by Susan King
"Ah... er, the Ordnance Survey map," he resumed, looking at Alan Clarke. "Did you have a chance to go over it yet?"
"I did," Alan replied. "Last evening I walked through the hills at the center of the island. There is good granite to be quarried there. Mackenzie can say best, with his schooling in such matters. He'll be at the barracks by now."
Dougal nodded, glancing again at the blond woman on the beach. The amber sunset made her look as if she were formed of light and magic. She reminded him of the girl who still haunted his dreams. He had never sorted out if the girl had been real, a dream, even a fairy if such creatures existed. Whatever she was, he had not forgotten her.
Sea fairies indeed. The young woman on the beach was fetching—and he was too near that mysterious rocky isle, which led him to think about the past. That was all.
"Who's that with Norrie, then?" Alan asked. "A bonny sight."
"Aye." Dougal agreed, watching her.
Golden haired and reed slim, she shaded her brow with a hand and turned toward the women and children helping the fishermen as they came in from a day's work. Laughing and calling out, they all helped to pull the boats high on the sands and drag nets bulging with fish and creels full of lobsters out of the water's reach. A few children stopped to speak with her, and the girl nodded, waving them off as they ran past.
An elderly man strolled over to her, smoking a pipe. Dougal recognized tall, white-haired Norrie MacNeill, a crofter fisherman who sailed weekly to the Isle of Mull to fetch mail and supplies for the islanders. He had offered to do so for the lighthouse crew as well. When Norrie spoke, the girl wrapped her arm in his and he patted her hand.
So she was some relation of Norrie's, Dougal surmised. She was dressed plainly and practically like the other women, and everyone seemed familiar with her. A brisk breeze whipped at her dark skirt, revealing bare calves and bare feet, hinting at her slender form. Thick honey-colored hair, wildly curled, was partly tamed by a black ribbon. She wore the plaid arisaid shawl so common among the other women, dropping it down to drape over her shoulders.
She turned then to look in his direction, her hand above her eyes. Sensing her stare, he felt an odd response within, like the turning of a key. Fantasy or not, she reminded him strongly of the exquisite sea fairy he had dreamed of one wild black night, when he had been in a bad way.
Frowning, he looked away. He needed a good night's sleep. The pace of the work had made him imaginative and maudlin.
Near the water's edge, members of his crew hauled up the fishing boat they used daily to cross back and forth to Sgeir Caran. Today they had drilled and hacked into black basalt to cut the foundation cavity for the lighthouse. As resident engineer, Dougal supervised every aspect of the work and often lent a hand with the actual physical labor.
Tired and gritty from the day's work, he tensed and relaxed the stiffness from his shoulders. He craved a wash and fresh clothing, a hot supper, time alone in his hut to study plans by lamplight. The engineering log needed to be filled out each day with a report of progress, and facts and measurements checked and rechecked before the next phase began.
He glanced along the crescent of white sand that defined Caransay's small natural harbor. The single quay was tied up with fishing boats, and more boats rested on the sand. Two dark headlands framed the beach like enormous sentinels, the black rock matching the basalt of the reef a mile or so out to sea.
Seagulls called, reeling overhead, and waves swept over the pale, soft sand. Dougal turned, enjoying the salty breezes that fingered his thick brown hair, fluttering his coat and collarless shirt—he rarely wore stiff collars or neckcloths out here. Children raced past, laughing. A few scrambled up the nearest headland, calling out as they followed a path there.
"Norrie MacNeill's granddaughter," Alan said. "He said she was coming this week for a visit. She lives off Caransay."
"Ah." So that was why he had not seen her before.
"Maybe she'll dance wi' me at the Friday ceilidh," Alan mused. "Last Friday I sat with Norrie's auld mum all night. Mother Elga tells a good tale and sings a fine song, but she isna much for dancing." He chuckled. "We noticed, the lads and I, that Caransay has few young and unmarried lassies. I do wish you'd looked into that before you arranged for us to stay here the whole of a year." Alan shook his head.
"You'll work harder without distractions." Dougal grinned.
