Taming the Heiress

by Susan King

  Under the plaid, Meg leaned upon Dougal. With his arm snug around her, they were wrapped together with Iain in a warm cocoon.

  No one knew, she thought, what that close circle meant to her—father, mother, and child huddled together in a moment of gratitude and love.

  "Dougal," she whispered, and he bent his head a little to hear her. "Thank you. I can never thank you enough—" Tears threatened, and she dipped her head to Iain's, her throat tightening, her heart too full for words.

  "No need for thanks, Miss MacNeill," he said, while he rubbed Iain's legs. "And you, what a brave lad you were!"

  As father and son regarded each other, neither knowing the other, Meg saw how alike their green eyes were, how similar their beautiful profiles. The sight felt like a lightning strike through her heart, a hole that brimmed with joy and sadness both.

  Unable to hold back tears, she let them stream and leaned impulsively to kiss Dougal's cheek. His beard was raspy under her lips, his skin damp, tasting of salt. She closed her eyes, savoring her gratitude and his closeness.

  Eyes crinkling in a smile, he looked at her. Secret and rare, that smile, more in eyes than on lips, thrilling her deeply. Reaching up, he brushed at her tears.

  "Hey, lass," he murmured. "Don't cry. He's safe."

  Gazing at him, she suddenly knew that she loved him, deeply, profoundly. No matter who he was, what he had done in the past, what conflict she might have with him otherwise, she loved him in that perfect moment and in the secret spaces of her heart. The peace of that filled her, overflowed. She wept again, sniffling, filled with happiness as well as a keen, private despair.

  Dougal pulled the blanket higher on her shoulders. "You're shivering, and so is Iain. We must get you both home."

  She nodded and hugged Iain again. Glancing up, she saw Mackenzie watching them. He had given up his coat to Dougal, whose coat was trampled somewhere underfoot, and now sat in shirtsleeves and vest while he operated the rudder to help Norrie guide the boat toward the harbor beach.

  "I owe you thanks, too, Mr. Mackenzie," she said.

  "It's Evan."

  "Evan," she acknowledged. "Meg. And thank you."

  "You owe me nothing, Meg. I only kept you from hurtling into the water. The lass would have gone in after you, Dougal," he said. "She was determined to rescue both of you herself."

  "I could have used help with that shark," Dougal drawled.

  Iain looked up from his nest of blankets. "Mr. Stooar punched the shark! He made it go away! I thought it would eat me."

  "You're too tough for a shark to bother with you," Dougal said. "And actually, I kicked it."

  "Incredible," Alan said. Norrie nodded agreement.

  "Not so incredible," Dougal said. "Baskers are placid, after all, as Norrie said. I simply gave it a shove with my foot, and it decided it wanted nothing to do with me."

  "He's the each-uisge," Iain said. "Mother Elga said so. That's why he could punch the shark and make it go away!"

  "I'm the what?" Dougal looked at Meg, puzzled.

  She shook her head briefly and touched Iain's head. "Look, dear—I think everyone on the island is there to welcome you!"

  The prow entered the shallows, and cheers rose up from the fishermen and their families waiting on the beach. Thora splashed into the surf and ran toward them, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Chapter 10

  Sitting on the sand, Meg laughed while Iain danced a circle around her, shuffling sand as he showed her how he would cavort at the ceilidh, the celebration to be held later in the week in honor of his rescue three days ago. Amid their chiming laughter, she did not hear the man approach. She turned as Iain stopped, and the visitor spoke.

  "My dear Lady Strathlin," he murmured, "how pleasant to find you here, and so obviously enjoying your holiday!"

  She whirled, getting to her feet as he stretched out a long, black-clad arm to assist her. "Sir Frederick! Whatever are you doing here?"

  He smiled and bowed, a cane in one gloved hand, his top hat secure on his head. Tall and solidly built, Sir Frederick was neatly dressed in a black frock coat and matching waistcoat, a blue neckcloth, checked trousers, and well-made boots. Hardly a speck of sand clung to him—and would not dare, Meg thought.

