by Susan King
Dougal made his way over the rock with strange, slow clumsiness. Noises assailed him even through the brass-and-copper helmet, dominated by the sound of his own breathing as air whooshed in and out of the hoses and valves connected to his helmet. Every puff of air pumped down the length of nearly two hundred feet of hosing, smelling sharply of rubber, became his next breath. With each exhalation, he heard the click and suck of air drawn through the exit valve. Through the helmet, he heard the shushing waves and the sound of the wooden platform knocking against the rock, stirred by currents. The water was never still, never quiet, the sea too powerful here to be tranquil.
Dougal traced his gauntleted hands over recesses and protrusions, checking crevices as he searched for any signs of damage from the blastings on the rock. Sgeir Caran was massive under the surface, not overly high but as broad as any hill on Caransay, and too large for two men to walk around in one short diving session. As the blastings and construction continued, they regularly dove downward to make sure the rock remained intact.
"Dougal." Alan Clarke's voice came through the speaking tube, surprisingly clear through two hundred feet of hose.
"Aye," Dougal responded. "All is well here."
"Good. You've been down long enough. Another minute or so."
"Aye, then," Dougal said. He signaled Evan, who climbed onto the wooden platform and tugged three times on the ropes to alert the men above that he was ready to come up.
Dougal waited his turn, watching as Evan was hauled upward slowly. The platform stopped, then ascended a little farther. The crew members were always careful to bring up the divers in slow increments, halting frequently to allow their lungs to adapt to the changing depths.
Dougal brushed his gloved hand over the rock to examine a small horizontal niche, loosening a cloud of sand and debris. Something glinted in a soft spill of daylight, floating away. Dougal snatched at it, capturing it clumsily in his fingers.
Covered with an encrustation of coral, the tiny object winked golden in his palm. Thinking it was a coin, he scraped at it and discovered instead a bit of jewelry, though he could not tell quite what it was. He slipped it into the canvas bag attached to his belt.
The platform descended again, and he climbed onto it and tugged at the ropes. On the slow, careful journey upward, he made sure to breathe deeply and evenly to acclimatize himself to the shifts in pressure. Looking up, he saw clear, swirling water overhead, and then he surged into the air, craned upward by pulleys and ropes.
Leaving the solid cushion of water, he suddenly felt the crushing weight of the suit, helmet, lead boots, and weighted belt. Stepping off the platform to walk to the bench, he strained to bear the weight, breaking out in a hot sweat inside the suit, still breathing the last bit of air that had been pumped into the helmet, with its stale, rubbery smell.
Moments later, as his men unscrewed the brass-and-copper helmet and lifted it away, he felt cool air burst over his face and fill his lungs. His crew then efficiently removed his cumbersome gear, and he thanked them. Rising, he walked toward the iron barracks to change out of his diving suit and the layers of damp woolen undergarments.
Dressed once again in his customary dark suit and vest, he remembered the little gold piece he had found below. He fetched it from the canvas bag and took it to the doorway of the barracks to examine it in good light. He flecked the coral crust away with his fingernail and exposed a pretty bijou.
The piece was a pendant, with a translucent blue-green aquamarine set in a delicate frame of filigreed gold. The small chain attached to its loop was broken and crusted over, but the pendant itself would be lovely once it was cleaned. He scraped at it and turned it in his fingers.
Winking in the light, the luminous stone reminded him of Meg's beautiful eyes. He knew the pendant would be lovely hung around her neck, and he wanted to give it to her. But he hesitated, remembering her adamant, hurtful rejection of his declaration of love. Two days had passed since then, and even while he had been busy with his work, he had wondered if she would come to him—but she had not.
Expressing his heart to her had not been easy for him. She might want him to disappear from her life, but he did not intend to do that. Something troubled her, and he would not rest until he knew what it was. All was not done between him and Meg, he felt sure.
Frowning thoughtfully, he pocketed the little jewel and left the barracks. He felt the pendant between his fingers and suddenly decided that he might give it to her. If nothing else, perhaps she would accept it as a gesture of faith and loyalty—though for him it would be a gift of love.