"So will you, clever lad, wi' nae fine lassies flockin' aboot you as they did in Edinburgh and Glasgow. Och, look! There goes my heart." Alan set a hand on his chest with flair as Norrie's granddaughter walked toward the headland with long-legged grace, skirt swinging neatly. She waved toward the children climbing the rock, calling up at them. "A pity for me if she's married already." Alan sighed dramatically.
"If not, then you may yet have a chance."
"I doubt it. See that tall fellow wi' her? Oh and the smile she gave him, it breaks my heart. What a bonny thing she is."
"Aye, well," Dougal commiserated. A tousle-haired man wearing the baggy jacket, trousers, and boots of a fisherman joined the young woman. She smiled up at him even as she snatched the shirttails of the smallest of the bold climbers, plucking the blond-haired boy off the headland slope. The child leaped down beside her and took her hand.
Watching the girl greet what must be her family, Dougal felt an unexpected stab of disappointment, as if he shared Alan's dream—as if he had found his sea fairy and she was beyond his reach. Then Alan asked about the next day's plans, and Dougal replied, all the while watching the girl.
Glancing out at the sea then, he narrowed his eyes against the sunset glare on the waves. Breezes stirred his hair as he looked toward Sgeir Caran.
Only a mile from the island, the massive black rock was easily visible, thrusting up through the waves, silhouetted against the golden sky. Sgeir Caran was the largest formation in a half-mile-long archipelago of the Caran Reef, whose rocks littered the sea like thorns. Many of the points were treacherously hidden below the constant sweep of the Atlantic.
Mostly Dougal thought of Sgeir Caran in terms of the work challenges it presented, its geology, the weather, the physics of wind and wave force. But sometimes, at moments when the light was extraordinary or the mist deep, the rock seemed otherworldly, an ancient portal for legends and magic. He would never forget the night he had nearly died out there, the night when water horses and a sea fairy had saved him. That magic lingered, though he would never understand it.
Fool, he told himself, turning away. He needed his attention on the here and now. Hard enough to work out on Sgeir Caran every day without dreaming idly of lost moments.
"She will find you," Alan said.
Dougal turned, startled. "What?"
"The Baroness of Strathlin. When she hears we're about to quarry stone from her island, she'll come after you."
"There's little Lady Strathlin can do now but accept it."
"At least she's far away in Edinburgh."
"Aye, but I hear she keeps a manor house on the other side of the island. She'll have to come here sooner or later. I mean to meet her when she does."
"She will whaup yer head for being a great loon and causing her such grief. Old hag," Alan muttered.
"I was invited to a soiree at her home in a few weeks. She can whaup me there at her convenience."
"Fought you every step of the way, she has."
"Her solicitors have done the real fighting."
"She canna be bothered, eh? She has nearly two million pounds, they say!" Alan shook his head in disbelief. "Your own fine inheritance is a wee sum compared to that."
"Huh. Well, she gives freely to charities, and she assisted in the costs after the bridge collapsed last year."
"You're a fair man, Dougal Stewart. Truth is, she canna find it in her cold heart to be generous about the Caran light. We need contributions. Those Fresnel lenses you ordered for the tower will be devilish expensive. 'Twill raise the whole cost to nearly sixty thousand pounds by the time we
are done."
"We have interested investors in Edinburgh. If I attend Lady Strathlin's soiree, I can try to tap them for commitments. As for the lady, she would never invest in this herself."
"Hell's own gale, she is. But you do not run from storms."
"All we need is good luck and good weather to finish the job." Dougal turned to see Norrie MacNeill looking toward him. The old man lifted a hand, and Dougal waved. Moments later, the fisherman and the girl crossed the beach toward them.
Graceful, poised, lovely, she held his attention. All else seemed to fade. He heard the rush of the sea in his ears, and his heart beat hard and fast. He thought of his dreams of the sea fairy, and the sudden longing he felt had crushing strength.
Whoever the girl was, he told himself, she was real—and he had best collect his wits.
* * *
He looked like a pirate, dark and wild, hands at his waist and booted foot propped on the edge of a fishing boat. All banked power and assurance, he glanced toward her as Meg and her grandfather crossed the beach. She felt his gaze move over and almost through her, though he was a stranger.
