Taming the Heiress (10 page)

A breeze fluttered the MacNeill girl's hair, blew her skirt back against her, revealing her womanly shape—long slender legs, graceful hips, taut body, firm breasts. Lust panged through him—and Dougal knew he should not have come down to meet her. She was honey-bright and lovely, too much so, and he wanted her with a surprising quake of the spirit, recalling the power of shared kisses—

But then the memory of a stinging slap and the apology he owed her for years ago made him stop. That rather awkward matter between them could not be addressed here, not now.

She sensed his hesitation and turned quickly, walking to the water's edge, and he understood her rejection of him. He would be cautious, then; it would take time to clear the matter between them.

The little fair-haired boy, dressed in short dark trousers and a linen shirt, padded barefoot over the sands toward him. "Hello! Are you Mr. Stoo-ar?" he called.

"Stewart, aye, lad. Who might you be, young sir?"

"Iain MacNeill, I am." He puffed out his chest and pointed to himself. "Fergus MacNeill is my foster father, and he is a fisherman. Did you come here to go swimming or to catch a fish?" His English was good for such a small Hebridean. Dougal smiled. He was no expert with children, knowing few of them personally, but he thought this one to be five or six years old, and a fine, fair, healthy child with wide, remarkably green eyes. And a fearless creature, too, for this was surely the one Margaret had plucked from the rock. And here he was with her again.

Dougal bent to shake the boy's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Master MacNeill. I came out to find Clachan Mor, hoping to see the lady who lives there."

"I know her! She is my cousin. She owns all this, every bit of it." He spread his arms wide.

Cousin! So the baroness was related to some of the islanders, and that was what brought her here? Or perhaps the boy used the term to mean a loyal bond. "Soon enough she will come back to Clachan Mor," Dougal said.

"Aye, she's here," Iain said. He gestured vaguely behind him with his closed fist. Then he opened his fingers to reveal a periwinkle. "I found a shell. See?"

"Quite nice. The lady is here? Where?" Dougal asked, surprised when the boy pointed toward the water. Margaret MacNeill splashed barefoot in the surf, her back turned to him. Norrie's wife and old mother were close by too. The fourth lady, the wader, had gone out a bit farther.

So that was the baroness. "The one in the water?"

"In the water, aye," Iain answered, distracted as he poked in the sand with his fingers. "I have other winkles, too. I found them this morning. Come see. I have a whole bucket of them. Crabs too. Some are alive," he added, nodding.

"I want to see them. Is she the lady with the big hat?"

Iain glanced around. "That's Berry."

"Baroness?" Dougal stood then, hearing Iain's name called as Norrie's wife, Thora, hurried forward to take the child by the shoulder. The very elderly lady, Mother Elga, followed, moving fairly quickly and sturdily given her age.

"Iain, do not bother the man," Thora said. "Greetings, Mr. Stewart."

"Good day, Mrs. MacNeill. And Mrs. MacNeill." He nodded to them. The older one, tiny, wrinkled, swathed in a plaid shawl, stared at him intensely.

"Mr. Stoo-ar," that one said, her voice tremulous, "left your great black rock, did you?"

"Aye. Fine day for a stroll," he said, wondering why she ogled him so.

"It is," Thora said. "Come, Iain. We'll go down to the water. The way you like—the way I would carry your grandfather Norrie out to his boat when we were young, eh?" She bent so that Iain could clamber onto her back. Then she straightened, hefting the child and grabbing his legs.

Dougal smiled. "Bringing the fisherman out to the boat?" He had seen the curious way that some of the fishermen's wives carried their husbands out to their boats so that they would not wet their boots and trousers at the outset of a long workday. Thora was built wide and powerful, and he could well imagine her toting long, lanky Norrie out to his boat for a day's fishing.

"Young Iain will be a fine fisherman someday," Dougal said to Thora as he walked beside her and the boy.

"Aye, but she wants him to be an educated lad. She's already hired tutors for him, and him so small. He takes lessons at Clachan Mor when she visits here."

"His cousin the baroness?" Dougal glanced toward "Berry" out in the water. She had sunk down in calm water up to her chin, wide straw hat shading her face.

Along the edge of the surf, Margaret strolled, lifting her skirt hem, splashing along, ignoring them—and him in particular, he thought.

"Aye. She will hire tutors for his wee sister, Anna, too, when she is older," Thora said. She carried Iain, and Dougal walked beside her. Mother Elga followed, carrying the plump fair-haired baby. "It is generous, but why so much education for them? They will not want to stay on the island when they are older. She should know. We have a good life on Caransay now. The baroness has made us safe from the clearings of land and islands going on elsewhere. We make a good living with fish and lobster, and collecting kelp and birds' eggs. We have nothing to worry about nowadays but the weather." She laughed.

"Wicked, our weather can be," Mother Elga said. "Have you ever been out in a storm, Mr. Stoo-ar?"

"Aye, often," he answered.

"Hah, I knew it," Elga said.

"It is truly a paradise here on your island," he said.

"You like Caransay," Elga said. "And you like the ocean."

"Aye," he said. "When I was a child, I swam like a fish."

"Did you!" Mother Elga grinned, and shifted the baby on her hip.

Dougal turned toward both women. "Would you like me to carry the lad, or the little one?"

"We would not," Thora said hastily, exchanging glances with her mother-in-law.

"You shall not have our babies!" Mother Elga snapped.

Dougal was startled. Had he offended them? Was there some island taboo against men holding children? He did not think so. Perhaps they had misunderstood his English.

Thora set the boy down at the edge of the water. "Go with Margaret," she said sternly. "Go on, now."

