Taming the Heiress (35 page)

And that, he told himself, was just the foyer. Strathlin Castle was a luxurious and stately home in grand Scottish baronial style, quite possibly the work of David Burn—he had a good understanding of architectural style and appreciation for its details, which had helped him attain a certain elegance in his own lighthouse designs.

Turning, strolling, sitting for a moment on a tapestried bench and standing again, he contemplated a grouping of oil paintings of lush seascapes filled with wild, frothing waves and atmospheric light. He paced a path on a thick Oriental carpet and wiggled his hat in his hand.

Although he admired elegant simplicity and particularly liked homes that were plush and cozy as well as aesthetically beautiful, he realized that he could never give Meg MacNeill the sort of home she was accustomed to having. His engineer's salary would never support a place like this, nor would the respectable nest egg that he had inherited at a young age, which included his own manse. He visited Kinnaird House too seldom in his wandering, hectic life, and left its primary upkeep to his elder sister, Ellen, and her husband, Patrick.

Perhaps, he told himself, he ought to leave now, walk down to the stables and fetch the horse he had hired for the long ride from Edinburgh. He had no real reason to stay.

"Mr. Stewart?"

He turned. A lovely young woman came toward him, slim and pale blond with vivid blue eyes, dressed in a high-necked black gown that subdued her delicate summery coloring. She smiled.

"I am Mrs. Shaw, Lady Strathlin's companion," she said, extending her hand. "We met at Lady Strathlin's soiree."

"Aye, of course. I remember. How nice to see you again."

"May I be of some service to you, sir? MacFie said you did not wish to disturb Lady Strathlin, but you had a message for her."

"Aye." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a linen-wrapped packet, the cloth and its ribbon a little rumpled from much handling. "I came only to give Lady Strathlin this." He pulled an envelope from his other pocket and added, "And this." He handed both to Mrs. Shaw. "If you could see that she gets these, I will be on my way."

"Thank you, Mr. Stewart. But Lady Strathlin is at home and would be happy to see you."

Though it might be a social victory to be welcomed by the lady, he had no desire to see her. He could not trust himself to maintain the cool distance that he needed when he was near her.

He could have sent the package with a note, but something had urged him to bring it here, some desire to see where she spent much of her time, so that he would better understand her.

But he did not want to see her again.

"Thank you, Mrs. Shaw," he said, inclining his head. "Actually, I am quite rushed today. Please see that Lady Strathlin gets the package, and give her my best regards." He tipped his hat again.

"Very well, Mr. Stewart, if you are certain," Mrs. Shaw said quietly. He saw a flash of sympathy in her pretty eyes, and gentle friendship. In other circumstances, in other worlds perhaps, he would have liked her very much and would have welcomed her as a friend. He would have learned more about Meg from her, for he was sure that the two young women were devoted friends.

"Aye, I'm sure, madam." He smiled and turned away, expecting the ubiquitous butler to materialize and open the paneled door.

Instead, he heard a rustling of skirts, and a graceful figure emerged from the shadows behind a tall potted palm. She came forward from a downstairs doorway that adjoined the foyer.

"Mr. Stewart," Meg said, resting her hands on the full skirt of her blue-and-green plaid satin dress, which buttoned primly to a white lace collar that matched her white half sleeves. The effect was elegant and modest, even to the demure wings of golden hair piled into a black net. She regarded him calmly.

"Lady Strathlin," he said. "I did not mean to disturb you, madam. I came only to return something to you."

Mrs. Shaw stepped forward and handed the linen-wrapped package to Meg, who nodded silent thanks. "Mr. Stewart," Meg said, "we cannot talk here. Please come this way." She turned.

"I'll see that you're not disturbed, madam," Mrs. Shaw said from somewhere in the shadows of the hallway.

Dougal did not want to talk, but he had no polite choice other than to follow. Leading him behind the potted palm, down a hallway and through an open doorway, Meg ushered him into a library and closed the door behind them.

Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, a vast array of leather spines organized on oak-and-brass shelves. The room was bright and warm, filled with sunshine from tall windows draped in golden brocade, the floors covered in thick rugs patterned in blue, gold, and rose tones. Noticing the painting over the mantelpiece, he knew that Meg had chosen it, for the seascape was recognizably Innish Harbor on Caransay, commissioned, no doubt, of some renowned painter. Altogether a beautiful room, he thought, that reflected its owner perhaps more than she knew.

"You told me once that your grandfather had left you his library," he said. "You never said it was on this scale."

"If I had, you would not have spoken to me afterward."

"I am speaking to you now," he pointed out.

She looked down at the cloth-wrapped package in her hand and untied the ribbon, peeking at her leather journal. "There was no need to return this to me. I meant for you to have it."

"Open the envelope," he directed.

She broke the waxen seal and extracted a piece of paper, reading the contents. "A... cheque?"

He nodded soberly. Ever since he had learned about her fortune, he had been unsure how she would react to what he had done and to the publisher's modest sum. "I met with Mr. Samuel Logan at Chambers Street Publishers. He is an acquaintance of mine, so I took the liberty of showing him your journal. He was entranced and found it remarkable and unique. He'd very much like to publish your work, if that's agreeable to you. He'd like to call it
A Hebridean Journal,
by—"

"By M. MacNeill," she breathed, reading the letter as he spoke. "I—I do not know what to say."

