Taming the Heiress
Page 17
"Dirty weather indeed," Norrie said from his place by the hearth. "It will blow hard tonight. Best get back to your wee house, Mr. Stewart."
"Aye. Good night, then." Dougal nodded toward the others, then looked at Meg. She watched him, a hand quiet on the edge of the door, her gaze wide-eyed and haunted.
He glanced around. The fire crackled in the hearth, the elders sat quietly, and the little black terrier slept peacefully at Norrie's feet. The scene inside the shadowed room was simple and cozy, and the amber glow of lamplight over Meg's hair and creamy skin was warm and lovely.
He did not want to leave, suddenly. The storm had nothing to do with it. The lure was the golden girl in the shadows, the welcome of hearth and home, the simplicity and honesty and goodness of this place and these people.
He hesitated, hand upon the door. The humble croft felt more like home to him than his aunt's grand manse in Strathclyde, although he dearly loved the kinfolk who had taken him and his sisters willingly into their home after the deaths of their parents on the Caran Reef. He would see them again soon, but he would not feel quite the sense of a true home that he felt so easily here.
"Good night, Mr. Stewart," Meg said. "You'd best take your hat." She lifted it from a peg and handed it to him.
"Miss MacNeill," he said quietly, formally, and reached into his pocket. "I nearly forgot. I also came here hoping to give you this." He handed her a small paper packet. "Open it," he urged, when she looked at him in surprise.
She peeled away the paper—he had used a small notebook page for the wrapping—and gasped to see the small pendant, its pale aquamarine polished and glittering in the golden setting. He had cleaned it and suspended it on thick black thread, having no suitable chain to replace the broken one.
"Oh! It's lovely," she said. "Where did you—why—"
"I found it in the sea, on the base of Sgeir Caran," he explained. "Evan Mackenzie and I went down in the deep the other day, and I found this caught in a crevice in the rock. We found some coins, too, Spanish by the look of them, and a silver spoon. They must have drifted on the tides and currents from the site of an old shipwreck and they became wedged in the rock. This, and the coins, were encrusted with coral, so they have been down there a long time. When I saw that it was a bonny wee thing, I... well, I thought of you. I apologize for the black thread. I had nothing else for it."
"It's beautiful," she said. "And I like it strung on simple black thread. I shall treasure it." She smiled and glanced up at him, and he saw tears glistening in her eyes. "The woman who owned this may have lost her life out there on the reef."
He nodded. "A very long time ago. It looks to be very old—perhaps it went down in a Spanish galleon out there. Though it is an old-fashioned thing, it might have some value. I thought you might like to have it." He shrugged, as if it meant little to him, when in fact, the dazzle of happiness in her eyes meant everything to him.
"Thank you, Mr. Stewart," she whispered. "I will... remember you always, when I wear this."
That hurt more than he could have imagined. He gave no reaction, but kept his hand on the door, very near to hers. "Show it to Lady Strathlin," he said. "Remind her how many lives have been lost on the reef. Perhaps she ought to wear it herself, to keep the true meaning of that lighthouse clear in her mind."
Her eyes were wide and anxious, almost tortured, as she looked up at him. She did not answer, but reached up to tie the black thread behind her neck, suspending the pendant at her throat, over the simple neckline of her blouse. A small golden oval hung there, too, just below the pulse in her throat.
"I see you already have a necklace," he said.
"I wear this always," she said, her slim fingers graceful as they popped the tiny catch. Inside the two halves, he saw a miniature painted portrait of someone with golden curls perhaps herself as a child. She closed the locket quickly, but not before he glimpsed what was framed under glass in the other oval.
She carried a tiny braided circlet of red thread and human hair, golden and brown. The thread had been plucked from a plaid blanket. The sight struck him to the core.
He carried its twin, a plaited circlet inside the hidden compartment of his pocket watch. Instinctively he touched his watch pocket, tempted to show it to her and explain that he had carried it with him for seven years, ever since the dawn hour when she had placed it on his finger.
