Beloved Highlander

“Dinna you, Meg? I think you did, and if you do it again, I’ll just have to come and find you again.”

He waited for her sharp response. But Meg had always had the power to surprise him. She did so now, as she smiled up at him and, with one finger, carefully traced the shape of his mouth. “Promise?” she murmured.

Gregor left her in no doubt as to his reply.

The general came downstairs and joined them for supper, but by the time the meal had finished he was weary and sagging in his chair. Gregor helped him back up to bed. Meg watched them go, the two men she loved most in all the world. When Gregor returned, he was thoughtful and a little melancholy.

“He told me that you are my responsibility now,” he said, when Meg asked him what was wrong.

Meg frowned. “I am no one’s responsibility but my own, Gregor. You know that.”

“Och, I know it, my little hornet. But your father is of the old school, Meg. He believes it is a man’s duty to care for the women in his household. I felt as if he were handing you over to me, and he was doing so in the belief and with the knowledge that I will take good care of you.”

Meg’s lip trembled. “Oh, Gregor! It’s as if he’s letting go, now that you have come.”

He held her in his arms, comforting her as she wept. His heart was heavy, but it was far worse for Meg. She was losing her father, every day watching him sink deeper into old age and infirmity, every day watching him take another step toward death.

After a time she wiped her eyes and found a plain handkerchief on which to blow her nose. “What of your father, Gregor?” she asked curiously. “Do you still miss him?”

Gregor smiled. “I do. When he was alive we fought over most things, but he was my father and my laird. You can love someone, Meg, and still be at odds with them most of your life. Love is not a simple thing; it can make our lives more difficult.”

She was quiet, her face pale in repose, his brave, beautiful Meg.

Gregor held out his hand to her. “Come to bed,” he said, but there was no innuendo in what he said, only a wish to comfort in whatever way he could.

She stared at him a moment, as though trying to gauge the secret meaning behind those simple words, and then she put her hand in his.

Meg had been asleep for a little while, when she felt his hands on her body, touching her, learning her. He cupped her breasts, his thigh sliding between hers, and his tongue traced a journey down the arch of her throat. She pressed closer, tangling her fingers in his unbound hair, no longer caring what he thought of her. He was right. Life was uncertain, and one must take what pleasure one could.

“Meg,” he whispered, “my morvoren.”

Meg stilled him, holding his face close above her own. “What does that mean?” she asked softly. “That word you say? It sounds so beautiful.”

“Morvoren?” He smiled. “Mermaid.”

The word had puzzled her since he first used it, but she hadn’t asked. How many other women had he call his “mermaid”? She had not wanted to be forced to face the fact that she was not special to him after all.

“My beautiful mermaid,” he whispered into her hair. “Take me deep under the waves with you, Meg. Drown me in your kisses.”

She gasped as he began kissing her, forgetting about the others as he branded her flesh with his lips, making his journey down, until he found the place that gave her most pleasure.

If he was drowning, then so was she. And she didn’t care. Loving him was everything she had ever hoped it to be. And even if it lasted only a week, Meg was determined to be content with that. Her memories of him would just have to last her all her life.

Chapter 22

In fact, Meg had three weeks of perfect happiness. Long, dreamy days and hot, sultry nights. Always, there was the fear of danger hanging over them, but she and Gregor used their time fully and well. They rode out into the glen, visiting their larger tenants and the smaller crofters, bathing in the warm glow of their people’s joy at their union.

Gregor, seated in one tiny cottage with an elderly, wizened couple, listened to Meg ask after the health of each of their relatives by name. She knew them all, he thought proudly, and clearly she cared about them all. She was their lady, and they belonged to her.

He had known Glen Dhui meant a great deal to her, but until now he had not understood the nature of her relationship with the glen and its people. She loved them—[ ]genuinely loved them—and she had dedicated her life to looking after them and making their lives easier—whether they liked it or not!

“I dinna know aboot these ’tatties, m’lady,” the old man said, eyeing her from beneath his grizzled brows.

“What don’t you know about the potatoes, Iain? Did you plant some as I told you?”

“Aye, I did.”

“How did they taste?”