Taming the Heiress (11 page)

Why bother with modesty now? she thought. The man had seen all of her—she had no physical secrets from him. Looking up into his gray-green eyes, she saw that he recalled just that, and she felt herself blush fiercely. Ducking her face under the shade of her straw hat, she stepped away and sat on a rock, covering her limbs and feet with her brown skirt and petticoat.

"Is that why you came to this side of the island, sir?" she asked coolly. "To rescue crabs and snails?"

"I'm glad to be of service to someone. At least the snails and crabs on Caransay will think kindly of me."

She gave him a sour look for that.

"I was just out for a stroll on a bonny day," he said. He bent to pick up a shell, which he offered to Iain.

"Doing more puzzles in your head?" She wanted to seem cool, detached, but seeing him with Iain made her heart beat faster. He wiped sand from his hands, then brushed Iain's hands.

That melted her heart. But she could not surrender. She frowned, looked away.

"I see that Lady Strathlin has come to Caransay," he said.

"Mmm," she said with studied disinterest, as she pressed some of the water out of the sopping hem of her skirt.

"Now that she is at Clachan Mor, perhaps I can call on her soon." He glanced toward the water, where Berry paddled contentedly in the gentle waves, her swimming costume ballooning around her. "I seem to have found her at a most inconvenient time."

Iain giggled. "You found her! Hasn't he, Cousin Meg?"

She glanced down. "Iain, the hole you dug over there is filling fast with water. You had better go save it."

Iain started off, turned. "May I wade in the water, Meg?"

"Yes, but do not go in higher than your knees," she said. He nodded and ran off.

"Meg?" Dougal asked. "It suits you—honest and beautiful."

Honest.
She felt her cheeks burn. She had always been honest by nature–but life and society had forced her to keep secrets. How she hated lies, hated that she had allowed them to run her life, hated the way they made her feel, hollow and vulnerable and sad. She wanted to tell Stewart the truth. But she had to trust him better first.

Not yet, she thought. She could not risk losing Iain.

"My mother gave me an English name," she said, glad for something to say, for he was watching her curiously, the wind ruffling his rich brown hair, his glance keen. "She was from the mainland, you see, before she lived here on Caransay with my father. My parents died before I was twelve."

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "It is hard to lose both at once."

"Not together. My mother died of a sickness when I was eleven. I think she had a broken heart, for my father had died the year before—out there," she murmured, looking out to sea. "A storm took him."

"On the reef?" he asked.

She nodded. "My mother was lovely. Very kind, with the natural elegance of a lady," she said. "Her father was... he had wealth and status on the mainland, yet his daughter went on holiday in the Hebrides and fell in love with a simple fisherman and married him without her father's consent. He was furious about that." She gave a flat laugh. "He accepted it later—and made amends to the family, I suppose."

"Your father must have been a remarkable man," Dougal remarked quietly.

"He had such goodness in him," she said. "A big heart and such humor, and when he sang it was magic to hear it. Handsome, too," she said, and smiled. "But he died out there, taking in his lobsters. Went out on a bright morning, singing and laughing, and never came back. My mother never recovered from it." She shook her head. "His nephew, my cousin Fergus MacNeill, is very like him."

"And Iain?" he asked.

She turned to stare at him in surprise. "Iain?"

"Fergus's son. Is he like him, too?"

"Iain... is Fergus's foster son, though related to my father. Iain is blond, like... my father was." A breeze fluttered a strand of hair over her eyes. She reached up to sweep the wayward strands back just as Dougal did. Their fingers touched. His hand lingered on hers for a moment.

"Golden in the sunshine, your hair," he murmured.

Oh God,
she thought, as her knees went soft and a deep yearning spun in her belly. His quick touch stirred through her. She moved back.

"That is very familiar, sir," she said primly. "We are not on those terms."

"We were once," he said. She turned, stood silently, heart pounding. "Forgive me, Miss MacNeill," he added quietly.

She was not ready to forgive him without some trust first. But she rather liked him, and had not expected that. She did not answer, watching their son splash in the wavelets.

"Well," Stewart said after a moment, "I must go. Please tell Lady Strathlin that I shall call on her soon. We have much to discuss."

"Yes," Meg said.

"Perhaps in a few days I will call at Clachan Mor."

"If she will meet with you," Meg said.

"Would you speak on my behalf, Miss MacNeill?"

"Why should I do that?" she asked sharply, glancing at him.

He smiled, his eyes crinkling. "You do not need to," he said gently.

"Well, then," she said ineffectually, and lifted her chin.

"Tell her that I look forward to meeting her."

"She will not be what you expect, Mr. Stewart."

"I am certain." He smiled a little.

She narrowed her eyes. Had he guessed so quickly? How long before he puzzled it all out?

"Please tell Lady Strathlin that she is invited to come out to Sgeir Caran to see the work we are doing there. Perhaps if she visited the site, she would understand the need for the project."

Meg frowned. "I'm sure your invitation is appreciated."

"If you would care to visit the rock, as well," he said, "I would be more than glad of it."

The thought of standing on that rock with Dougal Stewart, even in the company of others, made her breath catch. She did not know if she could face it. "I will consider it," she answered.

"Good." He smiled at her, and the mischievous curve in his upper lip dissolved something deep inside of her, one more barrier of resentment. He had an unconscious magic, this man, a natural ease of humor and intelligence that was intriguing. The slightest touch, the smallest smile cast spells over her.

Quickly she turned away to gather the little bucket and shells. Her notebook lay on the rock and she grabbed at it, but her hands were full and it fell at the engineer's feet. The pages fluttered open, revealing pages covered with sketches and notes.

