Page 36 of Highland Fire

Glenshiel blinked, then smiled. “Aye, as you say, rash, stubborn, and intractable. But ye took her measure and soon had her dancing to your tune.” He emitted another low chuckle.

“Mrs. MacGregor was a masterly stroke. I cannot think why I never thought o’ such a stratagem.

And as for inveigling her into female finery and taking her place in society”—he shook his head—“she would not do as much for me.”

Rand frowned. “You should have put your foot down long before now. She has been too long indulged; she enjoys too many freedoms. It was the height of folly—” Suddenly conscious of the heat in his voice, he broke off and compressed his lips.

In contrast to Rand’s tone, Glenshiel’s was mild. “Ah, well, we all know that Caitlin has a mind o’ her own. But never mind that now. It was something else I wished to say to ye.”

As though to emphasize his point, he leaned forward, bracing his weight on his cane.

“My wee lass has been too much alone. She feels things too deeply, takes things too much to heart. She is afraid o’ life, afraid o’ getting hurt.

” Satisfied with what he read in Rand’s intent look, he unconsciously relaxed his grip on his cane.

“Ye say she is indulged to the point of folly. In some respects, mayhap ye are right. I did what was necessary to keep my granddaughter with me. In other respects, however, ye are far off.”

Inhaling deeply, he said, “I want her to be happy. I want her to experience the best life has to offer. I want her married to a man who will appreciate her, not some useless popinjay who thinks he is conferring a great favor by taking her off my hands. As ye well know, Caitlin is no a pauper. Half of everything I own will be hers. She is well dowered. Anytime this last while, I could have arranged a match for her. I was waiting for the right man to come along.”

“Caitlin might have had something to say to that.”

“Whisht man, I would have arranged things so that she didna have the chance.”

The calm avowal, spoken with careless disregard for the wishes of either Caitlin or her hypothetical suitor, annoyed Rand. He had an impression of a puppeteer pulling the strings on his marionettes. “You are a coldblooded, ruthless rogue, Glenshiel,” he said.

“Aye. I’ll no deny it. When a man comes to the end o’ his tether, he falls back on desperate measures.

” Beneath the humor, his voice held a suggestion of challenge.

“What was I to do? The lass is almost two and twenty. She can come and go as she pleases. There is no law that says she must obey the dictates of an aging grandparent. A husband is a different matter.”

Rand grinned impudently. “And you think I am the man to manage her?”

Glenshiel was unsmiling. “Aye…God help her.”

Rand thought about Glenshiel’s words long after they had rejoined the wedding celebration.

He was thinking of Caitlin and the fact that her grandfather considered him the right man for her.

It was what he himself believed. With him to guide her, she would blossom into the vibrant, confident woman she had it in herself to become.

At the same time, he would restrain that alarming tendency to willfulness which no man worth his salt could condone.

She had a husband now. He would not tolerate a wife who went her own way regardless of her husband’s wishes.

His eyes traveled the throng of dancers and narrowed when they found Caitlin. She and Fiona flanked the dashingly handsome figure of Daroch as he led them through the intricate steps of some dance Rand could not name. Daroch was a devil on the dance floor.

Rand followed their progress down the set with an indulgent eye.

Daroch was not the man for Caitlin. He was a mere boy.

Too young, too impetuous, too much the ladies’ man, too much in thrall to himself.

Caitlin could never find happiness with the likes of Daroch.

Caitlin’s husband must be part lover, part guardian.

Daroch was in sore need of a guardian himself.

He was a poor laird, and an even poorer risk as a husband.

If Rand was complacent, and he admitted to himself that he was, he had good cause.

Caitlin was many things, but she was not fickle.

On the night he had tried to seduce her, she had responded with such sweet abandon that Rand had known incontrovertibly that her relationship with Daroch was entirely innocent.

A flick of his long, gold lashes dismissed from his mind all thought of Daroch and the insane suspicion he had once entertained.

Without volition, his thoughts turned to David.

His cousin’s dying breath had been of Caitlin.

David and Caitlin had been friends, close friends.

Rand had never been friends with a woman in his life, and he was not sure that he ever wanted to be.

He supposed that if things had been different, David might have been the one to marry Caitlin.

He didn’t care for the subsequent thoughts that crowded in on him, and resolutely pushed them away.

He had fulfilled his promise to David. He had returned to Scotland; Caitlin was now under his protection.

There was a sense of completeness in the way things had turned out.

He was sure David would have thought so had he lived.

Unlike David, friendship was not what he wanted from Caitlin.

He could not think of her without being possessed by a near-violent ache to take her.

He burned for his wife. He could make her burn for him.

Few husbands of his acquaintance could make that boast. In his circles, by and large, marriages were alliances.

Properties and fortunes were consolidated.

Titles were bought and sold. Husbands and wives rarely found pleasure in the marriage bed, nor did they expect to.

By anyone’s standards, he and Caitlin were enviable indeed.

They had it all. The Randal dynasty would be strengthened.

She came to him well dowered, not as the poor relation he had supposed her to be.

And they were well matched. When he closed his bedchamber door on the world every night, he and his wife would know the sweetest bliss to be found this side of eternity.

There was one fly in the ointment, of course—Caitlin’s ridiculous insistence that he was her brother.

He wasn’t. He had tried to imagine himself in that role.

It was impossible. Everything in him revolted against it.

He wasn’t her brother. The rub was, how could he persuade his wife to his way of thinking?

He had hoped that Glenshiel could throw some light on the subject.

That had not happened, not really. Everything was speculation and conjecture.

It seemed that there was no way to prove who had sired Caitlin.

For his purposes, it was not necessary. It was enough if he could prove that his own father could not possibly have been that man.

Until such time, he was resolved to treat his wife’s scruples with all the respect they deserved.

He laughed mirthlessly thinking that, on reflection, his wife had plunged him into a drama that had all the makings of a Greek tragedy.