But he said nothing. Though he was determined not to give up on his love for her, he would not make a maudlin fool of himself by begging for her love. Enough, for now, to know that she still kept the ring, as he had.
"Well," he said, stepping back, giving her a cool smile, "I am glad you like the little jewel. Good night."
Thora rose to glance out the door. "You'd best stay here, Mr. Stooar. On such a night as this, the storm will blow up so fast that soon you will not be able to stand up in it."
"I'll do. Good night." Dougal tapped his bowler on his head and stepped out into the battering force of the wind. Holding the hat's brim, he fought his way across the sandy, reedy yard toward the slope that led up to the machair.
"Mr. Stewart!" He heard Meg cry out. "Dougal, wait!"
He turned and saw her running out of the house, and stopped. The wind pushed at his back, nearly whipped the hat from his head. Rain slanted over his shoulders.
"Please—come back to the house and stay with us," she said, coming closer and stopping within arm's length. The reedy grass blew all around them, and the surf pounded loudly on the beach. "Norrie sent me. He said to tell you that it is looking more fierce. A man could get washed out to sea just walking home."
"I'll be fine," he said. "It's a wee storm. Go back inside. Go on, now. You'll be soaked."
She did not turn away. "You can be so obstinate, sir."
"And you, Miss MacNeill," he said bitterly, bowing. The next gust of wind beat at her skirts and blew her hair over her eyes. She brushed it back, held it while she watched him.
"I... wanted to thank you for the gift," she said.
"You did thank me." He wanted to pull her into his arms, kiss her wild in the rain. Instead he stood a safe distance away, water drizzling off the brim of his hat, his heart twisting for love of her.
"I wanted to give you something in return, to remember me by." She pulled a cloth-wrapped packet from her skirt pocket. "Please take it. But do not open it out here in the wet and the wind. Wait until later."
He accepted it, fitted its bulk safely into his pocket, and tipped his hat. "Thank you, Miss MacNeill," he said. "I will be... glad to have something to remember you by." He kept his tone cool and neutral. "Are you leaving Caransay soon?"
"I am," she said. "In a few."
"Well, then. Perhaps our paths will cross someday."
She nodded, hands clasped in front of her, the rain slicking down her curls, wind billowing her skirt.
He felt a powerful urge to pull her into his arms and claim both her and her stubborn little heart. As he opened his mouth to tell her that whatever troubled her, no matter its nature, they would solve it together, she turned and ran.
Pride held him still, and he let her go. Turning, he made his way up and over the machair, hand on his pocket all the while, keeping her packet snug and dry.
As soon as he stepped inside his small hut and lit the lamp, then removed his wet hat and coat, he extracted the package. Unwrapping the square of linen, he found a leather-covered book tied with a ribbon.
Sitting down to turn the pages carefully, he saw that she had given him one of her journals. The book was the first one, he realized. Filled with pencil and ink studies, some washed with pale color, its pages were crammed with images of flowers, plants, shells, stones, birds, and wildlife. There were notations, too, in a careful script, for she had identified and written a brief commentary for every drawing.
He pored over the pages with great care, then closed it and wrapped it again in the ribbon and cloth. Resting his hand on it for a while, thinking, he turned to open his mail.
20 August 1857
To the Northern Lighthouse Commission
George Street
Edinburgh
Dear Sirs,
Recently we endured a storm of considerable force, with high winds, heavy rain, and breakers over six feet high. This confined us to our barracks on Caransay for two days. We emerged to find a world misted gray and littered with debris.
The work site on Sgeir Caran sustained some damage, including two work sheds and the smithy. The iron storage house, once riveted in the rock, now lists to one side. Missing are various tools, workbenches, and an anvil stone, all presumably blown into the sea.
Most astonishing of all, two stone blocks, weighing four tons each, were shifted off the rock by wind and wave, and now lie at the bottom of the sea. We hope to fetch all of these items up again with cranes and divers.
Funds are needed to repair and replace buildings and equipment. This will increase my original estimate of fifty thousand pounds by at least five percent. However, Lady Strathlin's advocates now inform me that some contributors who previously offered assistance will no longer extend it.
