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  “Captain Grant?” she called again, a little desperately now, her voice all but lost in the hubbub.

  A brute with massive shoulders and wild hair pointed out a table, his finger unerringly directing her to the only occupant. A man sat with his back to her, slouched over the drink he held cupped in his big hands. Slowing to a stop, Meg let her eyes travel over him, widening with each inch. Even the voice in her head was silenced.

  He was wearing a worn green jacket that pulled taut over his wide shoulders, and a faded plaid that appeared almost gray in the poor light. His hair was unpowdered, and it was not so much golden as fair brown, the color of honey, its untidy length caught at his nape. A ribbon of shock was slowly unfurling in Meg’s stomach.

  This man was absolutely nothing like the Gregor Grant she had pictured in her mind for so long. His back was far too broad, his arms, resting on the table’s surface, far too well muscled, and his legs, stretched out from under his kilt, were far too long. He looked careworn and scruffy and far gone from drink. He was alone, with an air about him that discouraged company.

  This isn’t him. This cannot be him.

  “Captain Grant?”

  Her voice came out sharper than she meant, and at the sound of it he turned his head, scowling nastily at being interrupted in his solitary drinking. Meg saw then that his eyes were amber coloured, gold as a wildcat’s, and slightly out of focus beneath slashing black brows. There were violet shadows beneath, and he had not shaved in a while. His cheeks were prickly with a stubble as dark as those fierce eyebrows. Oh, and he was handsome. Not in the delicate, fine-boned way she had imagined—there was nothing effeminate about Gregor Grant. His was a face that had lived and suffered, a tough masculine face, the face of a man who gave no quarter and expected none.

  The Gregor Grant she had imagined had been a boy. This was a man, a man who would do no one’s bidding but his own. A man who was scowling up at her with the most fascinating and yet unfriendly eyes that she had ever seen.

  Meg had come to find a dream, a wispy, insubstantial girlhood dream.

  Before her was solid reality.

  Chapter 2

  A little earlier, Gregor Grant had run his fingers through his hair, lifting a swath out of his eyes and blinking about him. The light in the Black Dog was prone to be dim, could not help but be, with its low-beamed ceiling and warrenlike rooms. It literally soaked up the smells of ale, whiskey, woodsmoke, and its malodorous clientele. Gregor should know—he was a regular customer—but even so, in his present inebriated state, everything seemed worse than usual.

  His body ached. Tough and fit as he was, the duel he had fought and won against Airdy Campbell in the crisp dawn had tested him. And Airdy’s sword had found a way past his defenses, slashing into the soft flesh of his upper arm. He should feel bitter, because Barbara Campbell, the cause of that duel, had promptly abandoned him, her hero, and gone back to her husband. Gone back despite Airdy’s defeat, despite all her declarations to the contrary.

  But Gregor did not feel any more bitter than usual, just somewhat used. He had been a fool to listen to Barbara’s pleas for his help, her tales of Airdy’s cruelty and her own desperation. She had claimed she wanted to be free of Airdy, and Gregor had given her the opportunity. But instead of taking the chance he offered, she had promptly thrown herself back into trouble’s arms.

  Gregor’s head throbbed.

  He did not normally drink to excess; he was not the sort of man who needed to find oblivion in the bottom of his cup. Only occasionally did the past threaten to rise up and swallow him whole. Forgetfulness, however it was arrived at, was welcome then. This just happened to be one of those occasions.

  The whiskey he had been drinking tonight was distilled in the hills, powerful raw stuff that singed the lining of the throat. It was very good for bringing on amnesia, to help him to forget what his life had once been and could be now, and was not. And yet for some reason, tonight, the spirit had had the opposite effect. One by one, his memories had come trooping out of the past and tapped him on the shoulder.

  Glen Dhui.

  In his mind he could see the turreted house, solid gray against the soft purple of the heather, keeping watch. His house, the house of his Grant ancestors. He still, in his heart, thought of it in that way. And it still stood watch, but the Grants were no longer Lairds of Glen Dhui. The Government had taken the estate after the 1715 Rebellion, after Gregor’s father died and Gregor was imprisoned. His mother and sister had fled to Edinburgh, into the arms of his mother’s family, and there they had stayed. For a time Gregor had chosen to wander, before he managed to beg himself a commission in the Duke of Argyll’s regiment.