  He was a striking man, not handsome but bold and proud in appearance, with a long hawk-like nose and refined features. Nearly three decades older than Meg, he was graying in the whiskers and throughout his dark, oil-slicked hair.

  Rarely did she feel at ease gazing into his eyes, for their brown was so dark and flat that they were oddly unreadable to her. Shrewd eyes, observant and sometimes cunning, but more likely that was only a reflection of his pragmatic sense, she thought. She had learned to trust him in financial and social matters, and he had gained her deepest sympathy after the unexpected death of his wife a year earlier, when his suffering had been genuine.

  "Little man," Sir Frederick addressed Iain sternly, "go and play." With a startled look at Meg, Iain ran off.

  The man turned back to Meg, his eyes glinting with interest as he took in her appearance. "My dear Margaret, how very quaint you look today. If this is how you dress when you are on holiday, I wish I had thought to join you before this. Playing the provincial shepherdess, are you? Allow me to be King Cophetua to your beggar maid." He bowed, tipping his hat.

  She brushed her hands self-consciously over her plain skirt and dug her bare feet a little into the sand to hide them. "What are you doing here on Caransay, Sir Frederick?"

  "Mr. MacNeill brought me over from Tobermory," he answered. She glanced down the quiet beach toward the harbor, where some fishermen worked on boats and nets, their wives helping them. A boat approached from Sgeir Caran, she saw, with a few men inside, perhaps returning during their luncheon break. Norrie stood on the beach, watching the sea. She turned back to Frederick.

  "I did not know you were in the Isles," she said.

  "I came at your invitation and your insistence, my dear."

  "My invitation? But I asked you not to—" She realized that he would not yet have received her reply.

  Perhaps he had taken the silence as acquiescence. "Well," she went on, "now that you are here, I am sure you will enjoy our little island."

  He looked around, gloved hands folded on his cane. He was stiff and proper, and wholly out of context standing on the beach. "A pretty place, and I'm sure it is very relaxing. I thought you would appreciate some intelligent company here, with so little to do but watch the sea and... play in the sand." He glanced toward Iain, who was digging a hole with a sizeable shell. "I do hope you are taking care of your skin, my dear. My mother always says that fine, pale skin is a woman's best asset. You are a little golden from the sun, and I do not think it suits you."

  She remembered her hat, which hung behind her on a ribbon, and she put it on. "Mrs. Berry has been ensuring that I wear the almond cream your mother sent to me. It was very kind of her to send it along. Will you... be staying?" She hoped not. Sir Frederick belonged in Edinburgh's intellectual salons, not on a Hebridean beach. "I will ask the housekeeper at Clachan Mor to make up a room for you."

  "Oh, no," he said. "I came out only for the day. Mr. MacNeill assures me that his nephew will take me back to the Isle of Mull soon. I wanted a chance to speak with you. My mother is waiting for me to return, you see. I left her at the resort at Tighnabruaich. The spa is not far from Oban and the crossover point to the Isles, so I thought to take the day to visit you while she spent the day relaxing."

  "How kind of you to think of me." She wished he had stayed on the mainland, sipping tea with his mother, an opinionated harridan who enjoyed gossiping.

  "Walk with me, dear Lady Strathlin," he said. "Margaret. I hope you do not mind my familiarity. I think of us as such good friends, after all these years."

  "Of course," she said, although lately she had become somewhat unsettled by his eager interest in her. Knowing that she must broach the subject of their supposed engagement, she wondered how
to go about it without hurting his feelings.

  He offered his arm, and she took it as they strolled. In her bare feet, she soon fell out of rhythm with his long stride.

  Glancing down the beach, she saw the boat land, and several men disembarked, Dougal Stewart among them. She knew him well from a distance now, recognized every nuance of the easy, sure way that he moved. She would have recognized him even if she had not seen his face. His shoulders were broad in a white shirt and dark vest, and his gold-streaked brown hair gleamed in the sunlight. He shaded his eyes and turned to look down the beach.

  For a moment, he stared at her, then lifted a hand in a brief, subtle salute before turning away to speak to Alan and Fergus, who were with him. Her heart leaped a little, unaccountably, at that small, private gesture.

