Beloved Highlander

Meg would be worrying.

“There, sir.” Calum pointed up a huge staircase, where wood gleamed and gold leaf glowed and silver fittings shone. Candelabra were heavy with candle stubs—no one had thought to replace them. There was no sound from above, no laughter, no shouts of merriment. Only a thick, unbroken silence.

Gregor frowned. The whole castle was silent, empty. Calum was telling the truth when he said Lorenzo had dismissed most of the servants. But how could a place like this run without sufficient staff? And, from all Gregor had heard, the Duke of Abercauldy liked his luxury. He certainly would never live in an empty, echoing castle with only Lorenzo as company. Not if he had a choice.

He began to climb the grand staircase, and then paused with his boot on the bottom step, turning to Calum. “Are you coming?”

Calum looked uneasy, glancing up into the still shadows as if he expected to see the duke peering down at him. “I shall wait here,” he said firmly.

Gregor nodded at Malcolm Bain, and then they and their men, began to climb, attempting to be as quick and quiet as possible. At the top of the stairs an open door led into a flamboyant room, its ceiling painted in rich, jeweled colors, and its grand silver chandelier reflected in the numerous mirrors. Several doors opened on this room, and Gregor went first to one and then another, but the rooms were empty. When he reached the last door, he found it led into a small sitting room, made comfortable with damask-covered chairs and burning candles, and a fire alight in the hearth.

A man sat in one of the chairs.

He was before the fire, staring into it. He did not look up as Gregor stepped into the room, nor did he speak. His gaze was fixed upon the flames, and either he was lost in his own thoughts or he had no intention of acknowledging his unwelcome guests.

“Your Grace!” Calum Anderson had followed them after all. He stood staring at the silent, still shape in the chair as if he expected it to stand up and order him away. But the duke did nothing.

“Your Grace?” Gregor said, loud enough to be heard, and e

ntered the room cautiously.

But the man in the chair did not turn. He wore a brocade coat with a stiffened skirt, the cloth weighed down with decoration. There was a sparkle of jewels at his throat and on his fingers, and his shoe buckles were sprinkled with diamonds. His curled wig was a little crooked upon his head, but other than that he looked normal.

Gregor took a step to one side, examining the duke’s face, although Abercauldy never once looked at him. The man’s eyes were dreamy, as if his mind had long ago left the confines of his body. In his hands he held a decorated silver locket, which he stroked and ran between his fingers lovingly, as if it were a living thing rather than made of cold metal.

“What has that devil done to him?” Calum whispered, shocked. “Can he hear us?”

“I dinna know.” Gregor bent and, very gently, took the locket from the duke’s hands. The man whimpered and clutched at it, like a child who has been deprived of a favorite toy. But Gregor was firm, straightening with the locket in his own hands. He clicked it open.

Meg! But no…it was a face like Meg’s. A woman with a cloud of auburn hair, creamy skin and blue eyes. She even had a sprinkling of golden freckles. When Gregor’s heartbeat had slowed again, he realized it wasn’t Meg at all. The face was narrower, the nose longer, the eyes harder. Clearly this must be the Duke’s first wife, the famous Isabella Mackenzie.

Shona had been correct when she said Isabella and Meg could have been sisters. No wonder Abercauldy, when he saw her, had determined to marry Meg. Isabella, according to Shona, had died when she fell from the north tower. He had lost her forever.

But then he saw Meg.

Malcolm Bain came up to Gregor’s shoulder and also looked down at the portrait. “Did he murder her, do ye think?” he whispered loudly.

“I dinna know. Mabbe. Whatever happened in that tower, though, it sowed the seeds of his destruction.”

“His mind’s gone, then?”

Gregor didn’t answer him, turning instead to the duke. “Your Grace?” he called, but still the man in the chair did not turn. He was at least twice as old as Meg, and not handsome, although his features were aristocratic. Only his chin, which was receding, spoiled his looks, making what might have been a strong face into a weak one.

The Duke of Abercauldy was not a man who was in control of his emotions; they were controlling him.

Something had happened. Had his mind always been weak? Gregor suspected so. From the rumors about him, the duke had always controlled women, used them. And then he had wed Isabella, a woman who sought to control him. He had loved her to madness—she had made his life hell, but still he had loved her. Some people did love like that. When Isabella died, whatever the means of that death, the duke had felt lost. And then he had found Meg, fixed upon Meg—but it was not Meg he had wanted, it was Isabella. He had seen Meg as another Isabella. And he had meant to reclaim her, whether she wished it or not. He had worked upon the general in his devious fashion, tricking him into signing the marriage papers, thinking he had won. But he had reckoned without stubborn Meg.

And he had reckoned without Gregor Grant.

Gently, Gregor returned the locket to Abercauldy’s hands. The narrow fingers clenched hard about it, and he made keening sounds as he lifted it to his lips, kissing the cold silver and whispering to himself, words that made no sense nor had any meaning, except to him.

“He is mad,” Malcolm Bain said with disgust. “For three weeks he has been like this? So Lorenzo has ruled in his stead.”

“Who was it dressed the duke, cared for him?” Gregor asked, looking over his shoulder at Calum Anderson, who still appeared dazed by what he saw.

“Lorenzo. He guarded his privileges like a rabid dog.”

“Then he’s still playing valet, even though his master is beyond knowing, or caring, what he looks like.”