He shrugged. "Do what you will with the offer. At the time, I did not realize... your circumstances." He glanced around the elegant library. "The money will mean little to you, I'm sure, but at the time, I thought... well, I thought you might be pleased." He twisted his deuced hat like an embarrassed schoolboy and felt an urge to flee. Until now, he had not thought about Lady Strathlin's reaction to the publishing offer. He had imagined only Meg MacNeill's delight.

"I am very pleased. Thank you, Mr. Stewart," she said softly, and she unwrapped the bulky leather journal, laying it on the gleaming surface of a nearby table and setting the bank draft beside it. She sniffled, and then Dougal realized that tears were slipping down her cheeks.

"Here," he said awkwardly. "I did not mean to offend. If you do not care to bother with this, I will send back the cheque."

She shook her head with a little watery sob. "No, I am... so very touched," she said, the last word wobbling. "I never thought that my little journals had much worth other than as a hobby. I had always dreamed about it, but did not believe... but you did believe in me... and my work," she said, her voice rising and cracking with tears, "and you took the time to show them to someone. You cared about it," she added. "Truly cared."

"Of course I did," he said. God, he wished she would not sob so. It made him want only to pull her into his arms and hold her. And he could not allow himself to feel that way. "There is no need to cry about it. I... know it is a silly wee sum."

Her face crumpled at that, and she sniffled loudly, tears streaming fresh. She touched the cheque with slim fingertips. Dougal wanted to reach out to her so desperately that he bunched the brim of his hat in one hand.

"But it is the first silly wee sum I have ever been given for myself," she said, gulping tears.

"All this—" he said, waving his hat.

"All this was inherited," she said. "I never wanted it, never thought to have it. All this was never meant to be mine, but for circumstance. The two heirs died. I was left. I had to leave my home in the Isles to live here, and for years it did not feel like home to me at all."

"Yet it is all yours, and it is an awesome responsibility."

She nodded, sniffling again, and extracted a handkerchief from her sleeve. "I suppose it is," she said. "But I have so many advisers, bankers, accountants, and such a large household staff at each of my homes, that I do not feel the responsibility as keenly as you might think."

"How many homes do you have?" he asked.

"Four. This castle, the Charlotte Square town house, the manse on Caransay, and a modest house near Inverness, as well."

He watched her without answering. He could well imagine that none of the houses were modest.

She touched the journal. "But the silly wee sum is a wonderful thing, and I thank you for it, very deeply."

"You are welcome, madam," he said stiffly. "Well. I must go. I'm on the afternoon train from Edinburgh to Glasgow."

Her eyes grew wide. "You're leaving Edinburgh?"

"Going back to Caransay and Sgeir Caran. I've been gone far too long. The work has continued in my absence, but some matters cannot proceed until I return."

"What of the—the damage from that storm just before we left? There were repairs to be made. I suppose you have heard from Mr. Clarke and Mr. Mackenzie?"

"Aye. They've seen to it all while I've been gone. But certain things have been delayed... through lack of funds. I hope that is sorted out now, but it remains to be seen." He bowed a little, aching inside. "Farewell, then, Lady Strathlin."

She twisted her handkerchief in her hands, and her eyes brimmed again with tears. "Just that? Just farewell?"

"There is little else to say." He watched her, wary of his emotions, fighting to keep temper and desire in check. "Your life here has no room for such as me. I am well aware of that. You have your obligations. So aye, just that. Farewell." He turned and walked toward the door, though his heart fell to his feet, and every instinct in him told him to stay.

"No," she said firmly. "No."

He stopped, did not look back. "I will not be ordered, Lady Strathlin. I have my own life, my own obligations."

"What is it you want?" she asked, her voice breaking. "What would keep you here?"

He closed his eyes, paused. "Nothing you have, my lady. Nothing you own."

"I am not offering you money, if that is what you think. Though if you ever need it, it is yours. Only tell me what you want." A plaintive whisper, those words, filled with need and sorrow. They pulled at him. "Dougal, please."

"Meg MacNeill," he said softly. "I want her. Need her."

She did not answer for a long moment. "But you have no use for Lady Strathlin."

"The baroness, I hear, is engaged to marry a banker." He thought he heard her whimper behind him. He could not look at her, glancing only at her books, her possessions, the evidence of her astonishing wealth. "So I think she could not keep me here."

"Why must you leave?" Her voice quivered.

Hurt,
he wanted to say.
Pride.
But there were other reasons too, layered one upon the other. He did not turn, knowing that if he saw her, he would want only to pull her hard into his arms. All his pride, all his resistance, would wash away for the chance of one touch. He felt too much pain to allow that surrender.

"For freedom, I suppose," he murmured. "I like wanderlust too well, and risk. I like my pride as it is, I think. Good day, madam." He stepped toward the door.

As he reached out for the door handle, something struck him between the shoulder blades. He looked down.

A narrow leather boot lay on the floor, its side buttons loosened. Before he could look up, another boot hit him square in the hip. He whirled.

Chapter 21

She sat in a chair, having worked off her boots to fling them at him. Now she slid off her silk stockings, hastily rolling them down her legs, pushing up the embroidered hems of her knickers to get at the garters. The silk hosiery flew outward and floated down to the carpet.

"What the devil are you doing?"

Without answer, she stood and reached under the voluminous hem of her dress, tearing at the tapes of her crinoline. The cage dropped to her feet and she stepped out of it, still struggling with other hidden drawstrings. She wriggled out of a white flounced petticoat, another of cotton, a third of red flannel.