I plan to return to Edinburgh shortly. With the commission's approval, I hope to obtain promises from other contributors.
And I intend to pay a call on Lady Strathlin.
Yrs. respectfully,
Dougal Robertson
Stewart Innish Bay Caransay
Chapter 15
"So you refuse to abandon this project," Sir Aedan MacBride said. "I agree wholeheartedly, Dougal. That lighthouse must go up. The location is ideal, and the need is paramount." He leaned back in a leather-upholstered chair that matched the one Dougal occupied. The two men had retired after dinner to the smoking room on the top floor of Dundrennan House, Aedan's Strathclyde manse. "A shame Lady Strathlin cannot understand that."
Dougal nodded, appreciating his cousin's natural reserve and his ability to listen calmly, giving others time to sort things out for themselves. Lingering over glasses of port, Dougal had confided in Aedan, an engineer of highways and byways, his difficulties with the lighthouse as well as the baroness.
"Despite the latest maneuvers of Lady Strathlin and her mob of solicitors, I cannot, and will not, give up this cause." Dougal rolled the bowl of his glass between his palms, staring at the dark liquid sloshing inside. "I will build the thing myself, even fund it myself, though it would break me. I will set every damned stone with my own hands." He sat forward and rubbed a hand over his face, weary and frustrated yet feeling an almost overwhelming determination. "It has to go up."
Aedan regarded him steadily. "That persistence was a bit of a fault when you were younger," he said. "A more bullheaded lad there never was. But you've used it for the better by facing impossible odds and downright danger to build these lighthouses. The Caran light looks to be a magnificent structure, by the drawings and plans you showed me. The design is spare and elegant, combining aesthetics with practicality. It will outlast the ages. And it will go up. I have absolutely no doubt." He smiled. "I know you."
"Thank you. I hope you will make the journey to see it."
"I'd like that. How is Evan, by the way? Still spitting into the wind? The two of you on that rock—what a pair of rascals."
Dougal laughed. He and Aedan had attended Edinburgh University with Evan Mackenzie, so that Aedan knew the viscount as well as he knew Dougal. "Somewhat. He's subdued and keeps his own counsel since that awful incident last year."
"I am convinced that the bridge collapse was not his fault—though unfortunately not everyone agrees."
"Nor is he to blame for the faults of his father, the earl."
"Lord Kildonan is a discredit to the whole of Scotland. No wonder Evan rejects association with him."
"Nonetheless, he remains his father's only heir. One day our friend will be the Earl of Kildonan, which is the last thing he wants—or needs."
"An inherited black mark when his reputation has already suffered." Aedan shook his head.
Dougal stared at the tartan-patterned carpet beneath his boots. "Aedan," he said, "what do you know of Lady Strathlin?"
"Little, really. She inherited the biggest fortune in Scotland rather unexpectedly—the male heir and the next in line both died, and old Lord Strathlin shortly followed. Awful business, but I understand she's been a credit to the title and a generous and charitable lady. But it's surprising that she is so determined to prevent you from your work."
"It is surprising, in a way, and does not chime with what I've heard of her magnanimous nature. She bought the lease of that island years ago from the English lord who owned it, fired the factor, and secured the island in perpetuity for her tenants. She ensured that they will never have to worry about anything—but for the weather, I suppose," he added. "For all the trouble the woman has caused me, I admire her treatment of the islanders."
"They say she supplied relief elsewhere in the Hebrides by sending food shipments and starting industries so that the people could support themselves. My father spent much of his personal fortune on shiploads of grain and goods for Highlanders and Islesmen a dozen years ago, when the potato crops were blighted and so many Scots suffered. If Lady Strathlin has made a difference for those people, I heartily applaud her.
"Beautiful, as I recall, young and quite appealing," he continued, "and neither haughty nor vain. She has a train of attendants and hangers-on, but that is a pitfall of such wealth. She did not seem to relish the attention. We did not converse. It was an introduction only."
"Interesting," Dougal said thoughtfully. "It did not occur to me that she might be lovely or—appealing."