  Twelve years since Gregor had been home. Twelve years since he had had a home.

  “Captain Grant?”

  He did not know the voice, but he felt he should. Quiet yet determined, tart yet with a breathlessness that caught in his chest and gripped, hard. The voice tugged at him, like a line thrown to a drowning man, bringing him up from the shadowy place where he had been dwelling all evening.

  Gregor turned and looked up from the colorless swirl of liquid at the bottom of his cup. And blinked to clear his vision. A figure hovered by him. A redheaded woman in a blue jacket, her long slim legs encased in tartan trews and dusty riding boots. Briefly her image shimmered, as if she might vanish altogether, but then instead of going away it steadied. This was indeed a woman, a woman in trews. Gregor blinked again, owlishly, studying her face. White skin, pale blue eyes and flame-red hair. A flame-haired angel, risen from the sputtering candlelight.

  Was such a thing likely? Or was he now having visions?

  But if she was a vision, he was not alone in seeing her. The groups of men around him had fallen strangely silent. Hardened soldiers, men from his own barracks rubbing shoulders with artisans from the town and crofters from the surrounding countryside. They were staring at her, as astonished and mystified as he by her sudden appearance in their midst. Women did not normally drink at the Black Dog…nor did they want to.

  “It is Captain Gregor Grant?”

  The angel spoke again, in her English accent, a voice oddly precise and demanding for such a heavenly creature. Gregor frowned and looked into her eyes. They were, he thought with surprise, the exact blue of a Highland summer sky. For the first time in a very long while he had the urge to paint, to draw, to capture somehow her vibrancy. He fought it, concentrating instead on the dull, heavy throbbing in his arm where Airdy’s sword had slashed deep, and the dry whiskey burn in his throat. The vision wanted conversation? Aye, then he’d give her conversation!

  “I am Gregor Grant,” he admitted at last, his voice a little slurred from the whiskey but mostly from the pain.

  The angel took a deep breath, her breasts swelling under the fitted jacket in a manner that caught and held his attention. They were not large breasts, but nor were they small. Just right, he thought, plump and round. A perfect fit for his large hands. To his surprise, desire sprang to life in his groin. Would she sit on his knee, he wondered feverishly, and let him unfasten those buttons one by one?

  It was the silence that recalled him from his warm imaginings. Gregor peered up into her eyes, and realized she was waiting to regain his notice. There was a wash of pink in her cheeks, and now the pale blue gaze held an edginess.

  “I require your help, Captain Grant,” she said, tightening her mouth. “For that I need you sober. Are you often under the influence of strong drink? It is my rule that all men in my service are sober when in my presence.”

  He frowned, trying to puzzle out the difference between what she was saying and what she meant. His head felt as if it were stuffed with sheep’s wool. “I am in no woman’s service,” he said slowly, “although it is sometimes my pleasure to service women.”

  She did not appreciate his ribald wit. He had insulted her. The pink in her cheeks ripened and her blue eyes turned stormy.

  Gregor shook his head in bewilderment. The effect of
the whiskey was almost entirely gone, and instead he had begun to feel sick from the relentless, agonizing, drumming in his arm. “Who are you? What’z it you want’f me? Why ’ave you sought m’out in this place?”

  The words had sounded fine in his head, but his mouth had difficulty forming them. “This place,” he said again, and waved at the scene around them, at the watching men. And then noticed the ugly cut on the back of his hand. Yet another reminder of his dawn duel.

  The woman with the red hair had also seen the jagged slash across the back his hand. Her eyes widened and the color drained from her face. She had freckles, he thought in wonder. There was a light sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and on her pert nose. He had the mad urge to test each one with a kiss.

  “You are hurt!” she cried, and it was more of an accusation than a sympathetic statement. As if he had wounded himself apurpose, to thwart her plans.

