by Susan King
"I keep a journal of the flora and fauna on the island. I enjoy drawing a little."
"May I see?" She nodded, and he flipped through the pages, examining her careful drawings, pausing now and then to admire a study of a bird or a shell, or to scan her brief descriptive notes.
"Fascinating," he commented. "You are both scientist and artist, Miss MacNeill. These are very good drawings, and interesting notes. You've labeled each drawing in English, Gaelic, and Latin. This is remarkable work."
"I have been compiling these for years. I like to make the details correct, so I look up the names of the plants and wildlife and so on in dictionaries."
"You must have a thorough library on... Mull, is it?"
"No, my grandfather collected a wonderful library—" She stopped, realizing she had said too much.
He lifted a brow. "Norrie MacNeill has a library?"
"My maternal grandfather had a large library. I inherited... some of his things."
"I see." He turned more pages. "Gannets, gulls, puffins, curlews, shearwaters, storm petrels... ah, and the golden eagles on Sgeir Caran... I had no idea there were so many birds here. And shells, starfish, crabs, and seaweed. Several varieties of kelp are all labeled here too. Interesting." He glanced at her.
"The kelp is essential to this island's wellbeing. It is gathered and dried for potash and then exported to the mainland and elsewhere. It's used in manufacturing glass."
"And gives the islanders a solid income. I have some investments in the kelp industry, and in herring, too—silver darlings make money for islanders as well as investors." He turned pages. "The heather in the hills... and the flowers on the machair. Ah, here we are—yarrow, daisy, buttercup, wild irises," he said. "And more, all here. Quite nicely done."
"Thank you. I have other journals," she said, "all filled with drawings and notations. This volume is nearly finished."
"Every page is impressive. Will you begin another?"
"I may begin a detailed study of some of the birds."
"Ah." He looked at her curiously, eyes narrowing.
"The wildlife and plant life are precious to us here, Mr. Stewart. Caransay is singularly beautiful and idyllic. It is one reason we do not want the lighthouse so close to here."
"Lady Strathlin agrees with you. No doubt she would approve of your wildlife journals."
"No doubt." Meg gave him a sidelong glance, aware he had read her letter, with its fervent plea for the birds on Sgeir Caran.
Looking toward Iain, glad for an excuse to change the subject, she saw him splashing and jumping in the surf. She shaded her eyes with her hand. "Iain! Do not go too far out!"
"He's fine. He's an adventuresome lad, that one."
"Too much so. He is likely to go swimming or climbing without a thought for safety."
He smiled. "You sound more like a mother than a cousin." He glanced about. "Is his mother here? I have not seen her."
She felt struck to the heart. "Fergus MacNeill's wife died with the birth of the little one, Anna. Iain permanently fosters with Fergus, who is like... a father to him." She walked over damp sand through a thin wash of water. Dougal went with her, his boots sinking prints beside hers.
"Sad. Will Fergus take another wife?"
"Someday. For now, he lives with my grandparents."
Seagulls dipped and fluttered overhead, and the soothing sounds of the ocean filled the air. Although she knew she should be careful, Meg felt relaxed in his presence. She could have strolled along the beach forever, surrounded by peace, with him.
"I was a daredevil child, like Iain," Dougal mused, watching the boy splash in the shallows. "My mother reined me in tightly to keep me from getting into too much trouble."
"You are still a daredevil to put up lighthouses in such dangerous locations. And you dare to confront baronesses and parliament, too, to get what you want."
He chuckled, and she loved the deep, easy rumble of it, though she did not want to like anything about this man.
"Your mother must be proud of you," she said.
His expression faded to a small frown. "My mother would be proud, I hope, if she knew. But she passed away when I was thirteen, along with my father. They never saw me grow up, or work on lighthouses. They knew nothing of my, ah, escapades." He walked, hands in pockets, head down, the breeze fingering through his hair.
"Oh, I am sorry. I did not know."
"Of course you didn't. As for confronting baronesses and parliament—I have given the baroness a bit of trouble."
"You are notorious on Caransay for it."
