Taming the Heiress (16 page)

"I was here because my grandmothers sent me here for the night," she said, "and you know exactly why."

He shook his head again. "Tell me what you mean."

"Do not be insulting, sir." She heard someone call his name and realized it was Alan Clarke. Glancing up, she saw Clarke and Norrie standing on a rise in the rock, near the stack. "Go on. Go have your luncheon, and leave me be," she said.

He looked up, then glanced around. "They'll see us if we stand here. Come with me." Tugging on her arm, he led her under the dark arch of the narrow cave fronted by stones and pebbles. The sea swirled in little pools and eddies, green and frothy, hiding the sounds of their feet on the stones.

She held back at the entrance, but he drew her inside with him. Taking her by the shoulders, he turned her swiftly, so that her back was against the rock wall and her escape was blocked. His hands rested on her shoulders, and he stood close enough that his body brushed hers.

Warily, breathing quickly, she watched him, her heart pounding hard now that she was inside this place, with him. Outside, instead of a raging storm, she heard the soft whooshing cadence of the waves, and heard men's voices, then the crunch of stones as Alan and Norrie walked nearby.

Dougal pressed her into the deepest shadow in the corner of the confining cave, holding her tightly, one hand at her back.

"We must go," she insisted. "They will think we fell into the sea—"

"Stay," he whispered, and bent his head, his lips nuzzling her cheek. "Stay... There is something I must tell you."

His breath caressed her lips, and resistance dropped away from her like a lead weight. Her knees seemed to give, and she grabbed his hard arms, seeking support, even as she tilted her head in surrender. His mouth covered hers softly, and her heart seemed to shift, to turn and change, as his kiss began to fill the well of yearning that had been empty within her for so long.

Only for now,
she told herself.
Just once more.

Chapter 9

He had not meant to kiss her, certainly not like this, his fingers deep in her hair, heart racing, fervent need flaring like a fuse. He wanted her, needed her, and had for years, had he only admitted the strength of it. Now he fought an overwhelming urge to make her his once more, in this place that had such a magical hold over him. He wanted to revel in her sheer existence and prove that he was neither madman nor dreamer—nor heartless, selfish fool.

He drew a breath, pulled back, struggled to find his reason again. But she moaned and sank against him, her lips giving, seeking. She filled his arms perfectly, her mouth willing on his, her fingers tender on his face and through his hair.

One kiss, then another, weaving a breathless, wild chain, and all the while he swore to himself that this one would be the last, that one the last. She was so willing and passionate in his arms like a reeling drunk, that he could not seem to stop.

He slid his hands down her back, shaped her hips, pressed her against him. Hardening like fire and stone together, he could not hide his need from her.

From the first time they had met, she had been his salvation, and he still felt that way, though he did not know why. He wanted to protect her, to rescue her, for to be of help, of use, made him feel alive with purpose. But this time he knew of no threat to her.

No storm whipped the sea to wildness. Outside, there was only warm sunshine and mild waves, bird-song, sweet breezes. And friends nearby, calling his name, calling hers.

That sound acted like a stinging slap. He stopped, pulled back, took her shoulders. All the while his breath heaved, body throbbed. Meg leaned back against the cave wall, eyes closed, chest rising, falling. Holding her by the shoulders, he felt her trembling.

"My God," he said raggedly. "You must think me a beast."

She opened her eyes, and tears shone there—her eyes were beautiful, he thought, delicate blue-green laced with gold, like sunshine glittering on the ocean. She raised shaking fingers to her mouth, then touched her finger to his lower lip.

"It was not just you who wanted this," she whispered, "then or now. Not just you."

They called his name again, crunched stones, came closer. His heart slammed. He wanted to stay here with her—there was so much to say. He wanted to erase what had hurt her, and begin again, if it were possible.

"Meg," he whispered, sliding his hands up to frame her face, tipping her head back. So earnest, so direct, that simple name, that earnest stare, and he sensed that her soul was clear and pure. But he saw hurt in her eyes, and wary mistrust. That, he surmised, was his doing.

"Listen to me," he said. "I am sorry, so very sorry—" He kissed her, murmuring while she moaned breathlessly against his mouth. "Forgive me. I did not mean to hurt you," he said, and he kissed her again. "I would never have let this time go by, had I known... where you were... I would have come for you—"

He kissed her all the while he spoke, tugged at her lips with his own, for she was like a drug to him. Touching her, kissing her, he knew he could do no more than that, or risk losing her trust again. "I would have made you my bride, if you wanted that with me, as I should have done then.... Forgive me...." His mouth gentled over hers again, and she sighed, curved toward him, wrapped her arms around his neck.

Caught in a whirlwind of caress and impulse and feeling, he hardly knew what he voiced. All he said came from the heart, and once out, he did not regret it. He would have married her, indeed, he realized, if he had found her, and if she had wanted it.

She deepened the kiss herself this time, irresistibly, and he felt her breasts tightening against his chest, felt his body pulse hot against hers. He tasted the salt of her tears. He did not know if she would ever forgive him, but he knew that her heart had softened, opened a little toward him at last.

"I want to tell you why—what happened—" He heard Alan and Norrie call out again. He wished they would go away and leave them be in their hiding place.

"There is no time," she said, yet she stretched for another kiss.

He smoothed her hair away from her brow, her cheek. "I do not know if you can forgive me," he said. "I never meant to hurt you or shame you. If you thought so all this time, no apology will fix that. I will tell you how I came to be here, but I want to know what brought you here that night, too, and what has happened to you since then."

