by Susan King
Watching him, Meg felt a wash of sudden anger, standing silently by, sea foam lapping at her feet. But she must quell her emotion, bide her time, think of her child first.
If Dougal Stewart found out about his son, he could claim the boy and take him away from her and her family and away from the island home where she had always thought he would be safe. Oh dear God.
She looked at Stewart then and found him studying her, his expression perplexed.
"Miss MacNeill—I must ask. Have we met before?"
Chapter 3
"I do not believe so, Mr. Stewart," Margaret MacNeill replied to his question. Her voice was quiet and melodic, her English perfect, with the soft lilt of the Gael rather than the broader Scots English. Her voice was careful and she seemed wary. Shy, perhaps.
Dougal nodded, and could not help but note as he glanced at her that she was slim and neatly made beneath her plain garments. Her feet were sand-dusted, her clasped hands smooth and lovely. If she worked with nets and gutted fish, like many Hebridean women, her hands did not show it. Her thick golden curls were pulled back beneath the drape and shadow of the light plaid, and her features were beautiful, delicate—yet with a trace of stubbornness in the chin and set of her lush mouth.
No wonder he thought he had seen her before. Such fair coloring and elegant bones were typical of many Hebrideans due to Viking ancestry. Norrie had it, too, in his fair complexion, high cheek bones, and vivid blue eyes.
Her eyes were luminous, silvery aqua. Frowning as he studied her, he remembered a moment when he had opened his eyes from sleep to see the girl sitting at the mouth of the little cave they had shared in the storm. In dawn's light, he had seen her face and her extraordinary eyes clearly, their color the delicate blue-green wash of a sky just before dawn.
Margaret MacNeill had those eyes. In fact, she was so much like the sea fairy he remembered that he felt the shock of recognition all through his body—a prickling along his skin, a deep clutching of certainty in his heart and gut. Could she have been real and he so muddled at the time that he had not known?
If she knew him, she gave no sign, no start. She seemed calm and cool, but he noticed a fine-drawn nervousness, a tight clasping of her hands, a flickering away of those eyes, the clenching of her narrow toes in the sand.
Still frowning, uncertain quite yet, he gave his attention to Norrie MacNeill. "Mr. Stewart is the chief of the lighthouse on the rock," Norrie told his granddaughter.
"Resident engineer," Dougal corrected, smiling. "I was assigned here by the Northern Lighthouse Commission. We have a grant of permission to build on Sgeir Caran and to maintain work buildings here on Caransay."
"I know, Mr. Stewart," the girl said crisply.
If she recognized him, Dougal realized, she was hardly delighted to see him. He could not blame her. What he had done was reprehensible. Disturbed by that thought, he kept an outward calm, yet he knew he must speak with Miss MacNeill alone, and soon.
What he would do about this, he did not yet know. Clearly he owed her an apology and an explanation—providing his behavior that night could be explained. He had been a thousand times a fool, and he must admit that to her.
"I saw you and your men cutting into the hard place today," Norrie said. "I heard your sledges and chisels when I went out over the waves to draw in my nets."
"The hard place?" Alan Clarke asked.
"Sgeir Caran," Margaret MacNeill explained, and Norrie hissed as if to shush her. "My grandfather, like many Hebridean fishermen, will not say the rock's name aloud."
"It is not a good thing," Norrie said.
"I'll remember that," Dougal said. "I will do my best to respect local traditions while I am here."
"Then why do you build on that rock," the girl asked tartly, "when it is legendary among the people of this isle?"
"I was not aware of any legends associated with the rock."
"The hard place belongs to the each-uisge," Norrie said. "The lord of the deep."
"The who?" Alan asked.
"A sea kelpie," Margaret MacNeill told him, "supposedly a creature of great magical power, who sometimes takes the form of a white horse and sometimes the form of a man."
"It is said that he comes to the rock now and again, seeking a bride," Norrie went on. "The black rock is his, you see. If his bride pleases him, he will quiet the storms that blow here, summon more fish into our nets, and bestow good fortune on us all. But if he is displeased, he will raise great storms and the fish will flee our waters. His power and his wrath could sink the hard rock, and Caransay itself, into the waves."
