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Malcolm Bain stood stiffly, as if he were under attack. “I wanted to speak with Captain Grant, my lady.”
Gregor came to put his arm about the other man’s shoulders, leading him firmly toward the door, saying, “Then come outside, Malcolm, and we will speak there.”
Meg waited until they had gone, then gave Alison a long, stern look. “You are making a fool of yourself.”
Alison bristled. “I am not, my lady! I speak as I see fit.”
“I think it is time you put the past in its place.”
“I will never forget the past,” Alison retorted in a low, thrumming voice. “He abandoned me.”
“He had a duty to his laird.”
“He had a duty to me!”
There was pain in the other woman’s voice, a great deal of pain. Clearly Alison had loved Malcolm Bain, had expected to spend her life with him. Gently, Meg touched her hand. “He did, Alison. He did have a duty to you. But he made his choice. He cannot change what has been, and neither can you. You must put it behind you and move on. ’Tis the only way.”
“Is it? Well, I want him to suffer as I suffered.”
“Have you told him?”
Alison’s eyes widened, and she didn’t pretend to misunderstand the question. “Nooo! And I won’t, and neither will anyone else, if they know what’s good for them.”
“Alison, you know that someone will tell him, eventually. Or he will simply realize the truth. They are very alike, you know, Malcolm and Angus. Wouldn’t such a thing be better coming from you?”
“I dinna want him to know. Angus is my son!”
Meg spoke gently. “He’s Malcolm’s son too, and sooner or later Malcolm will discover it.”
Alison shot her a look of mingled rage and fear, and bolted toward the kitchen.
Meg stood alone in the Great Hall.
Alison’s child had already been born when Meg came to Glen Dhui. She had told Meg the father had died in the Rebellion, but gradually Meg had come to understand, through overheard remarks and chance snippets of chatter, that the father had been Alison’s sweetheart, and that he had left Glen Dhui years ago.
Duncan would not speak of it, but it was obvious he believed his sister had been cruelly deserted, and his animosity toward Malcolm Bain had been made abundantly clear upon their first meeting in Clashennic. There was no hope of a cool head then, in that quarter—the Forbeses were renowned for their tempers.
Still, Meg hoped that something could be sorted out of the mess. It would have to be, if they were to live peacefully together once more. And yet it was doubtful any progress could be made, if Alison and Malcolm did nothing more than shout and argue.
Meg smiled wryly to herself. She was a fine one to give advice! She had not spoken to her own father since the evening before, when he had sent her from the room. How could she ever win him to her point of view, if she did not speak to him? It was time to go upstairs and sit down and put an end to this nonsense. Whatever had been said to Gregor, and Gregor had said to him, was something she had a right to know. Meg meant to make a determined attempt to discover exactly what was going on between them….
In that moment she realized Gregor was standing in the shadows by the main door, watching her.
Tonight he had caught his hair back in its habitual black ribbon, the fair strands shining in the flare of a torch set in a sconce on the wall. His piercing eyes were hollows, and the hard planes of his face were etched in dark and light. In his old, faded kilt and brown jacket he looked like the ghost of some ancient Highlander, some handsome Grant chief, come to reclaim his home.
How long had he been there? She felt herself shiver at the idea of him observing her without her knowledge, of his gaze examining her, minutely, inch by inch, while she stood in the Great Hall in her green silk dress. Such a thought made her squirm with discomfort…and something else that was suspiciously like pleasure.
“Is Malcolm gone?” she asked abruptly, more to still her own discomfiting thoughts than to break the long silence between them.
“Aye.” His voice echoed in the room, a whisper of sound. “Alison?”
“She, too.” She smiled ruefully. “But I fear their battle is far from over.”
“I think you are right, Meg.”
He stepped forward, and now the gold in his hair caught the candlelight, the silver buttons of his jacket glinted against the dark cloth, and the red stones in the ancient-looking brooch that fastened his kilt at his shoulder gleamed.
“Are you still hungry?” he asked her in a quiet, deep voice.
