by Susan King
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"Ach, I should have sent the child to his bed," Fergus told Meg. "Look at him now. He cannot keep his eyes open, though he begged me to let him stay up the night." Tilting his head, he indicated Iain, half asleep on a bench, chin and arms leaned on the scrubbed pine surface of Thora's table. His eyelids drooped, flew open, then sagged again. "I'll take him to bed now."
"Fergus, I'll take him," Meg said, smiling as she looked at Iain. He had stubbornly lasted until this late hour, when guests were leaving, the lively music had ended, and the storytelling had begun with a smaller gathering. "They're waiting for you to join them with the stories and such. And... I'd like to tuck Iain into bed myself."
Time with Iain was precious to her, for she saw her son only a few weeks out of every year. Days ago, he had come close to death, and now another threat loomed, one only she knew about.
Fergus touched her arm. "A moment, Cousin. I want to ask you something." His golden-brown eyes seemed troubled.
Meg nodded. Her cousin had a good-hearted, earnest nature, and she had never regretted her decision to entrust her son to his care, even after Anna had died.
"I hear the lad is doing well with his schooling," he said.
"He's a bright lad, and Mrs. Berry is a fine tutor."
"I am thinking he will need much more learning, unless he becomes a fisherman, like me and so many of his kinsmen."
"He would do well to follow in the footsteps of you and Grandfather Norrie."
Fergus removed his cap and rubbed his head. "I am thinking he might do well in a mainland school."
She blinked, surprised by that. "Is that what you want for him, Fergus?"
"Well, I am thinking it is what you want for him." He kneaded his cap in his hands. "If you take him back to Edinburgh to live in your castle and your other fine houses, he can go to a real school. He can grow up to have all that a man dreams of."
If she took Iain back to Edinburgh, she ran a great risk of losing him entirely, now that Sir Frederick knew about him. Soon enough Dougal might learn the truth and take his son.
"I can think of no better place than Caransay for a boy to grow up," she said.
He smiled in shy agreement. "Margaret, I have not forgotten who gave birth to the lad. And though I love him with all my heart, he has no mother in my house now," he said sadly, glancing around to be sure they would not be heard. Most of the others sat by the fireside, creating a private corner for Meg and Fergus.
Meg leaned close, her hand on his arm. "On the day Iain was born, I trusted you and Anna with him. And though she is gone, I would trust you with him always. He loves you and small Anna. He would be heartbroken to leave you." Tears stung her eyes.
He nodded, looking down. "We nearly lost him the other day. So I am thinking you will want him to live with you now, in your great castle, where you can see him each day."
Her heart surged. "Is that what you want, Fergus?"
"I want him to be happy—and you to be happy, too."
"And for yourself?"
"I would miss him like my life," he said. "But it is good for a man to have an education. And the lad is smart. He read a story to me. Read it!" He smiled proudly. "I can sign my name and speak some English. But he can learn far more than I can ever teach him. What can I give him, but what I know about lobster fishing or the ways of the sea and the signs of the weather?"
"All that is just as important as a university education—even more so," she said fervently. "If, when he is older, he wants to go to school or to university, I will make it possible for him. For now, he is too young for anything but a tutor. He can learn from Mrs. Berry when we are on holiday here, and next year he can go to the village school. He should stay with you and the rest of his kin. Iain needs a family."
"But you are his—" He stopped, glanced around.
"He cannot learn the value of family by living with me in my cold and lonely castle, with only my servants and my advisers. And some of them are not very fond of children. Besides," she added, "where I live, he could not see the water each day."
Fergus nodded, still twisting his cap. "Now that is a sad thing. And yourself?" He looked at her. "Do you miss the sea?"
"Every day."
"And you miss Iain whenever you go back."
She gazed at Iain's golden head. "I miss him like my life," she whispered. "But he needs to be here." He is safe here.
"Someday there will come a time for you to take him. I have always known that," Fergus said.
"Someday," she agreed. "Not now."