Time might be the remedy Meg needed to decide if she loved him and could marry him. He had felt the keen edge of her silence when he had declared his feelings. Although he would have to accept it if she did not love him, every instinct he had—blood, bone, and soul—insisted that she shared his affection. Whatever else troubled her, he had the patience and the determination to wait it out—and the strength to share should she need it of him.
Once found, love was not a thing to give up easily, nor would he.
Chapter 14
"I know the hour is late," Dougal said. A fine rain sparkled on his bowler hat and broad shoulders as he stood in the doorway of Norrie's house. "I've come for my mail. I heard that Norrie brought it in from Tobermory late today."
Having answered his knock, Meg now stared at him, her heart racing. A strong gust of wind blew past him, and she strained to keep the door from bursting out of her hold. Outside, she noticed a blustery sky with huge iron-gray clouds hovering over the sea.
"Dougal, come in!" Norrie stood as he saw the visitor. "I fetched the mail in Tobermory but have not yet given it out. Let the poor man in out of the rain, Margaret. We'll have a gale before long, by the look of that black sky out there," he added.
She moved back in silent invitation. Removing his hat, Dougal stepped inside, glancing soberly at her.
Not certain what to say, she just held her hand out for his hat, which he gave to her.
"Sit you down, Mr. Stooar," Thora said, angling a bench beside the stool where Norrie now sat. "It is a dirty night."
"Aye, it is indeed," Dougal agreed, standing beside Meg. "Thank you, but I will not stay. I am sorry to disturb you, but I was out walking and saw the lamplight through the window. I thought to save Mr. MacNeill the trouble of delivering my mail."
"Sit you down," Mother Elga repeated, gesturing.
"I have work to do this evening, so I should be on my way soon," he answered. Meg, staying silent, was sure that he avoided looking at her.
Sensing his cool, shuttered mood, Meg wondered if he was still angry with her, or if he felt, as she did, a deep wrench of sadness. She had not seen him since the ceilidh, but now, standing so close to him in the dimly lit room, she felt the pull of him like a lode-stone. The knowledge that she had hurt him still twisted like a knife.
"Ach, Mr. Stooar, stay. It is not good for a body to work all the time," Thora said. "Sit you down and have a dram with Norrie. The children are to bed, and we are just sitting here in the nice quiet, the four of us. And now you."
"Thora will get you a dram," Norrie said, "and Margaret will fetch the mail. The sack is there in the cupboard, girl."
Dougal acquiesced with a polite murmur and sat on the bench beside the fire, thanking Thora for the cup of whisky that she poured and handed him. Elga remained in her favorite seat, a chair tucked in a warm corner by the hearth, and smiled at him.
"Mr. Stooar," she said, "do you like the rains?"
"Aye, at times," he said. "Not when heavy storms interfere with our work on the rock, but a soft rain like this one can be rather peaceful."
"Ah," Elga said, nodding. "Like your home in the sea?"
He glanced quickly at Meg, who blinked wide-eyed at him, while Mother Elga smiled blithely. "As peaceful as the sea, Mother Elga," he said gently. "Thank you," he murmured to Meg when she handed him the bundle of letters. His fingers brushed hers when he took the envelopes.
Startled by that warm contact, feeling the tug in her heart, she stepped back.
"Sit you down, Margaret," Elga said. "Ach, not here by me. Over there, next to Mr. Stooar," she urged, gesturing.
"Here," Thora said, insistently patting the bench beside Dougal, while she resumed her own seat near Norrie.
Reluctantly, Meg sat. The bench barely held two, so her skirts fell over Dougal's long, muscular thigh, warm beside hers, and her arm brushed his. The fresh, mingled scents of rain and wind and a hint of the flowery machair still clung to him. He seemed to radiate tangible strength and warmth, and her breath came faster, though she sat very still and silent.
While he chatted politely with her grandparents, she glanced at the letters he held in one hand. The topmost envelope, she saw immediately, was from her solicitors, Hamilton and Shaw. He slipped the letters into his pocket unread.
