The MacGregor Brides

  her grandfather had matched them up stop her loving him back?

  Jamming his hands in his pockets, he stalked to the window. What did he want with a woman like that anyway?

  He stared out at the city, the gleam of lights glinting on snow and street, the glint of the dark water of the harbor. Boston was blanketed in holiday spirit, he thought. Friends and family were gathered together, out of the cold and wind. And he was alone, because the woman he wanted wouldn't admit she wanted him.

  He should have bought a third ticket, he thought, gone along with his parents on the gift cruise he'd given them for Christmas. He could have worked on the ship and enjoyed a nice sail in the Greek Isles.

  That would have given Gwendolyn her time and her distance.

  He scowled at the knock on the door. He hadn't ordered dinner yet, and the last pot of coffee that had been sent up didn't need replenishing yet. Whoever it was could go the hell away, he thought, stalking over. He looked through the security peep, saw Gwen and shut his eyes.

  Great, he thought. Perfect. He hadn't shaved in two days, and he was as surly as a bear woken out of hibernation. The doctor sure picked her moments. He took a moment to compose himself, raked his fingers through his untidy hair and opened the door.

  "House call?" he said, and even managed to smile at her.

  "You look like you could use one. You look exhausted. Did I wake you? Did I come at a bad time?"

  "No, you didn't wake me." He stepped back, cocked his head as she hesitated. "Coming in?"

  "Yes, all right." Her eyes widened at the disarray in the elegant parlor. Cups, glasses, bottles, were strewn everywhere. The dining table was heaped with books, papers, more cups.

  "I kicked the maid out for a couple days," Branson told her, getting a clear look at the mess for the first time. "I guess I'd better let her back in. I've got coffee, we can wash out a cup."

  "No, I don't need anything." Her mission took a back seat now to concern. "You look completely worn out."

  "It hasn't been letting me sleep." He gestured toward his laptop. "Or much of anything else."

  "Meaning food, exercise, fresh air." The doctor in her stepped forward. "Branson, you'll make yourself sick. I'm sorry if the book's not going well, but—"

  "It's not going well. It's going terrific. I'm just riding the wave."

  "Oh, so this is what happens when you're not having trouble with the story."

  "If it wasn't going well, I'd tell myself I really needed to take a walk, get a haircut, learn to speak Japanese. Sure you don't want coffee?" he asked as he headed for the pot.

  "Yes, I'm sure, and you should order up some food. Some soup."

  "I'll get to it, Doc." His system was already wired, he decided. What was one more hit of caffeine in the vast scheme of things? "You look a little tired yourself."

  "We got most of the victims from the bus wreck into ER this afternoon."

  "What bus wreck?"

  She blinked at him. "On the Longfellow Bridge? Icy roads, thirty-five people injured? It's been all over the news most of the day."

  "The news hasn't been part of my little world today." He studied her over the rim of his cup. She looked a little pale, he noted, but steady, as always. And she had yet to take off her coat. "Why don't you sit down? I'll order something up."

  "No, not for me. I can't stay long. I've got a double shift tomorrow—making up for taking three days off for the holidays."

  "The ever-conscientious Dr. Blade."

  Because he smiled when he said it, she relaxed. "I wanted to thank you for the music boxes. They're charming. And they were unexpected. I thought you were angry with me."

  "Did you?"

  "I know you were. I'm glad you're not anymore. Now that things are smoothed out, I hope we can talk about it—after the holidays, when life calms down a bit."

  "We want to be calm," he said quietly. "We want to be reasonable."

  "Yes." Relief flooded her as she walked to him, took his hand. "I'll be back on the twenty-seventh. If you're free—"

  "Oh, I'm free. I put my parents on a plane tomorrow for Athens."

  "Your family's leaving town?"

  "They've always wanted to go to Greece, so I'm sending them on a cruise."

  "That's a lovely thing to do, but you shouldn't be alone at Christmas. You know you'd be welcome to come to Hyannis. My grandparents would love to have you."

  He stared at her for so long she felt her heart begin to bump erratically. "You really don't have a clue, do you?" he murmured. "You figure everything's just clicked back into an acceptable position."

  "No, I only thought since you weren't angry—"

  "I am angry."

  He didn't raise his voice, didn't throw or break anything, didn't threaten to do her bodily harm. It was only more confusing. She'd grown up in a family that had expressed every passion and emotion at full volume.