Not for a very long time, she thought. In the outside world, Lady Strathlin would soon be forced to marry a banker and a minor baronet, a heartless man. In that household, she knew, her beloved little son would not be welcome.
Chapter 12
While several voices lifted in singing harmony around him, Dougal saw Meg and Fergus talking privately in a corner, their heads together, their discussion clearly serious. He wondered what troubled Meg that evening, for she had been preoccupied, even sad, in the midst of the revelry. He hoped she would at least confide in Fergus, who seemed a good friend to her.
Soon Fergus joined the others, and Meg led a sleepy Iain toward a connecting door. The boy sagged against her, and she bent to gather him into her arms. Dougal rose to offer his help.
"Let me take him for you, Miss MacNeill. He looks like a sack of grain. And you must be tired from such a long evening." He opened the door for her as he spoke.
She hesitated, then gave the boy up to him silently. Iain's head lolled on Dougal's shoulder, and small arms looped cozily around his neck. Meg led them through the door into a wing of the house. Camus nan Fraoch consisted of three croft houses joined together under one long thatched roof, each identical, only differing in their functions of main living area, kitchen and dining area, and what was called the sleeping room.
They entered a large room with low rafters, whitewashed walls, a stone floor, and two small windows. A hearth at one end blazed with a low peat fire. Through the shadows, Dougal looked around the sleeping room that the entire family shared with some privacy. Three curtained box beds lined the walls, and two small rooms were separated from the larger one by doors.
Meg shut the door, enclosing them in darkness and relative quiet. Being alone with her like this would have been shocking on the mainland. In the Isles, Dougal had seen more encouragement than suspicion when a young couple went off alone.
When Meg held aside a curtain to reveal a box bed, Dougal set Iain carefully inside. He stood back while she removed the boy's boots and knickers and tucked the linen sheets and woolen blankets over him. Sighing, Iain rolled over.
"Does he sleep alone in here?" Dougal asked. "Will he be frightened if he wakes later?" Thinking of the child's recent ordeal and the terrifying spectre of the shark in the water, he also remembered his own terrors and nightmares as a boy, when he would open his eyes in the darkness to realize that his parents were gone forever. Watching Iain, so small in the bed, those long-forgotten nights came rushing back to him. He glanced at Meg. "Should we stay here with him?"
She shook her head. "He will not be alone here. This is my bed at Camus nan Fraoch. I put him here for the night, though he has his own bed in the other room with Fergus, through that door, while Elga sleeps in the box bed over there. Small Anna's cradle stays near the door of the room that Thora and Norrie share, through there, so that we can all hear her if she stirs. Iain will not sleep alone for long."
He nodded, amazed at the close quarters, though he knew this was a common—even spacious—arrangement for Hebridean homes.
While they spoke, a small black terrier padded toward them through the open door between the rooms, a dog that Dougal remembered had dozed near the fireside during the ceilidh. Tail wagging now, it jumped up and leaned its paws on Meg's skirt at the knee. She bent to pet it, then assisted the little dog in jumping onto the boy's bed.
"Iain has a good nursemaid," Meg said affectionately, ruffling the
dog's head. "That's fine, then, Falla. Just for tonight you may sleep with him. Thora does not like any of their three dogs to sleep on the beds," Meg added, "but Falla can guard Iain for now." The dog curled beside the sleeping child, and Meg closed the curtain.
Standing in the darkness beside her, Dougal felt overtaken by a lush blend of contentment and passion that rushed from heart to groin, smooth and fiery as whisky and cream. He flexed his hand, wanting to touch her, hold her, more—so much more he dared not think of that. Reaching out in the shadows, he took her elbow and turned her toward him.
"Meg," he murmured, amazed that his heart could pound so hard over touching her arm or saying her name. Fascination and physical excitement built in him, as if each time was the first time he touched her.
The curve of her cheek was a warm glow in the light of the peat fire, her hair a halo of rich, rippled gold. She waited, silent, expectant, watching him.