She expected Dougal Stewart, when they finally met, to be handsome and charming given his reputation in society—but she was not prepared for the impact of his gaze, his presence, even at a distance.
She wanted to turn and go back, but her grandfather waved at him. Meg had no choice but to walk forward too.
Hearing her name called then, she turned to wave at her cousin, Fergus MacNeill, who was with his foster son—her own child, Iain—walking along the upper beach. Meg was glad that Iain had obeyed her when she had asked him to climb down from the headland rock. She saw her little son only when she visited the island; the child believed that she was his cousin, the very wealthy baroness who lived in Edinburgh. Meg and her kin had agreed years ago that it would be best for all if Fergus and Anna raised the child. But now Anna had died with the birth of a daughter a year ago, and Fergus had not yet told Iain the truth. Someday soon he would do so.
Fergus was a good father, but with two small children under his sole care, he and the bairns had gone to live with his grandparents, Norrie and Thora, who were helping to raise Iain and small Anna. And still, only the few of them knew that Meg was Iain's own mother.
Smiling as she gazed at her bonny son, Meg remembered that the obstinate engineer, Stewart, still waited to meet her. Sighing, she pushed back her hair. She was not at her best—hair loose, feet bare, just one petticoat beneath her skirt. Mrs. Berry, her traveling companion, was over at the Great House—the largest house on Caransay Island—enjoying a little luxury and privacy near a secluded beach. But Meg came to Caransay to spend time with her family, so she reverted to the lifestyle she had grown up with and much preferred, staying in her grandparents' croft house, where she could be closer to her son.
Besides, she liked the freedom here, the chance to trade stays and crinolines, stockings, wide skirts and snug shoes for easy, practical clothing and bare feet. Here on Caransay, Meg savored freedoms she otherwise did not have now that she was a rich baroness with responsibilities at home in Edinburgh.
"So what will you tell the man?" Norrie asked her.
"Tell him? He hates me," Meg answered in Gaelic, which she spoke almost exclusively while on Caransay. "I can scarcely tell him that I am Lady Strathlin, the woman he is battling for the sake of this island, when I am dressed like this. I should have invited him to tea at the Great House, rather than meet him here, like this."
"He would expect Lady Strathlin to wear shoes, at least," Norrie laughed. "I am thinking a surprise will do him good."
"Far too much surprise! I hoped my solicitors would find some way to remove the engineer and his work project from here before I arrived on holiday."
"Ach, solicitors, useless fellows. Look there." Norrie gestured with his pipe. "See those huts these outlanders put up. Those Lowland structures would not stand up against a good rain. They do not understand the sort of house that's needed out here in the Isles. But we told them they were good houses, oh, very good, we said." He chuckled. "May their huts all blow out to sea and carry the engineers with them!"
Meg laughed a little. Beyond the bay, she saw the thatched roofs of several cottages with ropes secured as netting, although they were yet flimsy compared to the solid nets weighted with heavy stones that held down true Hebridean thatching. "I never agreed to any of this work on the island, you know that."
"I know." Norrie clamped his teeth over his pipe stem. "And I agree with you—these lighthouse men should be gone from here. The people wonder what you will do about it."
She had to do something, for their sakes, for that of Caransay and Sgeir Caran, and for the legends. She nodded.
"He is not a bad fellow, this Stewart," Norrie said. "I have nothing against the man. It is the construction I do not like, for the harm it causes the great rock and the island."
"I am concerned about the colonies of seabirds and wildlife that settle on that rock each year," Meg said. "And we value our privacy—" She stopped suddenly.
Dougal Stewart turned, and she saw his face clearly then.
Never in her life had she fainted. But now she felt the world reel under her feet. She placed a hand on Norrie's arm.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I—I nearly tripped. That's all."
She expected a handsome man, a devilish, infuriating, obstinate man, the heir to a Strathclyde fortune. A builder of lighthouses, a man who easily did what took courage and daring.
But she had not expected to see the very cad who had fathered her child years ago and had broken her heart forever.