  "It all has to be spelled out for you, doesn't it? If I shouted, if I shoved the table over, smashed some crockery, then you could logically conclude that I'm angry. Well, I don't work that way. My actions and my feelings aren't always simple, and they're not always logical."

  "All right." She was more frightened, more stupefied, by his cold control than she would have been by a violent display. "You're still angry, so obviously we still need to talk."

  "You hurt me."

  The quiet statement had her eyes filling, her heart ripping. "Oh, Branson. I'm so sorry. I never meant to. I want—"

  "That gets to you." He shut his eyes and turned away, furious with himself for having admitted it. "The compassion takes over. I don't want your compassion, or your sympathy or your guilt." He turned back, and the violence in his eyes was all the more compelling in contrast to the absolute calm of his voice. "I want you to tell me you love me, because you do. If I didn't know it, if I couldn't see it in your face, if I hadn't felt it when I touched you, I'd walk away. Do you think I enjoy humiliating myself like this?"

  "No, I don't. Please, let's sit down and talk this out."

  "Haven't I said everything already? I'm in love with you. I want you to marry me, raise a family with me. What part of that don't you understand?"

  "Understanding and accepting aren't always the same." Couldn't he see that she needed to decide, and decide lucidly, what was right and sane and necessary for both of them? "Maybe you believe you love me, and maybe I…" She shook her head, moved back quickly.

  "I came here tonight to tell you I won't be pressured, I won't be pushed."

  He moved fast, had her locked in his arms in less than a heartbeat, had his mouth on hers in less than two. Her practical words rang hollowly in her ears as her heart simply melted.

  "Tell me what you feel now," he demanded against her mouth. "Tell me what you're feeling now, this instant."

  "Too much. I can't think past it. Please don't do this."

  He knew that he could have her, that she would yield. And that whatever he took would leave him empty. He drew away. "You'd better go. I'm not feeling reasonable."

  She nodded, ordered her shaky legs to walk to the door. And there, with her hand on the knob, she felt shame for being less than honest, for giving him less than he'd asked.

  "I'm out of my depth with you, Branson," she said quietly. "I feel out of control. I don't know how to function that way, and I need to decide what that means for me."

  She opened the door, but made herself turn so that their eyes met across the room. "I need to decide what to do about the fact that I'm in love with you."

  She rushed out. He was halfway across the room before he stopped himself. No, she wouldn't listen now, he told himself, and fought to calm his speeding pulse. She would fight him every step of the way if he tried to press the advantage she'd just given him. He'd made enough missteps without making another.

  Slowly he rubbed a hand over his heart. The ache was gone, that dull, nasty throb. The doctor had healed him, he thought with a slow smile. He was going to have to work very fast to
complete plans for her payment.

  He was going to order up a meal, a huge meal, a banquet. God, he was starving. He needed a shower, a shave, a long walk. Then he had to get to work. There was only a matter of days before Christmas.

  "She loves me," he said, and laughed out loud.

  You say you're out of your depth now, Doc, he thought. Believe me, you ain't seen nothin' yet.

  Chapter 20

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  Daniel MacGregor scowled fiercely, huffed out a breath. "Well, what's wrong with the boy?" he wanted to know.

  "Nothing's wrong with him." Gwen barely resisted throwing up her hands. She'd made certain she got to Hyannis early, and cornered her meddling grandfather before the rest of the family could distract her. "That's not the point."

  "What is the point, I'd like to know? I'll tell you what the point is," he continued, jabbing out a finger before she could speak. "The point is, you met a nice young man of good family. A young man with a fine and clever mind and of strong and steady heart. If he's been romancing you, what have you got to complain about?"

  "If he's been romancing me," Gwen said evenly, "it's because you tossed us in each other's faces, and under false pretenses."

  "False pretenses." He rolled his bright blue eyes. "Did he want to research his murder book or not?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Are you a doctor with some know-how in the medical field?"

  "Grandpa—"

  "And if you're both young, healthy, single people, what harm is there in having you meet? You don't like him, you toss him back."

  "He's not a trout," she said between her teeth.

  "So, you do like him, don't you, Gwennie?"