"Your kelpie is no fellow to cross," Dougal said.
"It is nothing to laugh at," Norrie's granddaughter said.
"We have a tradition on this island to make sure the each-uisge is happy," Norrie said.
"If I were a kelpie, I'd want oatcakes and whisky and all the bonny human lassies I could get," Alan said.
Norrie chuckled, then stopped when he saw his granddaughter scowling at him.
"We have honored these traditions for centuries," she snapped, "even if some do not."
"I beg your pardon, Miss MacNeill." Dougal inclined his head. He knew that the Hebridean day relied on superstitions, and on traditions and a belief in magic that created a sense of security and power in what could be a harsh and unpredictable place. He heard Alan murmur an apology too, while the girl looked sternly from one to the other.
"Stewart, we have heard about your troubles with the lady," Norrie MacNeill said then.
"Lady Strathlin? Aye, some troubles. I understand that she keeps a holiday home on this island. Might she come to Caransay soon? I would like to meet with the baroness and show her the work we are doing."
Awkward silence followed as the old man dragged slowly on his pipe and clicked it between his teeth, and the girl turned to gaze out to sea.
"I am thinking the lady is not here," Norrie said.
"If she does come here, I would like to meet with her."
"When she comes here, she stays at the Great House and sometimes sees no one."
"The Great House?" Dougal asked. The girl was silent, offering nothing, tipping her head under her plaid. But he felt her gaze, steady and keen, and not especially favorable.
"Clachan Mor is her manor house on the other side of the island," Norrie replied. "It is the biggest house on Caransay. So if the lady comes out here," Norrie said, watching the smoke curl up from his pipe, "you could send her a note."
"I prefer to meet with her."
"She does not like visitors." Norrie cast him a sharp glance. "I am thinking you do not have her permission to use the beach and harbor. But you go ahead with the work." He scowled.
"I had no choice, sir," Dougal said, surprised by the urge he felt to earn the old man's approval.
"Well, the lady does not like strangers on Caransay, but if we see her we will tell her you are here." Norrie pointed with his pipe toward the rock in the distance. "To please the lady, find another rock for your light. She wishes to protect the privacy of the island. "
"And the location is dangerous," Margaret MacNeill said then. "There are wild storms and high waves out there."
"I know, Miss MacNeill," Dougal answered quietly, looking down at her. "I know that very well."
Her aqua-blue gaze caught his then, and he saw a flash of awareness there. And anger. Then she hastily looked away.
Oh aye, he thought. You are the one.
* * *
Unable to sleep, Dougal left his barracks hut and walked over the machair in the darkness, the wildflower meadow that stretched across the island near the dunes. Overhead, the sky had finally gone to indigo—Hebridean summer skies could hold a lavender evening light until an hour or so before dawn—and the moon was high and pale, reflected in ripples on the sea.
He strolled deep in thought, considering a stubborn engineering problem. Rectangular stone blocks, each weighing several tons, had to be precisely trimmed to fit the circular foundation ca
vity. He had drawn diagrams and devised measurements, yet each block had to be hand shaped in situ to ensure the tightest fit between the stones. His masons were reliable, but the figures he gave them, and his design, must be accurate. A long walk often helped him think it through.
He paused to gaze out over the sea, his mind restless as the waves—not because he puzzled over granite blocks but because Margaret MacNeill had invaded his dreams, and that was why he had not slept well, why he had woken. In his dream, she had slipped into his arms, her lips comforting, her embrace luscious, turning hot and passionate. She whispered that she forgave him, and asked his forgiveness. My dear, it was not you did the wrong. My dearest girl....
A most disturbing fantasy. He had woken in warm sweat with a wrench of longing, aroused and quickly furious with himself. And that was why he was walking the machair, trying to shake off the haunting power of the dream.
Waves poured to the shore as he watched, rolling, plunging, streaming in a seductive rhythm. Moonlight gleamed pale through arches of water, their lacy curls looking much like the proud heads and breasts of white stallions.