  "Did that man just wave at you?" Frederick asked.

  "I do not think so," she answered.

  "How long do you plan to stay on the isle, my dear?"

  "I am not sure," she said. "Another week, perhaps longer. The weather has been mild, with very few storms. It's so peaceful here that I often find myself not eager to return to Edinburgh."

  "You've had some excitement lately, from what Mr. MacNeill said. That was a quite a daring rescue," he went on. "The topic was on everyone's lips in Tobermory after Mr. MacNeill brought the news. Mr. Stewart is something of a daredevil, from what I hear. He performed another such rescue last year, apparently. Some men simply must act the hero." He sighed.

  "He saved some men who were working on a bridge or a dock that collapsed, I think. That time, too, he happened to be there, and he had the courage and the skill to act. He was not the only hero the other day when he saved the boy. Others were ready to help, as well. We are all grateful to Mr. Stewart. If not for him, Iain might be gone."

  "That little fellow over there?"

  "Yes," she answered. "He is... my cousin's foster son. My family would have felt his loss very deeply." She felt Frederick's hand tense on hers. He stopped, turned to face her.

  He was very tall, the black top hat making him seem even taller, so that he towered over her. His whiskers were fashionably trimmed in the long side-whiskers called Dundrearies. She did not find such hairy feathering attractive, preferring Dougal Stewart's simple habit of shaving every few days, so that his dark whiskers evenly shaded the planes of his face in a most becoming way.

  "Sir Frederick," she said, "you did not truly come all this way simply to stroll with me on a beach."

  "Ah, the lady is clever and perceptive," he said fondly. "Lady Strathlin—Margaret. I came to speak with you about a matter of tremendous importance. It simply could not wait for your return to Edinburgh."

  "I, too, have something I wish to speak to you about."

  He covered her hand with his own and brought it to his lips. "Shall I hope?" he whispered. "Shall I allow my heart to beat as it now wants to do, with the rhythm of adoration and deepest affection?"

  "You can hardly control the beat of your heart, sir," she said curtly. When she tried to pull her hand away, his grip tightened and his lips touched her knuckles. Her skin seemed to crawl.

  "Margaret, you know I lost my darling wife a year ago," he said. "My heart broke from abject loneliness. I felt certain I would never find a worthy helpmeet again. But my dear, you were there, like a lantern shining in my time of darkness, to offer me your generous friendship. My dear lady, you have come to mean a great deal to me in this past year, though we were excellent acquaintances before."

  "I have always been grateful for your guidance, Sir Frederick. When my grandfather left his estate to me, I felt very... lost, confused, and overwhelmed. I needed good friends at that time myself. You gave me your advice as a member of the bank's board, and you and your wife were helpful in bringing me into new social circles. That made all the difference to me in the first years of my inheritance. I was only happy to return the favor when you were in need."

  "So much in need," he said. "And fair Lady Strathlin came to my rescue. I am so very glad... Margaret, I cannot express to you how ecstatic I am... that you have consented to be my wife."

  She stared up at him. "That I... Sir, I never—"

  "Oh, Margaret, do not be coy," he said, smiling. "It does not suit. I am several years older than you, my dear, so allow me to guide you. Coyness simply does not become a woman of your stature and significance."

  "Sir Frederick," she said, pulling back, "I have not consented to be your wife."

  "Now the temper we see. Tsk. My dear, you do enjoy a game. Well, so do I." He continued to smile, so much that it gave her chills. "I asked you—twice, I believe—to marry me, and you agreed in a letter."

  "Sir, if you read the letter, I refused you."

  "'My dear Sir Frederick,' you wrote, 'I am honored by your affection and would be equally honored to be your wife.'"

  "I said that I would be honored to be your wife—"

  "There, you see!"

  "I would be honored to be your wife, but," she ground out. "But, I fear it is not possible. Did you read the entire letter?"

  "Come now. I know feminine wiles when I see them."

  "I refused you then," she said. "And I refuse you now. I am sorry if you choose to be a little blind to that. I must ask you, please, not to tell others that we are engaged. It is not true."

  "Not true yet," he said blithely.