"So I gather. I know you would like to see me leave, and I'm sure others feel the same. But I warn you, Miss MacNeill. I will not be dissuaded from my goal. I have one quality above others that is both a flaw and a virtue."
"What is that, sir?"
He stopped and looked at her. "Once I decide upon something, I never give up. Ever." His green turned hard as Venetian glass. "I suggest you explain that to your baroness. And remember it yourself, Miss MacNeill."
"Me?" Her voice wavered.
He leaned down a little. "Shall we talk now, in full view of the other ladies, or shall we wait a bit?"
Heart slamming, she gazed up at him. "We shall wait."
"Very well." He looked down at her leather journal, which he still carried. "This is admirable, Miss MacNeill. I hope you will consider publishing it one day."
"I doubt anyone would be interested in my journals."
"On the contrary, it is unique and lovely. Scotland is very popular with tourists as well as the literati. You could do very well in publishing these."
"It is only a hobby—" She stopped, wanting to be honest with him in one area, at least. She had dreamed of publishing her journals someday, but she did not think them worthy enough, even if she published them anonymously and at her own expense.
"Well," she began, "I have imagined my journals as a handsome set of books." She half laughed. "Bound in green leather with flowers tooled on the front and the title lettered in gold along the spines."
"'A Hebridean Journal, by M. MacNeill,' each volume would say," he suggested.
She shrugged. "A silly dream."
He touched her arm, sending a thrill all through her. "It is a very precious dream, Meg MacNeill. Hold on to it. Never give it up." His voice was deep, sincere. "Someday," he said, handing the book to her, "I hope you discover your dream."
She took the journal, her fingers brushing his. "Thank you," she said. "I have never spoken much about my journals. I appreciate your... encouragement."
He smiled, a warm play of mischief and affection. No one would have thought him capable of cruel tricks.
"I had an uncle who wrote books—poetry, mostly," he said. "Very romantic, lofty stuff, full of legends and tragedy, with much beating of breasts and so forth. Perhaps you have heard of him. Sir Hugh MacBride."
"The queen's own Highland bard! He was your uncle? I have read everything he wrote. How marvelous to have such genius in your family, Mr. Stewart."
"Did your island education stretch to romantic poetry?"
"It was more than adequate, thank you. We were taught English and other subjects in the village school. We had maths, reading, writing—and yes, even poetry."
"I did not mean to offend, Miss MacNeill."
"And from the time I was a small girl, I spent every winter on the mainland at my grandfather's house—my mother's father. He hired tutors for me. More poetry, languages, sciences, and far more mathematics than I cared to learn. I had deportment and music and drawing lessons, too, and a tutor who encouraged me to keep journals."
"Busy winters," he remarked.
"Very," she said. "I cannot say I looked forward to those months each year. I am not the fishwife you may think me, Mr. Stewart," she ended crisply.
He seemed amused. "Once again, I ask your forgiveness."
She heard the undercurrent in that and did not reply.
"I, too, had a tutor," he said. "But I lov
ed mathematics and physics. The rest of it was deadly, though I enjoyed poetry readings at Dundrennan House—my uncle's estate. I often went there with my three sisters to visit our cousins."
"Three sisters!"
"My cousins Aedan and Neill and I got into more than enough scrapes to make up for the femininity that surrounded us." He grinned. "I was scarcely out of skirts when we began avoiding the girls to make towers and fortresses for ourselves. We built some shelters out of my uncle's books." He grinned. "Though it did not meet with approval."
A laugh bubbled up. "And you are still making towers!"
He grinned. "I suppose I am." Then he sobered. "And neither you nor the baroness will be able to stop this project, Miss MacNeill. We are on Caransay for the duration."
"We do not want the island disturbed. You worked on Guga before—why not go there, sir, and leave this island be. Find another sea rock. Sgeir Caran is not the site for your lighthouse."
"No other place suits."
"Commissioners and engineers give no thought to traditions and legends or to the people of this island."