Dread plunged through her, for she knew that her advocates were attempting to stall, even completely disrupt, the work on the lighthouse, as she had asked them to do weeks earlier. Although the latest batch of mail held no new reports for her in that regard, she realized that her solicitor, Sir Edward Hamilton, had notified Dougal of the next move—whatever it might be.
"Ach. Now I am thinking that we need a lighthouse out there," Norrie was saying.
Meg straightened, looked at him. "But, Grandfather, you have always been against the lighthouse," she pointed out.
"In the beginning, I agreed with Lady Strathlin, who wants the isle kept private and the rock kept sacred," Norrie admitted. He pulled on his pipe and looked at Meg for a moment. Then he pointed toward the window and the bay beyond. "But now I am thinking the light would be a help out there and not much bother to us here on the island, but for the months it is being made. That wicked reef needs a light, and no question."
"The lighthouse could be placed anywhere along that reef," Meg said defensively. "It could be set farther south, where the treacherous rocks begin. Best to warn the ships at that point rather than here, two-thirds of the way along the reef."
"The light on Sgeir Caran would illuminate the whole length of the reef, Miss MacNeill. And the southernmost rocks are partially submerged in high tides," Dougal said quietly. "While lighthouses have been constructed under such conditions, it is not my preference."
"It is not his preference," Elga repeated precisely.
"Sgeir Caran is by far the best location," Dougal said.
"And that's the most important," Norrie said. "Besides, we are happy to have the resident engineer staying on Caransay." Meg could have sworn her grandfather winked. She scowled at him.
"Mr. Stooar is always welcome on Caransay," Elga said. "And so we like his lighthouse now, and him. Mr. Stooar rescued our wee Iain." Dougal nodded his thanks.
"A great many ships have gone down on that reef," Norrie said. "There is a tidal flow between some of those rocks that can spin a ship around and take it down in a few minutes' time. I've seen too many wrecks to ask you to set your light elsewhere."
"We do not want to see any more wrecks," Thora said.
"You've witnessed some yourself?" Dougal asked. The elderly people all nodded.
"We've all watched them," Norrie said. "And God save us, it is an awful thing to see. We tried to help the poor souls when we could, but there is little that men can do against the power of a great storm. We've saved too few souls over the years."
"You have rescued people from shipwrecks?" Dougal sat forward, looking at the old man sharply.
"Ach, myself and my brothers and my father before me. We did what we could whenever a ship foundered on the reef. My grandfather and great-grandfather and so on before them were wreckers, I am ashamed to say. They and their ilk wanted ships to break apart on the rocks, and would save no one."
"Wreckers still do their work in the Isles," Dougal said.
"Not on Caransay," Meg said. "It is not done here."
"Not anymore," Norrie agreed. "But it was done here long ago. Many relied on wreckage to bring goods into their homes and money into their pockets. Some even lured ships this way with lamps and fire signals. The wood that made that table and that cupboard there, came from ship timbers in my greatgrandfather's time," he said. "But my father never wrecked, and neither did his sons. We could not bear to hear the screams. The noise is terrible when a ship goes down—the wailing, the prayers shouted up to God. It is an awful thing to hear, and so we try to help."
"I'm sure you did your best to save others," Dougal said.
"We sent out mortar lines when there were survivors to grab on to the ropes, and sometimes we rowed out as far as we dared, though the waves could have taken us as well. A few ships a year go down out there, sometimes more. We did what we could."
"Do you recall," Dougal said slowly, "a wreck from about eighteen years ago? A ship called the Primrose went down on the Caran Reef."
"Primrose." Norrie frowned and sent a small puff of smoke out of his pipe. "I do recall that one. Many people were lost that night, though we rowed out. We heard from the inspectors who came to the island afterwards, that the ship was called the Primrose. It came from Glasgow and was sailing up to Skye with people on holiday."
"Aye," Dougal murmured. "That's the one."
"It was a sad thing, those people only sailing a little distance on holiday. A black storm blew out of the west that evening and took them down within minutes." He shook his head. "We did our best."
"I'm glad to hear it, Mr. MacNeill," Dougal said.
