Meg thought of their half-eaten meal. Whether because of Malcolm and Alison, or Gregor himself, there was a fluttering in her stomach now, an edginess, that would not let her eat. She did not want to eat.
“No, I am not hungry.”
“Then will you walk with me? The night is fine and I have questions I wish to ask. And I feel…awkward in this place.”
Awkward? Well, he probably did. She could not blame him for something that was perfectly natural. She had felt awkward herself, having him here. Outside they could be themselves, and the darkness would give her a certain sense of freedom that the candlelight denied her.
“I should go up and see my father,” she began, even knowing she would say yes. The thought of walking with Gregor in the gardens at night was far too tempting for her to resist. Even her former resolution to be cool and distant was rapidly crumbling.
“Och, please
? A verra little stroll, Meg.”
Meg nodded, pretending to be reluctant, as she moved toward him. He held out his arm, and she laid her hand upon it, feeling the coarse stuff of his sleeve and the warmth of his flesh beneath. He bent his head close to hers, almost touching, and said, “I feel as if I had never left this place. It is like one drawing upon another, almost matching but not quite, the lines just a wee bit out of kilter.”
“I understand, Captain Grant.”
“Call me Gregor. I am not a Captain of dragoons now. I am…I am nothing much.”
“I think the people of Glen Dhui would disagree with you.”
“But as you reminded me so properly, they dinna know me, not anymore.”
Best not to answer that, Meg thought. He had a way of filling her heart with the need to take him into her arms and hold him, to offer comfort, even though it was something he had told her he did not want.
They were outside, their shoes crunching on the gravel path that led to the herb garden set within its sheltering gray stone walls. Away down in the glen, lights flickered where people were going about their lives, and the smell of peat smoke was strong on the summer breeze. Gregor pushed open the wooden gate and they stepped through.
Meg drew a deep breath, trying to sort out the different aromas, the different plants, enjoying all those heady scents. Lavender, of course. It brushed her skirts, drifting about her, clearing her head. And roses, white and red, some of them long past their spring flowering, others abundant with blossom. And there was rosemary, fennel, thyme, honeysuckle and sweet lilies. Pale moths hovered over them, gorging themselves, and night insects buzzed. On the far side of the stone wall the burn rushed by, under the old bridge, and down the glen.
“This was overgrown in my day,” Gregor told her, looking about.
“So it was when we came here. But I have always had an interest in gardening, so I set about repairing the damage and replanting what was old or dead. Shona comes here to replenish her stocks for her medicines.”
There was a silence while they walked slowly between the beds, pausing by a round pond. “I have been thinking of the Duke of Abercauldy,” she said quietly. “Should I write him a reply to his letter? I can tell him again that I will not marry him, but I warn you now he will dismiss it. He tells me I am full of foolish fears and doubts, and I must disregard them, just as he does. He will then set about persuading me just how happy we will be, when we are wed.”
Gregor was watching her, and although she could not see all of his face properly, she felt as if she could. He would be frowning, looking down at her with that intensity that made her so uncomfortable and yet conveyed so clearly that, unlike the duke, he really was listening.
“He is determined to have you, then, Meg?” he murmured.
“I think he must be,” her voice was a whisper.
He nodded. “Aye, the general said as much. Your father is suffering for what he did, Meg. He will not rest until all is made well again.”
Meg turned her face away. “But how can it be? Oh, I know he suffers, and I am sorry for it. I have forgiven him. But how can it be?”
She felt his fingers on her cheek, and stiffened. His skin was rough and callused, and yet so gentle. His hand cupped her jaw, his thumb caressing back and forth as though he wanted to remember the feel of her. He bent his head and whispered in her ear.
“I can make it well again, Meg.”
His breath was warm, and she shivered. He slid his fingers into her hair, dislodging a curl, twining it around and around his forefinger.
“You dinna have to do everything on your own, Meg.”
And she couldn’t think. When he stood this close to her, when he touched her, she couldn’t think. She needed to escape, to be alone, to gather her thoughts. She needed…
His lips brushed her cheekbone, soft as a petal from one of her roses. Once, twice, and again, moving inexorably toward her lips. Meg gasped, and turned to face him, to…what? Tell him to stop? That was what she made herself believe, but as she opened her mouth to speak, his lips reached hers and, with a sigh, closed over them in the sweetest, most gentle kiss she had ever been given.
For Meg had been kissed before, many times. Sometimes she had kissed reluctantly, sometimes out of curiosity, sometimes because she wanted to be kissed. But never like this. There was something different about this kiss. Something she had never felt in all the embraces and kisses she had received from all the men who had come to secure her hand, and her inheritance, since she had grown to be of age. When Gregor Grant kissed her, it was as if she had been waiting all her life for his lips to find hers.