Taming the Heiress (17 page)

The boy bobbed on the surface again, arms flailing, and went under within moments. Meg gasped, seeing that Dougal was nearly there, arrowing forward relentlessly. She pressed a fisted hand to her mouth and intoned a prayer under her breath.

The basking sharks were there, too, a circling menace. One sliced through the water between Dougal and Iain, its fin creating a wake. Dougal plunged on, passing over the animal's tail, probably brushed by it. Struggling, Iain managed to stay afloat, arms thrashing.

As Nome's boat drew closer, Mackenzie slipped out of his own coat, ready to dive into the water himself if need be. They were within yards of the swimmers now, and through high, slopping waves, Meg saw that Dougal was only strokes away from Iain.

One of the sharks turned, opening its gigantic mouth, a monster streaming steadily toward the swimmers. Dougal rolled onto his back and shoved at it with his foot. The basking shark flipped its tail, raised a deep wake, and dove downward.

Dougal lunged forward and caught Iain to him. Seeing the small arms close around the man's neck, Meg sobbed out, slumping against Mackenzie in relief. Alan snaked the rope outward and Dougal snatched it with one hand.

Their boat cut a swath between the remaining sharks, and the fins turned toward the sea, sinking and disappearing. Cheers sounded from the other boats and from the shore.

Treading water, Dougal and Iain held the rope while Alan hauled them closer, faces pressed cheek to cheek. Behind them, Meg turned to see the boat carrying Dougal's crew approaching rapidly, while someone shouted from the other fishing boat that had rushed toward them from Innish Harbor. Lifting a hand, Mackenzie signaled that all was well.

Once Dougal hooked his arm over the rim of the boat, Alan lifted the dripping boy into the safety of his arms and Meg surged toward them, reaching out to gather Iain into her embrace.

The boat rocked with the effort as Dougal clambered aboard with Mackenzie's help.

Saturated and smelling of brine, Iain threw his arms around Meg, shivering. She wrapped him in her plaid, then simply held him, closing her eyes, feeling his sturdy weight in her arms, kissing his soft, wet curls. Turning, she looked at Dougal.

He sat on the crossbench, Mackenzie's coat tossed over his shoulders. Sinking down beside him, cradling Iain, Meg began to rub the boy's back and limbs to bring warmth to him. She looked at Dougal, close enough that her shoulder pressed his.

"Thank you," she said, her voice breaking, tears starting in her eyes. He nodded, shivering with cold himself, and reached out to ruffle the boy's hair. Then he placed his arm around Meg's shoulders as naturally as if he always had done it. She leaned against him, feeling warmth spring between them. With his other hand, Dougal massaged Iain's legs, talking quietly to him.

Norrie left the oars, found a plaid blanket in a basket, and draped it over Dougal's shoulders. He tucked the rest across Meg and Iain, then stooped to murmur to his great-grandson in Gaelic. He patted the boy's cheek and looked up, his eyes vivid blue.

"Dougal Stewart," Norrie said, "we are in your debt forever. I've seen brave deeds many times in my life, but never anything like that." He stepped away to take the oars and pull for home.

Under the plaid, Meg leaned upon Dougal. With his arm snug around her, they were wrapped together with Iain in a warm cocoon.

No one knew, she thought, what that close circle meant to her—father, mother, and child huddled together in a moment of gratitude and love.

"Dougal," she whispered, and he bent his head a little to hear her. "Thank you. I can never thank you enough—" Tears threatened, and she dipped her head to Iain's, her throat tightening, her heart too full for words.

"No need for thanks, Miss MacNeill," he said, while he rubbed Iain's legs. "And you, what a brave lad you were!"

As father and son regarded each other, neither knowing the other, Meg saw how alike their green eyes were, how similar their beautiful profiles. The sight felt like a lightning strike through her heart, a hole that brimmed with joy and sadness both.

Unable to hold back tears, she let them stream and leaned impulsively to kiss Dougal's cheek. His beard was raspy under her lips, his skin damp, tasting of salt. She closed her eyes, savoring her gratitude and his closeness.

Eyes crinkling in a smile, he looked at her. Secret and rare, that smile, more in eyes than on lips, thrilling her deeply. Reaching up, he brushed at her tears.

"Hey, lass," he murmured. "Don't cry. He's safe."

Gazing at him, she suddenly knew that she loved him, deeply, profoundly. No matter who he was, what he had done in the past, what conflict she might have with him otherwise, she loved him in that perfect moment and in the secret spaces of her heart. The peace of that filled her, overflowed. She wept again, sniffling, filled with happiness as well as a keen, private despair.

Dougal pulled the blanket higher on her shoulders. "You're shivering, and so is Iain. We must get you both home."

She nodded and hugged Iain again. Glancing up, she saw Mackenzie watching them. He had given up his coat to Dougal, whose coat was trampled somewhere underfoot, and now sat in shirtsleeves and vest while he operated the rudder to help Norrie guide the boat toward the harbor beach.

"I owe you thanks, too, Mr. Mackenzie," she said.

"It's Evan."

"Evan," she acknowledged. "Meg. And thank you."

"You owe me nothing, Meg. I only kept you from hurtling into the water. The lass would have gone in after you, Dougal," he said. "She was determined to rescue both of you herself."

"I could have used help with that shark," Dougal drawled.