Out in the mild waves, the other lady's head, capped in its straw hat, seemed to bob on the surface like a buoy. "I wonder if the baroness would give me a little of her time," Dougal said.

"You cannot disturb her," Thora said. "She is a very proper lady and she would not like to be approached."

Mother Elga stepped closer, studying his face, then poked at his arm with a stiff finger. Dougal eyed her uncertainly.

"Perhaps I can call on her later at Clachan Mor," he said.

"She does not like visitors. Leave the lady be, sir."

"Leave her be," Elga intoned. "Go back to your rock, water man." She continued to examine him oddly, walking around him and then staring down at his booted feet, wet in the foamy surf.

"Ah, er, thank you. Perhaps you would be so good as to obtain an invitation for me to call," Dougal suggested. "Tell the lady that I am not the ogre she believes me to be."

Elga asked a question in Gaelic, and Thora answered her. Elga grinned. "Kelpie," she said, pointing to him. "Not ogre."

He was beginning to think that the old woman was daft.

"We shall see, sir," Thora said.

"Thank you." He wondered if they would help or hinder him from meeting with Lady Strathlin.

Turning, he saw Margaret walking toward her blanket. Behind her, the woman in the water now surged toward the beach, emerging from the water like a small black whale.

He had never pictured her quite so... corpulent, he thought.

"Turn away your eyes, sir," Elga said. "She is not wanting a man to see her now."

"Of course," he said, turning.

"Oh, she's coming this way," Thora muttered.

Moving quickly, Thora snatched up a blanket from the sand and hastened to meet the woman in the black bathing costume, wrapping her in the covering. They walked together, pausing to talk to Margaret, who now sat in the sand watching Iain, who played near her among some rocks that formed a small tidal pool. Margaret looked up at Thora and the baroness in the bathing costume and blanket—then she shook her head, glancing in Dougal's direction.

"I had best go. Good day, Mother Elga," he said. "How nice to chat with you." He reached out to touch the baby's head, and the little girl stared up at him, open-mouthed. Then she laughed and cooed, showing four tiny teeth.

Elga backed away as if he meant to snatch the baby. The MacNeill women were overprotective of their children, he thought, puzzled.

"Good day to you, water man," the old woman barked, scowling at him as he nodded and turned to go.

He headed across the sand toward the machair. Glancing in Margaret's direction, he saw that she talked with the others, but she paused to catch his gaze for a moment.

The look she gave him was so plaintive, so full of longing and vulnerability that he felt the very pull of it deep within, somehow. Impulsively he changed direction to walk toward her.

Chapter 6

"Oh ma leddy," Mrs. Berry protested, "Please, dinna let the man think I am Lady Strathlin!"

"He already thinks it," Meg said, noticing that Thora hastily retreated, having delivered the news, and now crossed the beach to join Elga, holding small Anna. "Just let it be for now, Mrs. Berry," Meg went on. "I will tell Mr. Stewart the truth... later."

"Well... fine for now, but I canna talk to a man when I'm in my swimming costume!"

"You do not need to speak with him. I will tell him that you value your privacy." Meg glanced over Mrs. Berry's shoulder at Dougal Stewart, who walked toward them.

"Oh, verra well. I'll just go back in the water for a bit." Dropping the blanket and lifting the stiff skirt of her black, long-sleeved bathing tunic, worn over knickerbockers and high laced slippers, Mrs. Berry walked down to the surf's edge. Meg smiled a little watching the governess's haughty posture as she eased herself into the waves. Berry rather liked playing a baroness—and might do a better job of it than Meg herself, she thought.

As Stewart walked closer, Meg steeled herself. Could she look at him, speak to him this time without feeling that ache of loneliness and wanting, without remembering tenderness and betrayal?

She realized again how much the father resembled the son, despite Iain's hair being blond like her own. They had features and eye color in common—and charming smiles. Iain would someday develop his father's build, with long muscled legs, a powerful torso, wide shoulders. She would give the man his natural beauty. At least their son had inherited that.

Iain called out and held up another shell for her to see, and she picked up her leather-covered book and walked over to him, bare heels sinking in damp sand.

"Oh, that one is lovely, Iain," she said, as he dropped a broken conch into a bucket. Together they bent to study some tiny, nearly transparent fish in the water. Lifting her skirts, Meg stepped into the water and laughed with her son as the little fish tickled past their ankles.

"You must draw these in your book," Iain said.

"I will," she said. She set the brown leather volume on a dry shelf of rock.

"Hello, Mr. Stooar!" Iain said. Meg turned, heart slamming.

"Good day, sir," she said stiffly.

"Miss MacNeill, good day to you." Today he wore a dark gray suit with a blue brocade vest and a black neckcloth. He looked as if he had come calling. He smiled at Iain. "Did you collect all these shells yourself?"

"Aye, look!" Iain set his wooden bucket on a rock. Dougal Stewart leaned forward, holding out his hand while Iain lifted a few slimy snails and plopped them into the man's palm. Stewart admired them and put them back. Then Iain handed him a few tiny crabs, and he and Iain laughed to see one of those endeavoring to escape.

"Oh, I think this fellow deserves a chance," the engineer said, and set the crab down near the water. "Go on, wee mon, back to your family." Inspired, Iain set the rest of his captured crabs free. He and Dougal bent to watch them scuttle away.

Dougal Stewart rinsed his hand in the water, splashing near Meg's bare toes, for she still stood in the shallow pool. Aware that he stared at her feet, she dropped the hem of her skirt so quickly that it soaked in the water.