There are the water horses of Sgeir Caran, he thought.
Seven years ago, washed onto that black rock, he had been drunk, concussed, and nearly drowned when he had imagined seeing those creatures. A man might see anything under such circumstances, even fairies.
So the girl he had encountered there had been a girl of Caransay, and the pale, proud horses that had saved him had been the waves of the sea. And he had been daft that night, daft and lost and misbehaved.
He had to find a way to make amends with the girl. She knew him and he knew her, and neither would say. Yet he could not live with himself, knowing what he had done to that lovely innocent. The look in her eyes just hours ago had been accusing, angry—and still hurt.
Far out, Sgeir Caran was a dark silhouette. Smaller rocks jutted through swirling water, part of the long reef where ships had sunk, lives had forfeited over the centuries.
His father and mother had been swallowed in a storm along that wicked reef, wrecked along the lethal points. If a lighthouse had been in place on Caran Reef, his parents might still be alive today. The light would have guided their ship through the treacherous archipelago and safely to port.
He shoved fingers through his hair, sighed. He was determined to fight for a lighthouse on Sgeir Caran. The light would prevent tragedies and save lives, if only the baroness and her lawyers would realize it. For Dougal, it would be a monument to those who had died among those rocks. Nothing must prevent that silent memorial from going up.
He hardened his mouth, fighting a quick memory of his parents' faces, their smiles. He could not think too long about them—or he would feel the loss keenly, dreadfully, again.
But growing up, he had honed self-control and daring as a way to fight his feelings. Death was no matter to him. He had faced it often, did not fear it. He had been shipwrecked himself, had endured storms, dived deep, climbed high on scaffolds, hd risked his life too many times to count in putting up these lighthouses. He felt a thrill in the daring, and a thrill in the courage. Above all, he felt the rightness of what he did—no matter the risk to him and his crew, the lighthouses had to go up.
Of all the lights he had constructed, this one was by far the most important to him.
He was known for daring—and stubbornness. And he would never give up this fight, despite Lady Strathlin. Aside from his personal reasons, the physics and logic of the matter dictated Sgeir Caran as the best site. And he already had the support of the Northern Lighthouse Commission and the Stevenson firm, who had worked on the design with him and had sent him out to this forsaken place to execute it.
He would do it. Somehow, he would do this. He owed it to all the souls who had been lost under those waves, and to his father, strong and kind, his mother, bookish and so pretty.
He sucked in the sea air like it was medicine for pain.
"Mr. Stewart." The voice behind him was sweet and soft.
He whirled. The girl stood a few feet behind him, surrounded by moonlit flowers and grasses. Wind rippled through her hair, shifted her skirt.
She was magic after all, to appear like that, just when he needed her—needed someone to ease his lonely, dark moments here. He felt a sudden urge to take her into his arms, find comfort, apologize, begin again. He tilted his head, only that.
She walked closer, the hem of her skirt swinging through the flowers. She seemed vulnerable, brittle with tension.
"Miss MacNeill," he said. "I am surprised to find anyone else out here at this hour."
"I love to walk out at dawn when I am here on Caransay," she said. "The chance of seeing the northern lights is worth losing a bit of sleep. Did you come out here to look for them, too?"
"I took a walk to puzzle over some engineering problems." And to shake himself free of a dream, yet the dream stood beside him now. He kept his gaze on the sky to keep from staring at her like a cow-eyed fool.
"The dawn is coming, " she said, looking up. "We will not see the northern lights. Well, good night, Mr. Stewart."
He turned with her. "I will walk you back to your house, if I may, and see you safe home."
"I am safe on my island. Good luck with your puzzles."
He continued to walk beside her through the long stretch of grasses and blooms. The dawn light bloomed quickly, illuminating the wild colors and fluted, dancing shapes of the flowers. "The machair is a beautiful thing."
"It is," she agreed.
"Do you know what sorts of flowers these are?" He did not particularly care, but needed something to talk about.
"I do," she said, and kept on walking.