  He was hurt. Maybe far worse than he had realized when he had tended to his wounds himself. He supposed he should have found a surgeon, but in Gregor’s experience such men caused more harm than good….

  Gregor felt the room shift about him.

  It was just like Airdy to take him by surprise, slicing upwards when Gregor had expected him to thrust forward. Airdy knew him too well when it came to sword fighting. They had practiced together too often, playing at combat which had far too many times turned into the real thing. Airdy did not like to be beaten. He would never forgive Gregor for championing Barbara, never mind that Barbara had begged him to free her from her jealous and unstable husband. And now she had gone back to him, and Airdy would see that as his victory, just as he would see his defeat in the duel as something he must rectify.

  How could they ever soldier together again? How could he ever trust Airdy at his back again?

  He couldn’t. That was the trouble. Gregor knew he would have to send Airdy away…or go himself.

  “Lady Margaret!”

  The exclamation shattered his wandering thoughts. Gregor focused on the small, dark-haired man pushing his way through the crowded room, his visage grim enough to scare children. With a frisson of shock, Gregor realized he knew the man. It had been a long time, aye, but despite the dizziness in his head and the poor light, he recognized him.

  The flame-haired angel had spun around at the sound of her name. A sweet scent of rose and woman drifted from her clothing and the body beneath it. Familiar, and yet new and different. Gregor tried to hold on to the moment, to concentrate on what was being said, but darkness was gathering at the edges of his sight. He should have sought out Malcolm Bain after the duel, even though he had known what Malcolm would say. He had not wanted to hear the lecture about being taken in by a pretty face, being too much of a gentleman to tell her to save her own skin, being too much of a bloody hero for his own good, and did he never learn!

  “Duncan.” The angel spoke the name in surprise, reclaiming his wandering attention. There was something in the tilt of her head, a combination of guilt and annoyance, decided Gregor. She looked like a woman who had been caught out in a prank she knew very well Duncan would not approve of.

  Duncan had already begun to admonish her in a loud whisper. “Lady, ye should have waited at the inn for me and the lads to return and accompany ye! This is no place for quality. Ye could have been accosted….”

  Her sweetly freckled nose jerked up another notch. This was a woman used to getting her own way, and moreover one who did not like to be told off by her inferiors. Her voice was so cold even Gregor felt its chill.

  “When I discovered Captain Grant was just across the square I thought it best to act at once, Duncan. We have little time to waste. As you know.”

  Duncan’s jaw tightened and he visibly swallowed back a further rebuke. Just as well for him, Gregor thought with a grin. Duncan had always believed he knew what was best, but the lady did not look the type to stand being scolded in public. The two of them glared at each other, neither willing to back down.

  Time Gregor intervened.

  “Duncan, lad. ’S been a long time.”

  Duncan appeared to freeze on the spot. His eyes swiveled around to Gregor’s and widened.

  “The Laird,” he whispered. “Dear God, ’tis you.”

  Gregor nodded somberly, pretending he wasn’t about to slide off his chair into a puddle on the floor. “What do y’here, Duncan? And in s-such fine company.” His gaze slid over Meg, taking in her haughty looks. “A’ f-firssht I thought sh’ was an angel,” Gregor added in a mock whisper. “An angel in trews-s-s.”

  She flushed, but her voice was heavy with disgust. “He’s drunk. You told me he was someone we could depend upon. Do you still think so, Duncan?”

  “He is.” A new voice, making them turn around. A man stood behind them, as broad as he was tall, his eyes blue and piercing. He looked as if he had worn the same clothes for a week, and slept in them too. There was a tear in the sleeve of his shirt, and a hole in his plaid where it wrapped across his shoulder.

  Meg was aware of Duncan stiffening like a dog on a scent beside her, but she kept her gaze warily on the stranger.

  “And you are?” she asked haughtily.

  He bowed a head covered in wild fair hair. “Malcolm Bain MacGregor, my lady. I am Captain Grant’s man.”

  Being someone’s man should have sounded subservient, but when Malcolm Bain said it, it was a matter of pride.

  “Malcolm Bain is from Glen Dhui,” Duncan added woodenly. “He was.”