"Have you a particular interest in it, then?" Norrie asked. "Do you recall stories about it?"
"I was thirteen years old then, sir," Dougal said, and paused. "My parents were on that ship."
Meg glanced up in time to see a muscle bounce subtly in his cheek. She reached out impulsively and touched his forearm, without thought for the new, painful rift between them. She cared only about the pain he was feeling. He did not look at her, but allowed her hand to linger.
Sensing the deep, old hurt he carried, she understood it far too well. Her own father had drowned out on that reef. "Mr. Stewart," she murmured, "I am sorry. We did not know."
"Why should you?" he asked softly. "But thank you."
"Poor lad," Thora said. "We know what it is to lose someone in that way. We all do, here in this room. Our son, Margaret's father, was taken by the sea, too."
Dougal nodded, and although he did not look at Meg, he rested his hand over hers briefly. That silent gesture of compassion gave her a quick, bright hope that he still loved her. Her refusal of him had not destroyed that. She closed her eyes in relief. Though she was not free to marry him, she desperately needed to know that he cared for her, as she did for him, even if they had to part.
"It's a hard thing for a young lad to bear, Dougal Stewart," Norrie murmured. "I think this is why you build lighthouses—to save others from such a fate." He nodded his approval.
"Aye, sir," Dougal said quietly. "And that's why I want the Caran light to go up. It is especially important to me."
Meg caught her breath. Of course, she thought, Dougal would have a strong reason for wanting to build the lighthouse on that very spot. Now that she knew him as a man of heart and integrity, she realized that his private suffering had helped create the rich vein of compassion that was such a part of him. Further, she understood why he had been so stubborn and persistent.
She looked down at her hands, realizing that she had acted selfishly, had made assumptions, and had allowed solicitors to speak for the baroness. Far better, she thought, if she had taken the time to discover for herself why Dougal Stewart was so adamant and dedicated to his lighthouse project.
And the contents of the one letter in his pocket could very well destroy all of that. Pressing her lips together, she lowered her head, feeling heavy remorse. She should not have encouraged her solicitors in this matter.
"A lighthouse would not have saved our son," Norrie was saying. "He knew those rocks well. It was the strength of the squall that took him." H
e looked at Meg. "We will tell Lady Strathlin that there are noble reasons for putting that light just there and that Dougal Stewart has good reason to ask for her help."
"I doubt she would care," Dougal said.
Tears stung Meg's eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, finally done with holding back, done with the hurt and the ruse that she had hated. None of her lies had protected her. They had only caused more difficulties for her and for Dougal.
With this man, strong and deep and loving, there was no threat from which she needed protection. She had been wrong about the obstinate, odious Mr. Stewart, and she had hurt him deeply, with more hurt inevitable—and all at her hands.
"Mr. Stewart—" she began.
Norrie glanced at her and shook his head. "Not now, girl'" he said in Gaelic. "Now is not the time to tell him."
She subsided, knowing he was right to stop her. If she told Dougal the truth now, he would hate her forever, but that could not be avoided. Once he learned about their son, he might well try to take him from her, which was within his rights as the child's father.
But she could not risk causing a threat to Dougal, too, from Sir Frederick. If Matheson discovered that the lighthouse engineer was the father of her child, he would do his best to ruin Dougal and his career. She was certain of it.
She bit her lip and sighed. First she must resolve her problem with Sir Frederick Matheson. Then, she thought, she could—and would—explain the truth with a great sense of relief, no matter what Dougal thought of her afterward.
* * *
"Thank you for telling me about the Primrose, Mr. MacNeill. I appreciate it more than I can say." Dougal set his emptied glass down. "And thank you for the hospitality, Mrs. MacNeill. I must go. The weather is poor, and I have some work to do yet."
He stood, although the elderly MacNeills protested with genuine warmth for him to stay. Smiling, he shook his head, and Norrie gestured for Meg to open the door for him.
She rose and went forward, opening the door without a word. Wind stirred the delicate golden strands of her hair, blew at her plain skirt. The sky beyond had grown darker, and in the little time that Dougal had been inside the house, the wind had grown colder and faster and the rain had increased.