"Buttercups, just there?" He pointed. "And harebells."
"Buttercups, harebells, daisies," she answered. "Over there is yarrow and wild oat grass, and meadowsweet too. What you are crushing underfoot, sir, are tiny purple irises past their bloom. If we walked over that way, you would see wild strawberries and brambles and clusters of wild roses spreading so thick over the rock that you can hardly see the stone."
"Lovely." He was watching her as she spoke.
"Mmm," she agreed. "Close your eyes—inhale the fragrances. In the hills, the heather blooms so thick that the hills look dark pink from far out at sea."
"I have seen it, I think," he said.
"No one planted it, no one tends it, but it flourishes. It has always been here. Sometimes the daisies turn the machair to white and gold and the bees tumble drunken through the flowers."
He smiled. "You love this place."
"I do, Mr. Stewart." Beyond the meadow, beyond the dunes, the sea shushed endlessly to shore. "It is paradise."
"I suppose the baroness agrees."
She stopped. "You need not walk me any further."
"I'd rather you had an escort in the middle of the night."
"Do you think there are strange men about?" she snapped.
He drew a breath sharply. "I think you do not like me much, Miss MacNeill."
"Go back to your barracks, Mr. Stewart."
"First I will see you safely home."
"I do not need you to do that. None of us need you here."
"I suspect you refer to lighthouses rather than a stroll at dawn. Are you by any chance acquainted with Lady Strathlin?"
Her steps faltered, and she moved ahead. "Why?"
"She shares your opinion of me. Her passel of lawyers would agree with you, too, I think."
"We cannot all be wrong," she said.
He huffed, a grudging smile at his lips, and she laughed a little as they walked side by side. Glimpsing a rock among the grasses, he took her elbow to guide her around it.
A simple touch, but the contact went through him like lightning, a crackling awareness. Stunned, he let her go, telling himself it was only the romantic moonlight, the lush sound of the sea, the strange magic of the hour before dawn. In daylight, he would not have felt so vivid a sensation, nor would he entertain such
astonishing thoughts.
Ahead, he saw a croft house tucked against a hill. He could make out its whitewashed contour, thatched roof, darkened windows. The house faced a small bay, sparkling and peaceful in the dim light. "Is that your home?"
"My grandparents' house. You can leave me now."
"No need to bristle so, Miss MacNeill."
She turned, stared up at him. A breeze fluttered her skirt and plaid shawl. Strands of her golden hair sifted loose, wafting over her brow. "I am not—bristling."
"You," he said quietly, "are like a porcupine whenever I am near." He reached out and brushed the hair away from her brow. She leaned away. See? he wanted to say.
"Do you know Lady Strathlin well?" He was curious.
"Everyone on Caransay knows her."
They stood on a rise above the croft house and its little bay, where the machair dropped away into a long sandy bank that led down to the shore. Looking at the croft house, Dougal saw that it had two wings adjacent to the main body of the house, all of it whitewashed and topped by thatch held by roof ropes. The whole formed a pretty picture with the sparkling bay while pink dawn billowed up from the horizon over the sea.
"Is that what they call the Great House?"
She laughed, soft and low. "That is Camus nan Fraoch—Heather Bay, we call it. My grandparents live there."
"But you do not live here on Caransay. Do you live on Mull with your husband?"
"My husband? I am not married. I live on the mainland."
"Forgive me. On the beach, I saw you with a man and a small boy. I assumed they were your husband and son."
"You saw my cousin Fergus MacNeill and... small Iain."
He nodded, somehow relieved that she was not married. Her name had given him no clue, since Scotswomen often kept their maiden names after marriage. And since Norrie had fetched her from Mull, Dougal assumed she lived there, but she must have a home along the coast in Ardnamurchan or Moidart.
"Where is Clachan Mor, the baroness's estate?" he asked.
"Estate? Just a manor house. That way." She pointed. "The Great House sits at the foot of those hills."
He saw it then, a stone manor house off in the distance, a box shape with a flat facade and a several windows nestled near a dark hill. A sandy peninsula stretched from there to the water.