"Should legends hold back progress, Miss MacNeill? Should more people drown on that reef to honor tradition?" He raised his voice, pointed toward the water, and she saw the hot spark of his temper. "Tell your baroness the lighthouse will go up and the barracks will stay, and if she wishes to further discuss the matter with me, it must be in person. No more letters. I have had enough of her lawyers and her tricks."
"Tricks!" Meg leaned forward. "How dare you—"
"Come here." He took her arm, hard and insistent, a fire of awareness exploding through her at his touch. He drew her firmly beside him toward the incline of a rocky hill textured with flowering heather. She glanced back to be certain that her grandmothers were watching Iain, who had left the water and was once again digging in the sand.
At the top of the hill she saw an expansive view of the western side of the island. Dougal pointed toward the islet at the northern end of the island.
"Look there, Miss MacNeill. What do you see?"
"Guga," she said obstinately. "With the scars of your quarry work still raw upon her."
"I will grant you that. What else?"
She looked. "Nothing else."
"Precisely. Our barracks are gone."
"Oh!" She remembered that one of his letters had detailed losing those shelters to storms.
"We built some huts there. Gone now, as you can see. They were taken down by gales twice."
"Perhaps you should have taken that for a sign to stop."
"I told you I do not give up, Miss MacNeill," he said curtly. "Guga is an inhospitable rock. We set up tents and lived on Mull after that. My men were miserable with the weather and the daily sea journeys. When Lady Strathlin and her lawyers ignored my pleas, I told the commission that we must find a secure site on Caransay for our quarters or the work would be seriously delayed."
"You could have stopped it altogether."
"Never. This lighthouse goes up."
"And be damned to all?" She had never used such language, yet he did not blink over her boldness.
"Something like that," he said.
"Then why meet with the baroness? You want no one's permission but your own for what you do."
"I want her cooperation, especially since we must quarry more stone, and it must come from Caransay."
"What! You cannot quarry on Caransay!"
"Frankly, Miss MacNeill, I can do what I want, according to the writ. But I want the baroness's approval too. Caransay rock is better quality than from Guga. It's good gray granite, with few flaws."
"Mr. Stewart," she said, head lifted high, "the baroness will never approve that."
"The quarry would bring work to the men of this island."
"They do not need the work. The baroness helps the people on this island. We do not want Caransay ravaged or defaced."
"I always make certain that my crews respect the integrity of the landscape, wherever we work."
"Caransay has been undisturbed over the centuries."
"Modernization is not an evil force, Miss MacNeill."
"When improvement threatens to destroy centuries of custom and eons of Nature's fine work, there is evil in it. I suggest you think of your quarters here as only temporary, sir, for you will not be on Caransay much longer."
"You are a fitting mouthpiece for your baroness."
"I—I must get back to Iain." She whirled and walked down the slope, and he came with her. Soon the boy ran toward them.
"Did you see me in the water?" Iain asked. "I am learning how to swim!" He puffed his chest proudly.
"We did," Dougal answered. "When next we meet, young sir, I shall teach you how to swim the foam myself, as they say in the old songs. How would that be?"
"No!" Meg said quickly, touching Iain's shoulder. "No."
Dougal frowned at her. "He needs that skill, living here."
Fear went through her like the toll of a bell, like a warning. "It's not necessary for you to teach him. Good day, Mr. Stewart. Come, Iain. We must get back." She took the boy's hand and urged him along with her.
"Mr. Stooar," Iain said, turning, "I will see you again!"
"You will, sir," Dougal said cordially.
Meg swept Iain along with her toward Thora and Elga, who waited with Anna. She glanced over her shoulder, but Dougal had already gone. Oddly, his absence tugged at her heart.
Unwise to surrender to his charm, she told herself. She must stay away from Stewart until he left the island.
I never give up, he had told her.
Well, neither would she.
Chapter 7
Birds left the sea rock like ashes on the wind. A flare, a noisy bellow, a plume of smoke, and then debris erupted from the massive rock. Falling rocks churned the water below, the ripples spreading out to bounce a dozen boats.
