The general snorted. “Right? You are my daughter, Meg, and therefore you obey me. I will speak to Gregor alone. You have brought him to me, and for that I thank you, but now what must be said is between us men.”
Color whipped into her cheeks, anger flared in her eyes, her mouth trembled on the verge of harsh words, or sobs, Gregor wasn’t sure which. He felt an acute sympathy for her, a sense of fellow feeling. It seemed most ungenerous of her father to send her from the room like a child, after all she had been through to please him.
“Perhaps Lady Meg might stay,” he ventured.
“No.” The general’s mouth closed in a stubborn line, and suddenly he looked very much like his daughter.
Meg flashed him a look, but Gregor shrugged his shoulders. What could he do? He had no rights here, not over the general and certainly not over Meg.
Meg didn’t value such lukewarm support. With a final glare in his direction, she strode from the room, slamming the door behind her. They heard her footsteps moving away at a rapid pace.
The general chuckled softly, admiring of his daughter’s temper. “Meg is a termagant. A fighter. No wishy-washy miss, my girl, eh, Gregor?”
“I would not call her a wishy-washy miss, sir, no.”
The general chuckled again at the dry note in Gregor’s voice. “You like a bit of spirit, do you not? I cannot imagine you wanting a woman who jumped to your every word, Gregor. Might as well marry one of your soldiers, eh?”
“You’re right, General Mackintosh.” Gregor pulled a chair closer. He was bone weary, his arm was throbbing, and he felt dizzy in the head. If the general did not get to the point soon it was quite likely he would fall over, and they would have to call the servants to drag him, feet-first, to his bed.
The general said, with the uncanny perception of a blind man, “Before you sit down, Gregor, there is some whiskey there that isn’t too bad. They have been making it in a still near Cragan Dhui from the dawn of time, but you would know that. Pour us both a dram, would you? Meg waters it down; she thinks I don’t know. She thinks I
drink too much of it. She tries to make me drink that devilish tea that is becoming all the fashion now—psst! Well, maybe it’s true, maybe I do drink too much whiskey, but what else is there to do to help pass the long nights?”
Gregor poured the drinks, and then sat down in a chair facing the old man. The whiskey was raw and strong, and its warmth coursed through him, reawakening his tired brain. He watched the general drink his own, seeming to manage with ease despite his lack of sight. For a moment they sat companionably by the window, as if they hadn’t just met after so long apart.
“So you know about the Duke of Abercauldy?” The general’s voice was weary, resigned, repentant.
“I know as much as Meg has told me.”
“Ah, Meg is it?” A smile curled his mouth, but soon faded again. His head bowed gloomily, his straight back slumped. “I believed he was a fine fellow; I realize now that was what he wanted me to believe. I was easy meat for that crow, Gregor! Feeling sorry for myself, feeling old and worn out. He puffed me up with tales of my own vanity and self-importance, and in return I agreed to let him marry my daughter! Even knowing she would be furious with me for doing so. I told myself I had her best interests at heart, that eventually she would thank me for it.”
He shook his head mournfully and continued. “I do worry for her. That is my excuse, though it is a poor one. I worry what will become of her when I am gone. She will be alone, a little lamb surrounded by the circling wolves. I convinced myself that the duke would protect her, cherish her, and give her everything she deserved. I wanted to see her happy and content, Gregor. Is that so terrible?”
“I can understand that, sir.”
“Can you?” the old man demanded eagerly.
“Aye, ’tis not such an outlandish wish for a father to make.”
“Meg was so angry I don’t think she spoke to me for a fortnight,” he went on, the misery seeping back into his face and voice. “And she wept in her room night after night. It broke my heart, Gregor, I can tell you. If I ever thought to be a strict and stern father to her, then that was my undoing….
“But she came around. For my sake, rather than the Duke’s. She knew she was trapped, we were trapped, and she faced it like the courageous girl she is. I thought…I hoped all would be well then. But shortly afterward we heard the story from Shona, and although I told myself it was a lie, that I didn’t believe it—I didn’t want to believe it…” He pounded his fist against the arm of the chair with each word, “It…was…truth.”
“Shona is an honest woman.”
“She is. The truth was there in her voice, and I knew it. And soon we found that it was not only Shona who had a tale to tell concerning the Duke of Abercauldy. Then it was I who wept in my room, Gregor. For I realized I had signed my daughter’s life into the hands of a murderer, and I did not know what to do about it.”
“You told him you had changed your mind?”
“Of course. He would not hear of it. Meg gave him one of her tongue-lashings, but I think it just fascinated him the more. He is in thrall with her. I do not understand it, but Meg says he watches her every move when they are in the same room. He dotes upon her, Gregor. Nothing I say, or she says, will persuade him to stop this marriage. He goes about it as if everyone is in agreement, as if nothing is wrong. There is something unnatural in it.”
Gregor had not realized just how strong Abercauldy’s feelings were, and it gave him a jolt. The frustration and misery in the old man’s voice gave Gregor some idea of what he and Meg had suffered. He knew the general was slow in getting to the point, but Gregor was content to wait, to let him reach it in his own time and in his own way. Gregor took another swallow of the whiskey, enjoying the sensation of it slipping down. The ache in his arm had almost gone, and what was left didn’t matter.
“I saved you from being sent in chains to the plantations, Gregor.”
Gregor looked up, surprised at the change in subject. “Aye, and I am grateful for it, sir.”
“Are you?” Those cloudy eyes met his as if they would pierce the veil between them. “I wondered, sometimes, long afterward, whether you really were glad to remain in Scotland. You had nothing to go back to when they freed you from prison. You were just another landless laird. You might have preferred to go to the Americas, where others have made new lives for themselves. Fortunes, too!”