He frowned, his gaze intense and penetrating. Did he recognize her? Oh God, she thought. Please, no.
Drawing closer, she knew he was the man she had met years ago. She would never mistake that face or the lean, stern toughness of him, so rugged, casual, masculine.
Dark brown hair fell in sun-streaked waves, framing a face with straight dark brows above lean features. His coat was dark umber, trousers and vest black, and he wore a collarless shirt that opened slightly to show a strong, tanned throat.
He straightened as she approached, staring, eyes searing her own. Meg lifted a hand to the locket at her throat. She drew her plaid arisaid shawl over her hair to shadow her face as she walked toward the water's edge beside her grandfather.
He must not recognize her. She could never bear it. Her legs quivered—how foolish she would be, now, to reveal that she was Lady Strathlin. She desperately wanted to run.
"Grandfather," she said urgently. "Please do not say who I am. Tell the others to keep it a secret too. My argument with Mr. Stewart belongs with my lawyers, not here on Caransay."
"We will let it wait," he assured her. She nodded in relief.
Dougal Stewart stepped forward and held out his hand. "Mr. MacNeill! Good to see you, sir." He smiled at Meg and nodded, his eyes inquisitive, narrowed, attentive.
She prayed he would not know her. With her skirts hiked over her bare calves, her sleeves rolled, in the shawl of a native Isleswoman, she looked like many other women. In seven years she had changed, matured. A trusting girl no more.
He was still strikingly handsome. Sun and years had etched around his eyes and into the slight creases beside his mouth. He had filled out some, heavier, more powerful. His eyes, edged in sooty black lashes, were the muted gray-green of a stormy sea.
Oh God, she thought. Was he still capable of deceitful tricks, too? Of course he was. She could not trust this man.
He smiled at her, waiting for an introduction. Meg lifted her chin defensively. She would not succumb. He had hurt her deeply, and she would not forget it.
"Good day, Dougal Stewart," Norrie said in English. He nodded to the second man, whom Meg had hardly noticed. "Alan Clarke. This is my granddaughter, Margaret Fiona MacNeill. Margaret—Mr. Stewart and Mr. Clarke."
Blessing her grandfather for simple introductions, Meg offered a hand out of politeness
. She hoped it seemed limp.
"Miss MacNeill," Dougal Stewart said, taking her fingers.
A dreadful mistake, she realized, to touch him. The contact shocked through her. Catching her breath, she saw him watching her, his eyes penetrating. Surely he knew her.
Meg shook hands with Clarke and then folded her hands while Dougal Stewart asked Norrie about the mail runs to Mull.
"Miss MacNeill, are you from Mull?" Alan Clarke asked. He was a pleasant fellow, blond and blue eyed, shorter than Stewart with a burly frame. He smiled sincerely.
"I came from Mull, yes," she said. That was true. Norrie had picked her up with Mrs. Berry two days earlier. "I grew up on Caransay and I come back here whenever I can."
"Caransay is a beautiful place," Stewart said, turning toward her. She sensed his piercing gaze, his keen and too-perceptive intelligence. Suddenly she wanted to turn and flee—or, better yet, find the courage to confront him. Slap him, let him know her thoughts, how he had insulted and betrayed her.
For seven years she had been angry at him, even while he filled her dreams sometimes, so that she felt the edge of yearning. He had kept her safe that awful night, had wooed and loved her—and had tricked her.
Temper rising, she wanted to tell him who she was—the girl on the rock, the baroness he despised. But she could not, with Norrie and others here. She had to keep her secrets from the engineer. Only she knew the extent of those secrets.
Dignity. She must summon and retain it, use it as her only shield. Later as the baroness she would invite him to the Great House, and there she could reveal the truth, if she decided to.
"Mr. Stewart," Norrie said. "Angus MacLeod said you went to Mull earlier and hired his son to take you. But I sail to Tobermory twice a week when weather allows. Next time you wish to go, I will take you and bring you back. No need to pay a man to go over the waves for you when Norrie MacNeill will do it for free."
"Thank you. I shall remember." Stewart smiled.