Cheers and applause rose from those watching inside the fishing boats. Norrie, hollering with the rest, lifted a hand in salute, then grabbed at the oars. Thora, Mother Elga, and Iain, riding with him all clapped and laughed, along with the others.
Meg sat silent in the bobbing bow, unable to enjoy the spectacle as they did. She had spent time and funds trying to prevent this very thing from happening. Sgeir Caran would never be the same. The blasting would forever alter the rock and mar its ancient soul.
Most of all, she was concerned about the wildlife and bird colonies on Sgeir Caran. Watching birds fleethe rock like an upward spiral of dark smoke, she frowned.
Another sky-high eruption was greeted by yelling and clapping from those in the boats scattered over the water. Some of the islanders had watched the construction explosions on the rock for much of the morning. Neglecting lobster pots, nets, and chores, they were thrilled by the gigantic plumes of smoke and fire flaring into the bright sky. A little while earlier, Dougal Stewart had sent men out in a rowboat to ask the spectators to keep their boats well back for reasons of safety. The people had complied, declaring the view still marvelous.
Meg had witnessed pyrotechnics in Edinburgh, London, and Paris, and she understood that the islanders found these explosions to be novel and entertaining. Witnessing this with them, she felt only sadness. For her, the glorious beauty of nature far outstripped fireworks and explosions produced by man. Nothing could compare to the grandeur of the aurora borealis or the awesome sight of storms and lightning.
After a lull came another flare and an enormous plume of smoke, and wild cheers rose from the audience. Watching, Meg wished the rock could stay unchanged forever, a sanctum sanctorum for birds and seals, a monument to ancient traditions and legends. Sgeir Caran was a place of mystery and power, and it had a personal, treasured significance for her privately.
Nothing in life remained the same, and too often wonderful dreams fled with the dawn. She had learned that lesson well.
* * *
Soft, gentle rain fell on his hat and the shoulders of his gray coat as Dougal mounted the slate st
eps of the entrance to Clachan Mor. He lifted his hand and knocked. As much as he hated wearing a hat, he had donned his bowler out of politeness. He adjusted its brim as he waited. Damn—he had forgotten his gloves, he realized. He shoved one hand in his pocket.
After a few moments the door opened to frame a tall, thin woman wearing a black dress, a white apron, and a lacy cap. She stared down her narrow nose at him with dramatic effect, for she not only stood a step above him, she seemed as tall as he was—and he bested six feet without his boots.
She was a gaunt, harsh harridan, despite the soft silvery beauty of the hair beneath her little cap. Her eyes were steel as she looked him up and down so that he felt like an untidy little boy. All the governesses and dominies he had ever known glared at him through this woman's cold stare.
"Good day. Is Lady Strathlin at home?" he asked.
He expected the formidable creature to shut the door in his face. "Who is calling?" Her intonation was stiff.
"Mr. Dougal Stewart, resident engineer on the Caran lighthouse, come to see Lady Strathlin."
She stared, unforgiving. No doubt she knew all about his dispute with the baroness. Glimpsing movement in the shadowed hall behind her, he looked past her into the entrance hall, where he could see the gleam of polished wood, brass and crystal, the rich tones of Turkish carpets and brocaded furniture. A door half-open along the hallway showed a room lined with books. Its pocket door slid quickly shut.
"Lady Strathlin is not at home at present, sir," the woman said. "Your card?"
Card. Damn again. He had forgotten to carry one with him. Cards were rarely required while quarrying stone or setting black powder charges. He was lucky to have a decent coat and hat. Patting his pockets, he found a small memorandum book and the stub of pencil and scribbled his name and address: Dougal Robertson Stewart, Kinnaird Castle, Strathclyde, currently of Innish Bay, Caransay. He tore out the sheet and handed it to the housekeeper.
She took the little page as if it were the tail of a rodent, and stepped back. "Lady Strathlin will be informed that you called. Good day, sir." The door closed with a solid click.
Dougal stood on the step in the drizzling rain. Lady Strathlin would consider a note scribbled in pencil to be the height of crudity and bad manners and dismiss his visit.