He sought for something to say, not yet ready to go back into the crowded room when he could be alone here with her. "The ceilidh has been a grand celebration. I am very grateful for it."
"We wanted to celebrate Iain's safety and show our thanks for what you did, Mr. Stewart."
"Dougal," he corrected, and he reached up to brush back her hair where it fell softly along her cheek. She watched him, did not protest. "Any man could have done what I did."
"Iain was in grave danger, and what you did took strength and courage. The people of Caransay will talk of it for generations." She smiled at him in the darkness. "Even now, while you stand here with me, they are in the next room spinning a tale about Dougal and the shark."
"I would rather stand here with you," he murmured.
"I—" Her eyes gleamed as if with quick tears, and she looked away. "I have had no chance to speak to you alone since that day. I wanted to tell you—I need to tell you... how much it meant to me." Her voice quavered.
He shook his head. "No need to thank me again, my lass."
"But if you had not... we might be... holding a wake tonight," she whispered, as her chin began to wobble.
"Come here," he murmured, taking her shoulders, pulling her toward him. Stiff at first, she melted against him and began to weep quietly. Dougal held her, circling his hand over her back, murmuring soothing noises, while she pressed her face into his shoulder in the darkness.
He sensed that she rarely leaned on anyone for support, or else had not done so for a very-long time. Sighing into the fragrant cloud of her hair, he wrapped her close and felt her arms slip around his waist.
Holding her, Dougal felt good, needed, essential to her. The feeling was new to him. He had faced urgent and dangerous situations before, but saving Iain had brought him an unexpected reward in a sense of true belonging with the islanders, who gave him their respect and seemed ready to cast aside their resentment about the lighthouse.
Comforting Meg, he felt oddly as if he fulfilled more than her momentary need. Holding her approached a destiny, somehow. He belonged here with her.
Most of his adult life, that sense of being needed had been lacking. While putting up lighthouses, he had faced danger in order to eliminate risk for others. His own family had been devastated by a tragedy that he could now help prevent in the future. He was proud to be able to give others safety and security. His skills were needed—but he had never felt necessary to someone for himself alone. He had not even realized it until now, with Meg leaning her head on his chest and weeping.
What if she had needed him all these years—as he had wanted and desired her in dreams and imaginings—yet he had been only a hurtful memory for her? Closing his eyes in anguish, he told himself he should have searched more thoroughly for her. He hoped his apology had not come too late.
Unless he made a difference for someone, for her, he might always feel unsettled and at odds with life, always running toward danger in order to prove himself somehow. Rescuing Iain had opened floodgates of gratitude and goodwill such as he had never felt before, crowned by this moment with Meg in his arms.
Love brimmed in him and spilled over as he held her, and he felt a moment of magnificent, private surrender, as if part of him changed, subtly and surely. He wanted to ease what troubled her now—more than that, he wanted to be with her always.
"Hush, lass," he crooned. "Hush, my dear." Brushing his hand over her hair, he slid his fingers into the wealth of her hair. Meg leaned her head back to gaze up at him, her eyes luminous, awash in tears.
With deliberate gentleness, tipping her chin on his knuckle, he bent and kissed her, a sure brush of the lips, a slight, meaningful tug, another sweet brush. Then she pressed against him, urging them toward a deep meld of mouths and heartbeats. Cradling her face in his hand, he kissed her insistently, sinking his fingers into the golden richness of her hair. He kissed her breathless, until she clung to him and the room seemed to spin.
Through the half-closed door the music and light from the other room faded, but he still heard it and was dimly aware that they were not alone. He had to be alone with her, if only for a little while. Body and soul demanded it.
Tearing away from her, he took her hand, pulling her out of the room and through the outside door of the sleeping room. They stepped into the night, where the sky had finally darkened to starry indigo. He heard the rush of the sea.
Silently, swiftly, he drew her with him toward the bay. She moved beside him, making no sound as they crossed the reedy, kelp-littered sand of the little bay. Her hand felt fervent in his. He drew her down toward the sea, where the water washed, foaming, over the sand. He did not know why he wanted to take her there, but he followed his heart and pulled her along.