"Quite,"Aedan rose to his feet, and Dougal stood, too. "Shall we join the ladies in the drawing room for coffee?"
"Aye. Aunt Lill allowed her monkey to be at tea today, and I heard the wee beastie chattering in the hallway before dinner," Dougal said. "Does Thistle still keep late hours?"
Aedan grinned. "Do you wonder if Miss Thistle will be taking coffee with us tonight?"
"Taking coffee, tossing cups, cracking china," Dougal drawled. "Miss Thistle is always entertaining company."
"We are in luck. Amy is planning parlor games for tonight, and since she finds Thistle tiresome, the beastie is banned from the drawing room. A warning—your sister is delighted to have another male available for charades."
"Please, not Amy in charge of charades!" Dougal groaned.
"We must submit," Aedan said, pinching back a smile.
"Have you not submitted yet, then?" Dougal asked. "I rather thought my sister would have convinced you to marry her by now, as the safe and sensible match. She's aware of your hesitations regarding marriage."
Aedan frowned, and Dougal saw the humor diminish in his cousin's vivid blue eyes. "I am very fond of Amy, and she has been a great help to me in refurbishing this house according to my father's will." He gestured around the room, with its new tartan carpeting and chintz draperies. "But I am not sure that I love her in quite the way she wishes." He shrugged. "Still, I have not yet made up my mind what to do. I wish to marry someday, but... well, according to that black curse over my ancestors and myself, the lairds of Dundrennan can never fall in love. Unfortunately, I have tested the rule and found it truthful." He still frowned.
"Someday," Dougal said quietly, "you will risk it again and break the spell that has haunted this place for centuries."
"I pray you are right," Aedan murmured, and opened the door.
Dougal went with Aedan from the billiard room to the drawing room, where their aunt Lillian—Lady Balmossie—and Dougal's two youngest sisters waited. He could hear the monkey chittering as they opened the drawing-room door, and Aedan ducked out of sheer habit, as if to dodge some invisible flying object.
Dougal laughed and
continued to smile as blond Amy, pretty and vivacious in yards of pink flounces, firmly shooed the tiny creature out of the room in the arms of a reluctant housemaid.
Glad to be home among his family, Dougal watched them, content and amused, and soon found himself wondering how Meg MacNeill would suit with them. Very well indeed, he decided. He could easily imagine her within these walls, chatting and laughing with his kinswomen and deep in some intellectual conversation with the laird of Dundrennan. Aedan would no doubt be very interested in Meg's journals. His father, Sir Hugh MacBride, had been a famous, prolific poet, and Sir Hugh's vast library was one of the treasures of Dundrennan House.
He knew that Meg would enjoy Lady Balmossie's blunt Lowland mannerisms, and he could even imagine her facing the truculent little monkey and winning a friend. Meg would fit in at Dundrennan as if she had always been part of the family.
But he had no real guarantee that the girl wanted to become part of his life. He did not even know when, or if, he would see her again.
He smiled while he watched his family, but inside his thoughts and emotions churned. Like Aedan MacBride, for whom love was a dark curse, Dougal still wanted a real, soul-deep love in his life. He had found it with Meg. Being with her would strengthen and improve him, help him to reach the height and breadth of potential. Loneliness had become a burden, and risk and danger seemed less satisfying than before. His meeting with a beautiful, mysterious girl on a wind-lashed rock had been a turning point in his life. He wanted to fulfill that destiny with her.
Soon he would return to Caransay, and if he could only see her again, he would woo her properly. He feared that his intensity and passion for her had only alarmed and confused her. No wonder she had distanced herself—though some instinct told him that her reasons went deeper.
But before he could return to Meg, he must face Lady Strathlin.
* * *
"Ah, here it is.... Campanula rotundifolia," Meg murmured, spreading her fingers carefully on the thin page of the encyclopedia volume spread open on the library table in front of her. "The bluebell, or harebell, as it is known in Scotland." She copied the name and wrote some notations in ink beneath a finished study of a cluster of tiny blue flowers. Sanding the ink, she blew gently to dry it and sat back.