He stooped to pick it up. "Is this yours?"

"I keep a journal of the flora and fauna on the island. I enjoy drawing a little."

"May I see?" She nodded, and he flipped through the pages, examining her careful drawings, pausing now and then to admire a study of a bird or a shell, or to scan her brief descriptive notes.

"Fascinating," he commented. "You are both scientist and artist, Miss MacNeill. These are very good drawings, and interesting notes. You've labeled each drawing in English, Gaelic, and Latin. This is remarkable work."

"I have been compiling these for years. I like to make the details correct, so I look up the names of the plants and wildlife and so on in dictionaries."

"You must have a thorough library on... Mull, is it?"

"No, my grandfather collected a wonderful library—" She stopped, realizing she had said too much.

He lifted a brow. "Norrie MacNeill has a library?"

"My maternal grandfather had a large library. I inherited... some of his things."

"I see." He turned more pages. "Gannets, gulls, puffins, curlews, shearwaters, storm petrels... ah, and the golden eagles on Sgeir Caran... I had no idea there were so many birds here. And shells, starfish, crabs, and seaweed. Several varieties of kelp are all labeled here too. Interesting." He glanced at her.

"The kelp is essential to this island's wellbeing. It is gathered and dried for potash and then exported to the mainland and elsewhere. It's used in manufacturing glass."

"And gives the islanders a solid income. I have some investments in the kelp industry, and in herring, too—silver darlings make money for islanders as well as investors." He turned pages. "The heather in the hills... and the flowers on the machair. Ah, here we are—yarrow, daisy, buttercup, wild irises," he said. "And more, all here. Quite nicely done."

"Thank you. I have other journals," she said, "all filled with drawings and notations. This volume is nearly finished."

"Every page is impressive. Will you begin another?"

"I may begin a detailed study of some of the birds."

"Ah." He looked at her curiously, eyes narrowing.

"The wildlife and plant life are precious to us here, Mr. Stewart. Caransay is singularly beautiful and idyllic. It is one reason we do not want the lighthouse so close to here."

"Lady Strathlin agrees with you. No doubt she would approve of your wildlife journals."

"No doubt." Meg gave him a sidelong glance, aware he had read her letter, with its fervent plea for the birds on Sgeir Caran.

Looking toward Iain, glad for an excuse to change the subject, she saw him splashing and jumping in the surf. She shaded her eyes with her hand. "Iain! Do not go too far out!"

"He's fine. He's an adventuresome lad, that one."

"Too much so. He is likely to go swimming or climbing without a thought for safety."

He smiled. "You sound more like a mother than a cousin." He glanced about. "Is his mother here? I have not seen her."

She felt struck to the heart. "Fergus MacNeill's wife died with the birth of the little one, Anna. Iain permanently fosters with Fergus, who is like... a father to him." She walked over damp sand through a thin wash of water. Dougal went with her, his boots sinking prints beside hers.

"Sad. Will Fergus take another wife?"

"Someday. For now, he lives with my grandparents."

Seagulls dipped and fluttered overhead, and the soothing sounds of the ocean filled the air. Although she knew she should be careful, Meg felt relaxed in his presence. She could have strolled along the beach forever, surrounded by peace, with him.

"I was a daredevil child, like Iain," Dougal mused, watching the boy splash in the shallows. "My mother reined me in tightly to keep me from getting into too much trouble."

"You are still a daredevil to put up lighthouses in such dangerous locations. And you dare to confront baronesses and parliament, too, to get what you want."

He chuckled, and she loved the deep, easy rumble of it, though she did not want to like anything about this man.

"Your mother must be proud of you," she said.

His expression faded to a small frown. "My mother would be proud, I hope, if she knew. But she passed away when I was thirteen, along with my father. They never saw me grow up, or work on lighthouses. They knew nothing of my, ah, escapades." He walked, hands in pockets, head down, the breeze fingering through his hair.

"Oh, I am sorry. I did not know."

"Of course you didn't. As for confronting baronesses and parliament—I have given the baroness a bit of trouble."

"You are notorious on Caransay for it."

"So I gather. I know you would like to see me leave, and I'm sure others feel the same. But I warn you, Miss MacNeill. I will not be dissuaded from my goal. I have one quality above others that is both a flaw and a virtue."

"What is that, sir?"

He stopped and looked at her. "Once I decide upon something, I never give up. Ever." His green turned hard as Venetian glass. "I suggest you explain that to your baroness. And remember it yourself, Miss MacNeill."

"Me?" Her voice wavered.

He leaned down a little. "Shall we talk now, in full view of the other ladies, or shall we wait a bit?"

Heart slamming, she gazed up at him. "We shall wait."

"Very well." He looked down at her leather journal, which he still carried. "This is admirable, Miss MacNeill. I hope you will consider publishing it one day."

"I doubt anyone would be interested in my journals."

"On the contrary, it is unique and lovely. Scotland is very popular with tourists as well as the literati. You could do very well in publishing these."

"It is only a hobby—" She stopped, wanting to be honest with him in one area, at least. She had dreamed of publishing her journals someday, but she did not think them worthy enough, even if she published them anonymously and at her own expense.

"Well," she began, "I have imagined my journals as a handsome set of books." She half laughed. "Bound in green leather with flowers tooled on the front and the title lettered in gold along the spines."

"'A Hebridean Journal,
by M. MacNeill,' each volume would say," he suggested.

She shrugged. "A silly dream."

He touched her arm, sending a thrill all through her. "It is a very precious dream, Meg MacNeill. Hold on to it. Never give it up." His voice was deep, sincere. "Someday," he said, handing the book to her, "I hope you discover your dream."