  "Not true and never will be true," she said.

  "Not true yet," he said stubbornly. "Tell me something, my dear. That little boy over there..." He turned to look at Iain, who had piled up a little hill of sand and was kicking it into fine sprays. "Is he your son?"

  She stared at him, all the blood leaving her face, leaving her cold. "My... what?"

  "Your son," he said. "He looks like you. And I know you have a child."

  "What?... Who told you such a thing?"

  "Come walk with me." He tucked her hand in his elbow again. Stunned, she walked beside him, her heart slamming in fear.

  "I met a man a few years ago," he said. "A very pleasant fellow, especially when he was in his cups. He is a doctor, and he told me, over some very fine whisky, that he had attended Lady Strathlin when she first inherited her fortune? A very nice fellow," he said, smiling. "But he had run into some problems with his finances, poor man. He said the lady fell ill, and he had attended her several times. Do you know what he told me, Margaret?" He stopped again and turned to look down at her, her hand imprisoned in his arm. She could feel the hard, stringy muscle beneath his coat.

  "Wha—what did he say?" But she knew. She remembered the doctor that Angela Shaw had insisted on calling to visit her more than once when her stomach did not agree with her and she had felt faint almost daily for a while, in the first few months of the pregnancy she was trying valiantly to hide.

  This doctor, an older man with greasy hair and a mild manner, had told her that she was suffering from a female condition that he could not name for modesty's sake. He had declared her overwrought by her new position and responsibilities. Advising her to take a long holiday among close family, perhaps for several months, until spring at least, he had looked at her pointedly before leaving.

  She had known what he meant and what he knew. And she realized that some way or another, Sir Frederick had managed to coax the truth out of that doctor.

  She faced him. "What did he say?" she repeated. "Tell me."

  "He said that Lady Strathlin would have a child by now, a healthy child by all the looks of it, and would have had that child in the spring following the year she inherited her grandfather's fortune. In other words, when she accepted the role of the Baroness Strathlin, the lady was already with child. And never married, of course." He gazed down at her.

  The pounding in her head was so fierce that she thought she might faint. She watched Iain play on the beach, watched, far in the distance, the harbor where a few men stood in a cluster and talked. She saw Dougal Stewart's head and shoulders above those he stood with, and she wanted to run to the s
afety and security of his arms.

  But he was too far away to hear, too far away to help. And he must never learn about this conversation—never.

  "Well, my dear?" he murmured. "You cannot deny it."

  "That man was a drunken fool."

  "And that spring," he said, his voice smooth and his grip so tight on her hand in the crook of his elbow that her fingers hurt, "a little boy was born and welcomed into the MacNeill family, fostered with a cousin of yours. This child's parentage is somewhat obscure, from what my sources say. But every year, several times a year, Margaret, you come back to Caransay and spend a great deal of time with that child. I believe you have arranged for his education with your former governess. You have not done that for any other child on this island, as far as I am aware. The harbormaster in Tobermory is a cheerful companion over beer and loves to gossip like a woman," he added. He stood watching Iain, his expression benign.

  She wanted to slap him, shriek at him, shake him until the evil in him showed. But he only smiled in a smug and unbending way, waiting.

  "He looks very much like you," he said. "So blond, with a winning smile. But I think his hose is not yours, nor is his chin yours. That must belong to his... father." He glanced down at her. "This news would be of great interest in certain circles, don't you agree, Margaret?"

  "Who—you would not tell—" Oh, God, she had admitted it.

  "Of course I would not tell. A man never betrays his wife in such a reprehensible fashion. Her secrets are his."

  "Wife," she repeated dully.

  "Now, he may wish to betray a mere friend, a woman who falsely represents herself as having good moral character and has inherited a position of some merit. It would be a service to others, I think, if her story were known to the public."

  "What do you want, Frederick?" she said, resigned.

  He bowed, kissed her hand again. "Autumn weddings are so very lovely, my dear baroness," he said, his use of her title faintly mocking. "Kiss me, Margaret." He leaned down.

  Meg tipped her face up, but as he lowered his mouth to hers, she turned her face to the side in revulsion.