Beloved Highlander

“I am…resigned to my life as it is, Meg.”

Was he? Meg asked herself. Or was he simply trying to put her at ease in the home that had once been his, to deflect her attention? He was still watching her, his amber eyes intent.

“Will we be dining here alone?” he asked her abruptly.

“Yes.”

He smiled, a secret amusement tugging at his lips. “And is that proper?”

Meg frowned and said sharply, “Why would it not be? I am no sheltered miss. I am my own woman, Captain, and I do not dance to anyone’s tune but my own.”

Now his smile grew broader. Her sharp answer had evidently amused him. He leaned down to her, as if to share a secret, and suddenly they were very close. She felt his soft breath against her face, and she could see the texture of his skin, the dark stubble on his jaw, the mauve shadows under his eyes that spoke of weariness and recent illness. The moment was intimate; took her by surprise. Her heartbeat seemed to quicken, and her breath.

“Does Abercauldy know that?” he asked her in a quiet, deep voice.

Meg raised her eyebrows, refusing to step away, refusing to let him see how uncomfortable his closeness was making her.

“I informed him of it in no uncertain terms, Captain! But he cannot know me well, because I do not think he believed me. He accused me of being over-modest in believing I did not deserve him!” She spoke acerbically, leaving him in no doubt of her true character and opinions.

He laughed.

Meg was stunned. Was there a gleam in his eyes? Did she really delight him? What could it be about her tart tongue that pleased him, when so many other men preferred sweeter fruit?

Meg was not naturally bitter. Her sharp manner was a defense, a way of keeping others at bay, or keeping herself inviolate. She had never been beautiful, though any disappointment she had felt in her looks as a young girl was long past. She was different, unusual, a strong-willed woman who knew her own mind. Did he see something in that that pleased him? His evident enjoyment of Meg made her uneasy, suspicious, and yet…and yet it gave her a sense of wonder.

Captain Gregor Grant delighted in her—he enjoyed her.

What does it mean?

Gregor, too, was busy considering his feelings.

At Clashennic he had had the inkling that if he did not climb out of his sickbed, mount his horse, and ride for Glen Dhui, then Meg Mackintosh would have carried him home upon her own slim back. She would nag at him to turn back from death itself, if she wanted to accomplish her task strongly enough. His mouth twitched at the thought of Meg telling the grim reaper off. What was it about her that piqued his interest? She was certainly no great beauty, like Barbara Campbell, and she had nothing of the languid looks of his mother, who in her day had set the standard. Meg was no beauty, although with her red hair and blue eyes she certainly attracted glances. Apart from that, her manner was abrupt, her speech sharp, and her tongue bitter. She said what she thought, and smiled when she meant it—[ ]both refreshing traits. She did not seem to care if anyone should notice that her two front teeth were separated by a small gap.

A small, enchanting gap.

And the way in which she looked him in the eye…not coyly, not with a coquette’s vapid stare, but honestly, openly, without guile. He found that he liked that about her, liked it very much. And he liked her hair. That flame-red, curling glory forever falling into her eyes. He wondered what it would be like to loose it about her shoulders with his hands, send it tumbling down. To have her enchanting smile beaming up at him as she watched him with her pale blue eyes. And if he bent to kiss her, opened her lips, would her tart tongue mate sweetly with his?

Gregor all but groaned aloud.

In an instant, a mere moment, he was out of control—[ ]teetering on the verge of pulling her hard against him and devouring her mouth with his, of running his hands down her body and making her aware, all too clearly aware, of what she did to him.

How had this happened so quickly? So completely? It was not like him to allow a situation to slip beyond the tight grasp he kept upon his emotions, especially when that situation involved a woman like Meg.

It was almost a relief when Alison, accompanied by a couple of serving maids, chose that moment to enter the room with their supper.

Meg seemed relieved, too, eagerly turning to the women to exchange some chatter. They spoke easily of household matters, friendly with each other.

Gregor half listened, still reeling from his need to hold her, to kiss her, to make her his. It must not be. It could not be. He must abide by these strictures. He knew this! Why then did he ache to be a rebel again?

Chapter 11

Meg’s mouth was watering. She had always been blessed with a good appetite, and now as she moved toward the table where Alison had set out the dishes, she was very glad of the distraction of her stomach. She sat down quickly, saying, “Please, help yourself, Captain. We can be informal tonight, and I am sure you must be as hungry as I.”

After a moment, almost reluctantly, he came and sat down opposite her. Meg was already helping herself to cold game pie and stewed kale and seethed fish, ignoring him as much as possible. She swallowed a sip of claret, and closed her eyes with a sigh. When she opened them again, he was watching her with a wry smile.

“You really are hungry.”