Something shuttered her eyes, and she drew back. "We must go." She turned away quickly, yanking away from his hold.

Stepping out into sunshine, she answered the men who walked along the rocky slope near the cave. By the time Dougal stepped blinking into the light, she was halfway up the slope with them.

* * *

"Dirty weather coming," Norrie remarked, glancing in the distance as he pulled on the oars to make their way home again late in the afternoon. Alan Clarke, seated behind him and wielding a second set of oars, murmured agreement.

Meg turned. Over the western sea, towering dark clouds promised rain and winds before long. Although the sun had been shining for much of the afternoon on Sgeir Caran, now the rowboat plowed through waters that had turned rough and opaque green, and the wind had turned chilly. Sitting alone in the bow as they sailed back to Caransay, Meg drew her plaid shawl closer around her shoulders. Dougal and Mackenzie sat on the cross bench between her and the rowers. They, too, examined the sky.

"I hope the crew has the sense to leave the rock and cross now, rather than later," Dougal said. "I do not want them there if a large storm hits that rock." He looked grimly at Meg. Knowing what he meant, she glanced away.

"There's the crew, not too far behind us now," Alan remarked a moment later. "We could race them to the harbor."

"No racing," Dougal said curtly, and though Alan grinned, Meg wondered at Stewart's sudden irritableness.

Waves slapped the sides of the boat, and she reached to brush droplets from her skirt. As she did, she saw a huge fin thrusting through the water, gliding between their boat and the harbor.

"A basking shark!" she said, pointing. Dougal turned with Evan Mackenzie, and Norrie and Alan craned their heads. Then she noticed other sharks skimming below the surface of the water, four or five in all, their bodies easily as long as the boat.

"Ach, baskers are not much to worry about," Norrie said. "They have huge maws and tails as tall as my granddaughter, but no teeth to speak of. They eat plankton, not people." He winked at Meg. "Although they've been known to carry off a man now and then, if they're feeling testy."

"They do not usually come this close to the harbor," Meg said, glancing at the massive headland that contained Innish Harbor just ahead. "Oh, they are magnificent!"

"Ugly creatures," Alan muttered.

Reaching into the deep pocket of her skirt, Meg drew out her leather notebook and the pencil she carried with it. She opened to a blank page and began to sketch the nearest basking shark, though the bouncing ride sometimes jerked the pencil's path.

"Look there," Mackenzie murmured as the boat bumped over the agitated waves. "That lad's a bit small to be up there by himself, isn't he?"

"Iain! What the devil is he doing there?" Dougal asked.

Meg turned to see her son standing on the crest of the headland, waving his arms in excitement as he saw their boat coming toward the harbor. "Iain!" she said. "He loves to climb up there with the older children. But where is Thora? She would never let him go so high."

"Thora's on the beach," Norrie observed calmly. "She's going after him now. No need to fret."

Meg nodded, seeing Thora begin to labor up the rock. The climb was not difficult, but it was steep, and though Thora was strong, she was not a young woman. Iain jumped about, waving wildly, enjoying his freedom while it lasted.

Raising her arm, Meg motioned him back. "Iain!" she called, but her voice blew into the wind. "Get down from there!"

He leaped, skipped, flapped his arms and called out to them. Thora was nearly there, her skirts blowing, while she beckoned at him impatiently. Instead of obeying, the child ran a few steps away from her, stepping out on a crusty protrusion on the headland. Meg gasped and half stood in the boat.

Dougal placed a hand on her arm. "He'll be fine," he said. "She's nearly there."

Thora reached out for him, and Iain stumbled. He fell backwards into air, plummeting over the edge toward the sea, his small form pale against the massive dark headland.

Meg screamed, throwing aside her plaid shawl. In the same instant, Dougal stood too, and the boat rocked violently. He pushed Meg back as he ripped out of his coat.

"Stay here," he growled, and slipped over the boat's rim in a slick dive.

Mackenzie took her arm. "Easy, Miss MacNeill. Dougal will get the boy."

At Norrie's swift order, Alan lunged to grab the rudder, and together they turned the boat toward the headland. Mackenzie took the rudder then, and Alan joined Norrie to oar the boat swiftly through the rolling waves.

Ahead of them, Dougal cut through the water with strong, even arm strokes. Meg lunged toward the side, watching Iain's arm and head bobbing in the water. She cried out in agony, fearing Dougal would never reach the boy in time, although the man tore through the water.

When her son's head disappeared under the waves, she set her foot on the rim of the boat, ready to plunge into a dive herself, for she was a competent swimmer.

Mackenzie's hands went around her waist to tug her back. "Stay here," he said firmly. "Dougal will get him."

Hearing shouts, she saw that a few men had launched a boat into the surf from the harbor beach, while a gathering crowd stood watching on the sand. From the direction of Sgeir Caran, a boat carrying some workmen began to gain on them once the men realized what had happened.

She turned her attention back to Dougal and Iain and saw the shark fins sliding toward the commotion made by the swimmer and the floundering boy.

"Oh, God—Iain!" Meg screamed. She stood again, unable to merely sit and watch. Mackenzie kept a steadying hand on her arm, keeping her from throwing herself into the water, as she might have done without his detaining hand.

Dimly she heard her grandfather growl an order to Alan. The foreman grabbed a coiled rope from the bottom of the boat, and as they drew nearer, he positioned himself to toss it toward Dougal.