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Authors: Nora Roberts
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THE MACGREGOR GROOMS
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Harlequin Books edition / October 1998
InterMix eBook edition / April 2012
Copyright © 1998 by Nora Roberts.
Excerpt from
The Witness
copyright © 2012 by Nora Roberts.
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For Mom and Pop
From the Private Memoirs
of
Daniel Duncan MacGregor
At my stage of life, the years pass quickly, with season rushing into season. Every moment should be savored and lived to the fullest.
Of course, I felt the same way when I was thirty!
Now, in the last handful of years, I’ve watched four of my beloved grandchildren find love, marry and start families. Laura, then Gwen; Julia, then Mac. Happiness beams out of their eyes; contentment shines in their voices. Each has built a home and a life with the mate of their heart.
So why, I ask you, did it take them so damn long?
Hah! If it hadn’t been for me they’d still be foundering around, and there wouldn’t be a single great-grandchild for Anna to cuddle and spoil, would there? But do I ask for gratitude? No, indeed. As long as I’m head of this family I’ll do my duty without the need for thank-yous. It’s my duty, and my pleasure, to see that my chicks are comfortably—and properly—roosted.
It would seem, with all this marital bliss going on, that the other grandchildren would get the hint and follow the fine example of their siblings and cousins. But no, no, the MacGregors are a stubborn and independent lot. And God bless them for it.
Thankfully, I’m still around to see that things get done. I saw three of my girls to the altar and gave my first grandson his nudge. Some say it’s interference. Bah. I say it’s wisdom. I’ve decided it’s time to apply a little wisdom to my namesake, Daniel Campbell MacGregor.
Now he’s a fine boy—sharp as a whiplash, if a mite temperamental. Handsome, too. Looks a bit like I did at his age, so he doesn’t lack for female companionship. That’s part of the problem, as I see it. Too much quantity and not enough quality.
We’ve found a way to fix that.
D.C.’s an artist, which he comes by naturally enough. Though for the life of me I don’t understand half the things he paints, he’s made a fine success out of his work. Now what the boy needs is a woman to share that success, his life, and give him children to center it.
Not just any woman, mind. A woman with backbone, a woman with brains and ambitions—and breeding. The woman I picked out for him while they were both still children. I’ve been patient, bided my time. I know my boy and just how to handle him.
A bit perverse is my D.C. The type of man who too often goes left if you tell him he’d be better off turning right. Comes, I suppose, from the eight years of childhood when his father was president and there were so many rules that had to be obeyed.
Well now, with a little help from an old and dear friend, we’ll get young Daniel Campbell turned in the right direction—and let him think he did it all by himself.
A wise man doesn’t need thanks—just results.
Part One
D.C.
The light poured through the tall windows and splashed on the violent slashes of sapphire and ruby. It washed over the man who stood before the canvas like a warrior at battle, wielding a paintbrush like a claymore.
He had the face of a warrior—tough, intense, with knife-edged cheekbones adding hollows, a mouth that was full but firmed in concentration. Eyes brilliant blue and icy cold beneath knitted brows the color of old mahogany.