  “I see.” Meg cast her eye over him. She sensed there was something unresolved between Malcolm Bain MacGregor and Duncan Forbes, but that must wait until later. At least Malcolm Bain appeared sober, which was more than she could say for his master, who had dropped his head onto his arms on the tabletop and appeared to be sleeping.

  “We have come to speak to Captain Grant on a matter of great importance. Unfortunately he is…tipsy.”

  Malcolm Bain gave her a curious look, before bending over Gregor Grant, resting his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Gregor, lad? Are ye up to listening to this lady?”

  With an effort, it seemed, Gregor lifted his head and scowled at his man, before his gaze shifted to Meg. She raised an eyebrow at him in mock inquiry. And waited.

  Through the haze of whiskey and the savage pain in his arm, Gregor noted that she had closed her mouth in a taut line. She would be the sort, he decided, who would always need to have the last word. Unless she were kissed breathless first. What would that little mouth taste like? Would she be all fire and passion beneath her fitted coat, or would she prefer to let him do all the work?

  Gregor grinned at her, and seeing her confusion and outrage, chuckled aloud. A red curl had flopped over her brow, and she brushed it away crossly and tucked it behind her ear. She was neat, apart from that curling hair. Neat as a pin. Gregor knew a desperate urge to rumple her.

  “Surely,” he said slowly, “you have no’ come all this-s-s way just to see me?”

  Those pale blue eyes collided with Duncan’s and slid away, but Gregor had read their doubt and uncertainty. They had come to see him. Come all the way from Glen Dhui, the Dark Glen, tucked away in the distant hills, isolated even by Highland standards. They had come to find him after he had been twelve years adrift, and if they had come now, then the reason must be something very special indeed.

  A coldness washed over him, sank into his very bones. The Glen Dhui he remembered was the one he had left behind him when he was seventeen, a little shabby from lack of money, but still grand and beautiful. He had left everything behind, taken nothing into his new life. Only his memories.

  Were they, too, about to be soiled?

  “What’sh ’appened to Glen Dhui?” he demanded, his words slurring into each other, making him angry that he could not make himself better understood, that he was not his usual self. He leaped up, but everything had slowed down. The floor shifted beneath his feet, like a rolling ocean wave, so that he could not find purchase. His arm hurt
like the very devil where Airdy had cut him, and he caught his breath in a hiss.

  The angel was so close now that he was drowning in the sweet, warm essence of her. He could see the dark pupils centering the blue of her eyes. He swayed toward her, lost his balance, and instinctively reached out for her. As he did so, he knew what he wanted. He wanted to feel her soft breasts beneath her blue jacket, the brush of her pink lips on his hot brow, the gentle touch of her fingers on his hair, the whisper of her breath against his fevered skin.

  As he fell she caught him in her arms. Or tried to. He heard her gasp of shocked surprise, the little whoosh of her breath when she took his weight. For a brief, heavenly moment he was encased in her warmth, his head resting upon her bosom, just where he had wanted it to be. He tried to open his eyes against the black dots that were filling his vision, and found that her fiery hair had tumbled from its pins, covering him.

  He was on fire. Burning. Maybe even dying.

  If he were dying, then this seemed as good a place as any to do so, and better than most. With a groan, Gregor sank into unconsciousness, and wrapped in his angel’s arms, tumbled to the floor.

  Chapter 3

  Gregor Grant was so large and tough, so masculine, so much a man. Much bigger than her imaginings, much more real…

  No, he was not as Meg had expected. Not as she had ever imagined in her wildest dreams.

  She still felt shaky from the incident in the Black Dog. She was still reeling from the heavy weight of his much larger body pressed to hers, the hot brush of his breath on her cheek, his rough jaw rasping her soft neck. The memory of it caused a trembling feeling deep inside her that worried her.

  Meg followed as the men carried the unconscious former laird across to the inn and set him down in a big, wooden chair by the fire. His head drooped low upon his chest, as if he were asleep, and his kilt had ridden up to show a large amount of muscular and hairy thigh. Meg tried not to look, but her eyes kept sliding back in that direction.