Beloved Highlander

As Meg drew the brush slowly through her hair, she allowed her mind to drift.

The general, her father, would be wondering how she was faring. She did not like the thought of leaving him for too long. While he had been in good health he had held firm the reins of Glen Dhui, and no one had dared to threaten them. Now that he was blind and fragile in body and mind, the wolves had begun to circle, and one Highland wolf in particular had been most insistent.

It was not wise to deny powerful men, and such a man was the Duke of Abercauldy. The Duke believed he would soon be adding Glen Dhui to his sizeable estate—he already owned much of the land to the south of Glen Dhui—[ ]and Meg to his household, as his wife.

But he had underestimated Meg. Lady Margaret Mackintosh was no ordinary woman. She had never been one to be tied down by the beliefs and strictures of the society in which she lived, or by what the men of her acquaintance told her she should or shouldn’t do.

Her father blamed himself for her stubbornness and her determination to do very much as she pleased. He had brought her up to value her own worth and follow her own inclinations, and often bewailed his ignorance of the consequences of doing so. No born and bred gentleman himself—[ ]coming as he did from a more humble background, he had made his money from the collieries in the north of England. That wealth had bought him power, and the rank of general in the Hanoverian forces in the late Rebellion. He had wanted but one more thing to make his rise complete, and that was for his only child, his beloved daughter, to marry a proper gentleman.

Ever since she had come of age, Meg had been tripping over gentlemen, most of them penniless and with an eye to her father’s fortune. She was not the sort of woman men swooned over, or fought duels over, she thought with a wry smile. Her tongue was too sharp, her mind too intelligent, and she was not beautiful. And perhaps worst of all, she valued honesty; she was no gullible fool when it came to the motives of men. They did not want her, only what came with her, and she was not prepared to pretend otherwise.

She had determined at a very early age that she would marry for one thing only—love.

It was ironic that the general had caused the destruction of her vow. His wits, once so sharp, had been dulled by illness. He was vulnerable, and his weakness had led him to fall for the duke’s subtle persuasions. By the time Meg had learned of their agreement it was too late: The papers were signed. She was officially engaged to the Duke of Abercauldy. She and her father had argued, bitterly, until Meg came to realize that he had done this thing because he had thought to protect her; because he loved her.

So, Meg had accepted her fate.

And then other matters had arisen, serious matters, that had shown her father his mistake was not just in his miscalculation of the duke’s intentions, but might possibly involve Meg’s life….

“I’m an old fool,” he’d wept, head in his hands. “What have I done to you, my Meg?”

Meg had been frightened then, for him and herself. They had sat up late into the night, and in the end the general’s solution had been simple. Find Gregor Grant and bring him back to Glen Dhui, and her father would do the rest.

With a sigh, Meg climbed beneath the covers. A servant had placed a hot brick wrapped in a thick cloth just where her feet came to rest. She gave a wriggle of contentment as she warmed her toes. The journey would be a success, she assured herself. Gregor Grant would return with her to Glen Dhui and help her father stand firm against the duke. All would be well. She must believe that. Because, frankly, the alternative didn’t bear consideration.

Chapter 4

Gregor woke in the sharp predawn air. For a moment he simply lay, wondering where he was, for this was certainly not the narrow, uncomfortable bed in his quarters at the barracks. And then he tried to move, and the sickening pain in his arm brought back his memory with a jolt.

It had begun with the duel.

He had fought Airdy Campbell and won. Except that winning had been more like defeat, for Barbara, who had begged for his help and played upon his chivalric nature, had returned to her husband, and Gregor had been left to find his own way home, wounded and alone.

There would be repercussions.

Like a pebble tossed into a still loch, the ripples would spread far.

Airdy would not let him forget this. He would have his revenge. And knowing Airdy, it would come when he least expected it. When Airdy struck it would be with a sudden savagery that would probably prove fatal. In the meantime Airdy would do his best to undermine Gregor with the men, spreading poison among them, making his life intolerable.

Gregor knew he could go to the Duke of Argyll and explain matters, but would he listen? Airdy was his nephew, while Gregor was nothing to him. And although Argyll had the reputation of a man of consideration and reason, things like blood ties were always tricky.

What should he do, then? Join one of the government regiments and go and fight in a distant country? Or leave the army altogether, and find work as some great lord’s factor, haranguing tenants for their rent when they barely had enough to feed their children? Gregor felt his spirits sink even lower. He did not want that. This was not the road his life had been meant to take.

As a boy Gregor had run wild through Glen Dhui and the hills that surrounded it, sure in his heart, in his soul, that one day it would all be his. It belonged to him by right. The Grants had held Glen Dhui since Queen Mary ruled and Gregor had never dreamed it would be taken from them. Like the rising of the sun each morning, he had not thought it possible anything so fixed, so familiar, could suddenly cease to be. But it had. Glen Dhui had been lost, the sun had failed to rise, and his world had gone dark.

He moved restlessly and then bit back a groan. His head throbbed almost worse than his arm. There was a memory, something important. It proved elusive, however. Gregor shifted again in his bed, making the throbbing in his arm into a jagged ache. There had been a woman, a woman with hair like fire. She had been here, he knew it, remembered the scent of her skin. Good God, she had sewn up his arm! Lady Margaret Mackintosh, a redheaded, acid-tongued harridan.

With skin like milk and a mouth more luscious than any ripe fruit.

A heavy knock on his door interrupted his pleasant thoughts. Gregor sighed, lifting his head to call “Come in,” then wished he had not as the room swam dizzily around him. “Who is it?” he croaked.

The door opened to admit a sturdy, dark-haired man, who cautiously approached the bed. Gregor squinted up at him, his throat scratchy. Memory was returning. Duncan Forbes. This was definitely Duncan Forbes.

Duncan had been one of his father’s tacksmen, and here he was, looking older, but otherwise, more or less, the same stiff-backed Duncan he had always been.

“How are ye feeling, sir?” he asked diffidently, as if Gregor were still the Laird of Glen Dhui.

Gregor swallowed and found his voice. “I’ve been better, Duncan. What are you doing here? I thought I dreamed you.”