Wavelets rinsed over her bare toes, and she splashed a little as she walked beside him. He stopped suddenly, holding her hand, to work off his boots and toss them onto the drier sand, pulling his knitted socks off after them and tossing them, as well. The water felt cool and good over his feet. When Meg laughed, the sound made him feel even finer.
She hastened beside him, walking a little ahead of him, now pulling him along where earlier he had been tugging at her. He let her pull him over a hill and past the small headland that separated the larger bay from this small, private bit of beach in the shadow of the rock wall, with the moon-spangled water beyond.
She turned, walking backwards now, still holding his hand, and he followed her, feeling soft, dry sand beneath his feet. Then he tugged on her hand and pulled her into his arms. Under the moonlight, he touched his mouth to hers, feeling her body curve against him and her arms slide around his waist.
A keen burning slipped through him, and he kissed her in full freedom now, deep and wild and thoroughly, sliding a hand up her back, the other pulling her to him at hip and waist until her abdomen pressed hard against his rigidness. He groaned low and let his hands move upward.
She turned slightly, allowing his fingers to trace over the swell of her left breast, where she tightened like a pearl for him. He felt her small gasp in his mouth, and he touched her other breast, ruching that willing nipple, feeling her sag in his arms a little. She opened her mouth to him, teasing him with her tongue as he teased her breasts, her hands easing over his waist, moving down, then behind him, pulling him against her.
He could not get enough of her. She was like fire to him, like the burn of the whisky in his blood. He wanted her intensely, could not think past that urgency. His pounding heart and throbbing blood dimmed all reason.
Part of him, blood and soul, remembered the night they had shared, and he wanted that back again, not for its incredible physical satisfaction, but for the depth of the passion he had known only in her arms.
He proceeded with care, partaking slowly of the luxury of her, of this, though his heart slammed and his body urged him onward. He framed the deep curves at her waist, and he felt her hands move up his back, shaping, clutching at his shoulders. She gave a breathy moan and curved herself against him.
When he felt that hot, irresistible pulsing of spiri
t begin between them, when his body throbbed and demanded, he could no longer hold back, and he pulled her tightly against him.
Sinking with her in the sand, he dropped to his knees to face her as she kneeled also, and he pressed her to him in a deep kiss. Then she sank, and he went with her, stretching out with her on a soft cushion of white sand, rolling slightly, so that he lay beside her.
Gathering her to him, he traced his hands over her. Keenly aware of what he wanted, he hoped she wanted it, too. But he could not go on until he knew that she would be his entirely, without hesitation.
Cupping her face in his hand, he pulled his lips from hers and drew her into his embrace, placed his mouth at her ear. "I must know," he whispered, kissing her earlobe, "if you understand what we are about here, if you feel this, too, between us."
"I do feel it," she said, her lips brushing his neck, his jaw. "I know what we are about here." She stretched for his kiss.
"Meg," he said, dragging his lips from hers, determined to make certain all was clear between them, "I must know something. You walked with a fellow on the beach the other day. Norrie said it was Sir Frederick Matheson who came to see you. Tell me—if he means something to you." Voice low and ragged, he hated himself for asking. But he had to know.
"He is no one," she murmured, her mouth tracing over his. "No one at all to me."
He lay back, gathered her into his arms, held her. "You kissed him." Surprisingly, he felt only a little jealous; instead he felt a strange sense of knowing, of certainty that she was his and could belong to no other. He wanted to trust her loyal, caring heart and dared to hope that she shared his feelings.
"He kissed me," she corrected. "And it meant nothing to me. Do not think about it. And I will not think about it." She added in a low and oddly defiant voice, "Not now." She tilted her head to kiss him again.
He broke away. "Meg, my girl," he whispered, "I need to know what you want of me, of us, just now." This time he would ask—this time, he knew just what he wanted and why. Her, forever. He held still, heart driving hard in his chest, and waited.