Beloved Highlander

Chagrined, Duncan said nothing, although Gregor could see that he really wanted to. But Duncan had old-fashioned manners, while Gregor no longer considered it necessary to have any manners at all.

Lady Meg was staring at him—she had taken up a stance at the foot of the bed. Flame-red hair, creamy, freckled skin, and those eyes of a particular pale, piercing blue. He had not imagined her. She was the woman of last night. Although he did not recall her as being quite so feminine. Last night she had worn trews and a jacket, and very fetching in them she had been, too; today she wore a blue gown with little taffeta bows marching invitingly down the tight-laced bodice….

“Captain Grant, I wish to speak with you on an important matter,” she said imperiously, autocratically. And yet, thought Gregor, there was sweetness in the curve of her mouth, and her lashes were long and thick, and under the gown her body was all woman….

No! No, no, no. Had not Barbara and her pleas for his help been enough? Did he really want to go down that road again? He had been a gullible fool once this week; he did not intend to make it twice.

“Sir, this is Lady Margaret Mackintosh,” Duncan interrupted. “She and her father are the owners of Glen Dhui. She has come all this way to find ye and ask ye to help us.”

Lady Margaret Mackintosh gave him a speaking glance. “Thank you, Duncan, but I can introduce myself. Have you told him all?”

“Not yet, Lady Meg.”

“Then I shall do so.”

She opened her mouth with that intention, but Gregor did not let her speak.

“You have done me great honor then, Lady Margaret, by coming all this way to ask for my help, but you have wasted your time. I am no longer Laird of Glen Dhui, and what happens there is no longer my concern. I do not want it to be.”

She looked taken aback. Her gaze slid to Duncan and she raised a brow meaningfully. No fool, Duncan, he rose to his feet.

“I will leave ye to yer talk, Lady Meg. I have matters to see to in the town,” he added, and hastened from the room.

Lady Margaret waited until the door closed. The silence gathered in expectation.

“He does not approve of my being here,” she said quietly, those brilliant eyes watching. “Do you remember last night at all, Captain? I sewed your wound for you and you promised me your gratitude. Is this how you repay me? By refusing my request outright, before you have even heard it?”

“I don’t need to hear it. I do not want to hear it. I am done with Glen Dhui; my life lies elsewhere.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and then strolled gracefully around the bed. He admired the sway of her skirts, the tilt of her head. There was something compelling about her, he couldn’t deny it. Not the soft pliancy of Barbara, the insincerity of Barbara. This woman would not lie lightly, and she would not be soft. She was honest fire. But that did not mean she would not do anything in her power to get her own way, if she were desperate enough.

She was standing beside the bed now. His amber gaze slid down over her face, closing on her mouth. It was just as luscious as he had remembered, and Gregor wondered what it tasted like. Whether she would resist him if he reached up and kissed her, or sink willingly into his embrace. The silence grew uncomfortable before he spoke again.

“You are wasting your time.”

“I thought a gentleman’s word meant everything to him?” She said it sharply, leaning forward over him, her hands planted on her hips, her jaw stubbornly set. Suddenly he was very tempted indeed to do just as he had imagined, to reach up and pull her down onto the bed with him, to use his mouth and his hands on her until she gasped with need, with want.

“But I am no longer a gentleman,” he reminded her huskily.

He watched her from beneath his lashes, wondering if she was convinced yet of the impossibility of what she was asking. She was watching him as well, and now her face was a little paler. But whether it was because she was beginning to understand the futility of her journey, or her sensing of the tension between them—him and her, alone in his bedroom—he didn’t know.

Her gaze rested on his and then, reluctantly, began to slide down over his throat, across that part of his chest that was exposed above the covers. As if realizing what was happening, her eyes shot back to his, startled as a grouse caught out of cover on the moor.

He smiled, slowly. Did she desire him, too? If so, then she was hiding it from him now, with her gaze turned watchful, cautious. Was there desire beneath that careful mask? Gregor was used to seeing desire in women’s eyes; it had been there all his life. And yet this woman was

different, beyond his ken.

“Will you not even hear what I have to say?” Her voice was softer now, with a note of pleading in it.

He felt himself quiver, deep inside, but did not let her see the weakness. Gregor knew very well that he was weak where women were concerned; it was a fault he had tried hard to correct. This time, he swore to himself, he would not be brought to his knees by a soft voice and a tearful gaze.

“You would be wasting your time.”

There must be a way, Meg told herself desperately.

Last night she had believed Gregor Grant was hers, and now, this morning, she had made the discovery that somehow he had slipped out of her grasp, eluded her. Was it his pride that was hurt? Or was he simply too selfish to care what happened to the people who had loved him—loved him still? She had come here with the expectation that some fondness would remain in his heart, some responsibility for his former tenants and his land. That he must feel that same joining of heart and soul to the land that she felt. Evidently he didn’t. The boy he had been—that she had believed him to be—did not exist.

The man who stood in his place had neither heart nor conscience. She was wasting her time.