  She had to shut her eyes, had to wonder why she'd believed, even for an instant, that she would get anywhere with the MacGregor. "My feelings for Branson have nothing to do with this conversation."

  "Of course they do, they're the point." He beamed at her. "Has he asked you to marry him?"

  "I'm not going to discuss it."

  "He has." Triumphant, Daniel banged his fist on the arm of his chair. "I knew young Branson Maguire was a sharp lad, a man of taste and character."

  "Which is why you picked him for me?"

  "Exactly. I—" He stopped, hissed between his teeth. She'd caught him there. "Now, Gwennie, it's just that your grandmother worries so that you're alone there in the city."

  "I'm not alone."

  "And that you might meet the wrong type of individual. That Gilbert doctor, for instance."

  "His name is Greg," she said wearily. "And he's a perfectly nice man."

  "But he's no Bran Maguire, is he? Tell the truth and shame the devil."

  Her lips twitched, forcing her to press them into a firm line. "Perhaps I prefer the sober, serious type."

  "Ha. In a pig's eye, kin of mine would prefer a dull dog to a purebred. George would bore you to death within a year."

  "Greg. And you're not going to turn this around. You interfered with my life, with Branson's life, and if you think either one of us is going to thank you for it—"

  She swore when the front door slammed and voices rolled down the hall.

  "That's my Rena." Grateful for the interruption, Daniel hauled his bulk out of the chair. "Rena!" He bellowed it. "Your daughter's in here."

  "Gwen?" Still shaking snow off her sleek bob of red-gold hair, Serena MacGregor Blade rushed into the room. Her eyes lit, and her face, as lovely as any Gwen knew, glowed with pleasure. "You're here early." Laughing, she threw open her arms. "Oh, I've missed you." Gwen flew into her mother's arm, and her hug was just desperate enough to have Serena lifting a brow and aiming a narrowed look at her father.

  "What have you been up to?" she demanded of Daniel.

  "Just having a nice chat with my granddaughter." No one, he knew, could cut through his bluster as quickly or as keenly as his daughter. He admired her for it, and was greatly relieved when Justin Blade walked in.

  "Dad." Gwen turned to embrace him, held tight. He was tall and strikingly handsome, his thick dark hair glinting with silver, his green eyes sharp as gemstones. Those eyes met his wife's over their daughter's head, then, as a unit, both pairs shifted to Daniel.

  "What we need here is hot food and drink." Calculating quickly, Daniel decided on retreat. "I'm going to see to it. The rest of the family will be along any minute. I don't know what your mother's up to, Rena," he said as he strode out "Always fussing, always worrying."

  "He never changes," Justin commented, and laughed. "Thank God for it." Then he tipped up Gwen's chin. "Hello, beautiful," he murmured. They were the exact words he'd said to her when she was placed in his arms at birth.

  "I'm so glad to see you both. Where's Mac, Duncan, Mell?"

  "Mac's flying in from Vegas. He'll be here in a couple hours. Duncan and Mell are driving up from Atlantic City. They're probably an hour behind us."

  "Why don't I help you get your bags upstairs?"

  "There's time for that." Serena led Gwen to the sofa, drew her down. "Just how angry with your grandfather are you about Branson Maguire?"

  Gwen blew out a breath as her father sat on her other side. "I should have known word would travel."

  "It always does—this route was Julia to Shelby to me to your father. How impossible has he made it for you?"

  "He's made it uncomfortable," Gwen muttered.

  Justin ran a hand over her hair. "If you're not interested in this Maguire, that's the end of it."

  "I am interested."

  Justin's hand paused. "I see. How interested?"

  "Justin." With a laugh, Serena shook her head at him. "What's he like?" she asked Gwen. "Tell us about him."

  "He's a writer. I suppose you knew that."

  "He's a good one," Justin admitted.

  "I haven't seen him since he was a baby." Serena sighed over the passage of time. "His mother and I lost touch. It's a shame. I'll have to call her."

  "He's been to the Vegas casino." Justin took out a slim cigar, studied it. "Mac knows him slightly."

  "Really. Well, it's interesting how things work." Serena smiled at her daughter. "But you haven't told us what he's like."

  "He's charming and gentle. He's very intense about his work. He likes French food and Italian operas. He's got a wonderful smile and gray eyes that look right inside you."

  "You're in love with him." Serena's eyes stung as she reached for her husband's hand. "She's in love with him."

