Beloved Highlander

“So the Duke of Abercauldy is a murderer? He did kill his wife?”

Gregor believed just that. He opened his mouth to tell her so, and then hesitated as another thought struck him. His eyes narrowed. She was very tense, watching him anxiously. Did she want him to say aye or nay? Did she—and the idea that had come into his brain made it burn, made his eyes flare—did she love the Duke of Abercauldy? Was she hoping to hear that he was innocent, so that she could go ahead and wed him with a clear conscience?

As soon as the thought occurred to him, he knew it was not so. Could not be so. Had the cold seeped into his brain? Of course she did not love Abercauldy! She had told Gregor herself that she had fought against the marriage and only given in for her father’s sake, because she was worried about his health. She had loved no man in such a way, nor did she wish to love one—he could see that, he had seen that. She was the sort of independent woman who very much preferred to be in charge of her own life. Where had this sudden surge of jealousy come from? Why had he imagined, even for a moment, that it was otherwise? And why had it made him so angry?

Best not to think of that.

“It is a distinct possibility that Abercauldy killed his wife, aye.”

She nodded, swallowed, glanced at him uneasily, her shawl still wrapped tightly about her. Did she think that piece of woollen cloth would protect her from whatever threat she believed he posed? And what threat was that? Did he make her nervous? Suddenly Gregor wanted to know exactly what it was about him that made her as restive as a filly in the spring. Was it a woman’s natural fear of a man she did not know well? Was it maidenly modesty? Or was it the fact that she was as attracted to him as Gregor was to her?

He wanted to know, he needed to know, and he didn’t stop to ask himself why.

Gregor took a lithe step toward her. Her body stiffened, her mouth tightened, her eyes widened. And yet even as he saw the signs of her tension, she tried to disguise them, easing her stance, tossing back her long hair, playing a game he knew only too well. I’m not really interested in you, she was saying, when everything about her told him otherwise.

He hid a smile. Och no, she was not as unmoved by him as she would like him to believe. What would she do if he reached for her now? Kissed her now? Would she jump like a scalded cat? Would she run screaming into the cottage, calling for dour Duncan Forbes? Or would she capitulate, melt into his arms and beg him for more?

And what would that accomplish, he asked himself wryly, other than to prove his point? What would he do with a screaming woman, or for that matter, a compliant one? Better to keep the status quo; after all, there was no room in his life for these sorts of complications. And had he not sworn, after Barbara, that he had had enough of women and the troubles they always seemed to bring to him?

She needed his help, and she was willing to pay him for it. He was performing a job for her. And that was all.

Why then did the way in which the cool morning breeze played with her hair fascinate him to the point where his fingers actually twitched with the need to touch those long, silky strands?

“I will keep you safe, Lady Meg,” he told her reassuringly, knowing that the heat in his eyes was anything but reassuring.

Meg’s eyes slid to his and just as quickly away again. “I–I can keep myself safe, thank you, Captain.”

Her color was back, and brighter than ever. His smile broadened—he couldn’t help it. He took the few remaining steps and came to a stop immediately before her. Very close—too close—until he could feel the warmth from her body. Her pale eyes were lifted to his, fixed there unblinkingly. He saw the pupils dilate, while the pulse in her throat fluttered like butterfly wings, begging for him to touch his lips just there. Aye, there was some great emotion inside her, something tumultuous. If things were different, he would have liked to discover what it was.

But things weren’t different, so Gregor pulled back from the brink, and instead of kissing her, made his voice playful and teasing, made himself into something she could dismiss and despise.

“Och, but you are paying me to do the looking after, Meg. I wouldna want you not to get your money’s worth, now, would I?”

Meg could have said she had had her money’s worth from him last night, when she had lain comfortably, asleep, in his arms. She could not have said what it was she dreamed, but it had been a sweet dream. Gregor Grant was not a man to give any woman nightmares. When she had awoken this morning, refreshed, her first thought had been: Where is he? He already seemed so much a part of her life….

So she had come looking for him, and seen far more than was good for her peace of mind.

He was still smiling at her—that crooked, rueful smile that twisted something in her chest, until she wanted to reach out with her fingers and trace his mouth, very slowly. The full lower lip, the arch of the upper lip, and on from there.

As if he had read her mind, he moved, and believing he meant to touch her, Meg jumped back. But he only chuckled and walked on past her, lengthening his stride until he had vanished around the corner of the building.

Meg closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding furiously and she felt breathless and lightheaded. Utterly ridiculous! she told herself. How could she be so affected by seeing a man bathing? Was she such a child? She had seen men bathe before, she had seen men naked before and taken such things in her stride. If one lived beyond the civilized boundaries, then one learned to accept such awkward moments.

And yet, when she had seen Gregor, the water running in rivulets over the firm, golden skin of his back, spearing through the crisp hair that grew on his chest and down his belly, vanishing into the waist of his kilt…Oh yes, she had been dizzy! Dizzy with desire! Lightheaded with lust!

Meg laughed at her own flowery prose, but her humor had a bitter edge to it. She chewed her lip to regain control. Was she going mad? She was a woman grown, a sensible spinster who had never yet had the urge to wed. Why did this tough man affect her so? Did she still believe that somewhere, beneath his hardened exterior, dwelt her artistic hero?

Whatever the truth of that, she had learned something new today. She had learned that the longing to find love, and the feeling of desire, were two separate entities. She may not love Gregor Grant, but she certainly desired him. It did not matter that such feelings were completely inappropriate; they could no more be denied than the sun rising up now, shining over the glen before her.

“You are paying him,” she murmured crossly to herself. “He may be the former Laird of Glen Dhui, but

he is your employee. You must not compromise him, or yourself.”

Meg nodded to herself. She would have to keep a tight rein on her feelings. Not just for the sake of propriety, but because she would simply die of embarrassment if Gregor Grant ever discovered that Lady Meg Mackintosh was mad with lust for him.

If he didn’t know it already…

Of course he did! Why else had he smiled at her just now? And looked at her just so? Because her feelings amused him. A man like that, he must have known countless women, fought duels over hundreds of them! What was Meg Mackintosh to him but an amusing moment? Best, for her own dignity, that it go no further.