Taming the Heiress (24 page)

"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." He 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.

"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.