  "I might be." Gwen sprang up, too restless to sit. "How do I know? I've never felt this way before. How can I be sure? He wants to marry me. He insists on it as if it's a given, something that's bound to happen sooner or later, so why not sooner? And Grandpa set the whole thing up."

  Deciding he would deal with all the conflicting emotions spinning inside him later, Justin lifted Serena's hand to his lips. "He's done it before, with excellent results."

  "So I should just fall in line?"

  "Of course not." Justin rose, put his hands on

  Gwen's shoulders. "You have your own mind, your own heart. You'll follow them."

  "They're telling me different things. And it's all happening so fast. Being swept off your feet is fine in storybooks, but in reality it's frightening. How can I marry him?" she demanded, turning to her mother. "How do I know I'll be good at it? That I'll be able to handle all those demands and responsibilities? My career, a husband, children. How do I know I can do as good a job with all of that as you have, as Grandma did?"

  "You don't. You decide if you're willing to work at it every day for the rest of your life. Darling, you've achieved everything you've ever gone after. Maybe that's a problem for you now." Serena patted the cushion beside her. "You were always such a serious child. Not without humor and a sense of the ridiculous, but always responsible, and very goal-oriented."

  "I've hurt him," Gwen murmured. "And I'm afraid if I'm not careful, if I'm not cautious, I'll end up hurting him again."

  "By marrying him."
<
br />   "Yes, and failing at it."

  "Then you should take the time you need. But let me give you a hypothetical case—medically speaking. You have a cool doctor's mind. If you had a patient, a strong, healthy patient, and there were two choices for her. With one she could go on exactly as she had been. She would be content, successful, even happy. Nothing would have to change for her. The other choice involved a certain risk, an adjustment in life-style. If she took this choice, took this risk, she might gain a great deal. Not a longer life, but a richer one. Not a healthier body, but a fuller heart. Which prognosis would you wish for her?"

  "You're very wise," Gwen murmured.

  "MacGregors are, very wise." Serena leaned over to kiss her. "I can't tell you what choice to make. You have to make it for yourself. And I won't tell you whether to follow your mind or your heart. In the end, if it's right, you'll follow both."

  "You're right, absolutely right. I have to decide. And I will." She rose again. "I love you, both of you. I'm going to take a walk, do some thinking before the horde descends and I won't be able to hear myself think."

  Justin waited until they were alone, then walked to his wife. Taking her hands, he drew her to her feet. "There are two things I need to do."

  "And what are they?"

  "I have to go smuggle the cigars in my suitcase to Daniel, to thank him for his daughter, who is the most incredible woman I've ever known. And then—" he lowered his head to brush his lips over hers "—I have to take his daughter, my wife and the mother of my children upstairs and make love with her."

  Serena wound her arms around his neck. "Why doesn't his daughter, your wife and the mother of your children go upstairs and wait for you?"

  Justin kissed her again, lingered over it. "Why doesn't she?"

  Gwen barely slept. It had been nearly 3:00 a.m. before everyone stumbled off to bed. She had lain there, staring at the ceiling, willing the right answer to come. But she'd only been able to see Branson's face.

  And to yearn for him.

  Just before dawn, she drifted off, but even that thin sleep was ragged with dreams. She saw him in the hospital corridor, his eyes focused on hers as he told her who he was and what he wanted. Now, smiling, that quick, charming grin, as he shopped with her downtown. Holding her when she cried over the loss of a patient. Kissing her breathless at her front door. Carrying her to a bed strewn with rose petals.

  And that dark and desperate look in his eyes when he'd told her he loved her.

  Then the dream became less memory than wish. She saw herself smiling back at him, holding out her hands. Accepting, giving, embracing.

  Pipes were playing as he swept her up, onto a gleaming white stallion. She felt not helpless, but powerful. Her laugh mixed with his as they thundered off, bagpipes singing high and bright.

  She stirred, sighing with the dream, the romance, the rightness of it. And she was murmuring his name as she woke. The pipes played still.

  She sat up, rubbing her eyes clear. Bagpipes, she thought in confusion. And the steady beat of drums with it. She yawned, laughed and swung her legs off the bed. Grandpa, she thought, had cooked up something special for Christmas morning. Early Christmas morning, she noted with a glance at the clock.