that, manipulating and selfish.”

“And beautiful,” Meg added quietly, her usually bright eyes dull. They were reddened, too, as if she had been crying. The thought of her here, alone in the dark cave, cold and unhappy, made his hands clench into fists with the need to hold her and comfort her.

“Beautiful?” he said in a carefully even voice. “Hmm, do you call her that? I don’t call that beauty, Meg.”

“Oh, and I suppose you’ll tell me now that I am more beautiful than all the women you have ever known,” she retorted, and some of the dullness in her eyes gave way to anger. Gregor felt relieved—at least she was showing some emotion. This was more like his Meg.

“But you are,” he declared.

“Gregor, I am not a fool! I know that I was a means for you to regain Glen Dhui. I accept that. You will probably stay with me for that reason. But I do not expect you to be faithful to me. How could you?”

It was said so bitterly, but so acceptingly, that he was astonished. Is that what she really thought of him? What had she imagined he was doing, making passionate love to her over the past few weeks, since their wedding? Did she think it just a way for him to pass the time, until another partner came along? Was she so naïve?

But then he remembered. The only men she had known, other than tacksmen and tenants who were in awe of her, were those who sought her out for her father’s wealth. Even if they had liked her for herself, how could she have known it or allowed herself to believe it? She had protected herself with a self-made shield and that shield was still there, held firmly in place, between herself and Gregor.

“There have been women,” he said at last, the necessary words coming to him. Meg was honest, so he would be honest with her, and God help the two of them if she wanted lies. “Women to pass the time, or to stave off loneliness and sadness, women who look attractive when a man has taken a dram or two, but in the morning…Well, you see how it is for a man like me? I dinna look for someone to give me a home and children, what is the point? I have nothing to give in return—or I felt I didn’t. Until now.