Iain looked up from his nest of blankets. "Mr. Stooar punched the shark! He made it go away! I thought it would eat me."

"You're too tough for a shark to bother with you," Dougal said. "And actually, I kicked it."

"Incredible," Alan said. Norrie nodded agreement.

"Not so incredible," Dougal said. "Baskers are placid, after all, as Norrie said. I simply gave it a shove with my foot, and it decided it wanted nothing to do with me."

"He's the
each-uisge,"
Iain said. "Mother Elga said so. That's why he could punch the shark and make it go away!"

"I'm the what?" Dougal looked at Meg, puzzled.

She shook her head briefly and touched Iain's head. "Look, dear—I think everyone on the island is there to welcome you!"

The prow entered the shallows, and cheers rose up from the fishermen and their families waiting on the beach. Thora splashed into the surf and ran toward them, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Chapter 10

Sitting on the sand, Meg laughed while Iain danced a circle around her, shuffling sand as he showed her how he would cavort at the ceilidh, the celebration to be held later in the week in honor of his rescue three days ago. Amid their chiming laughter, she did not hear the man approach. She turned as Iain stopped, and the visitor spoke.

"My dear Lady Strathlin," he murmured, "how pleasant to find you here, and so obviously enjoying your holiday!"

She whirled, getting to her feet as he stretched out a long, black-clad arm to assist her. "Sir Frederick! Whatever are you doing here?"

He smiled and bowed, a cane in one gloved hand, his top hat secure on his head. Tall and solidly built, Sir Frederick was neatly dressed in a black frock coat and matching waistcoat, a blue neckcloth, checked trousers, and well-made boots. Hardly a speck of sand clung to him—and would not dare, Meg thought.

He was a striking man, not handsome but bold and proud in appearance, with a long hawk-like nose and refined features. Nearly three decades older than Meg, he was graying in the whiskers and throughout his dark, oil-slicked hair.

Rarely did she feel at ease gazing into his eyes, for their brown was so dark and flat that they were oddly unreadable to her. Shrewd eyes, observant and sometimes cunning, but more likely that was only a reflection of his pragmatic sense, she thought. She had learned to trust him in financial and social matters, and he had gained her deepest sympathy after the unexpected death of his wife a year earlier, when his suffering had been genuine.

"Little man," Sir Frederick addressed Iain sternly, "go and play." With a startled look at Meg, Iain ran off.

The man turned back to Meg, his eyes glinting with interest as he took in her appearance. "My dear Margaret, how very quaint you look today. If this is how you dress when you are on holiday, I wish I had thought to join you before this. Playing the provincial shepherdess, are you? Allow me to be King Cophetua to your beggar maid." He bowed, tipping his hat.

She brushed her hands self-consciously over her plain skirt and dug her bare feet a little into the sand to hide them. "What are you doing here on Caransay, Sir Frederick?"

"Mr. MacNeill brought me over from Tobermory," he answered. She glanced down the quiet beach toward the harbor, where some fishermen worked on boats and nets, their wives helping them. A boat approached from Sgeir Caran, she saw, with a few men inside, perhaps returning during their luncheon break. Norrie stood on the beach, watching the sea. She turned back to Frederick.

"I did not know you were in the Isles," she said.

"I came at your invitation and your insistence, my dear."

"My invitation? But I asked you not to—" She realized that he would not yet have received her reply.

Perhaps he had taken the silence as acquiescence. "Well," she went on, "now that you are here, I am sure you will enjoy our little island."

He looked around, gloved hands folded on his cane. He was stiff and proper, and wholly out of context standing on the beach. "A pretty place, and I'm sure it is very relaxing. I thought you would appreciate some intelligent company here, with so little to do but watch the sea and... play in the sand." He glanced toward Iain, who was digging a hole with a sizeable shell. "I do hope you are taking care of your skin, my dear. My mother always says that fine, pale skin is a woman's best asset. You are a little golden from the sun, and I do not think it suits you."

She remembered her hat, which hung behind her on a ribbon, and she put it on. "Mrs. Berry has been ensuring that I wear the almond cream your mother sent to me. It was very kind of her to send it along. Will you... be staying?" She hoped not. Sir Frederick belonged in Edinburgh's intellectual salons, not on a Hebridean beach. "I will ask the housekeeper at Clachan Mor to make up a room for you."

"Oh, no," he said. "I came out only for the day. Mr. MacNeill assures me that his nephew will take me back to the Isle of Mull soon. I wanted a chance to speak with you. My mother is waiting for me to return, you see. I left her at the resort at Tighnabruaich. The spa is not far from Oban and the crossover point to the Isles, so I thought to take the day to visit you while she spent the day relaxing."

"How kind of you to think of me." She wished he had stayed on the mainland, sipping tea with his mother, an opinionated harridan who enjoyed gossiping.

"Walk with me, dear Lady Strathlin," he said. "Margaret. I hope you do not mind my familiarity. I think of us as such good friends, after all these years."

"Of course," she said, although lately she had become somewhat unsettled by his eager interest in her. Knowing that she must broach the subject of their supposed engagement, she wondered how to go about it without hurting his feelings.

He offered his arm, and she took it as they strolled. In her bare feet, she soon fell out of rhythm with his long stride.

Glancing down the beach, she saw the boat land, and several men disembarked, Dougal Stewart among them. She knew him well from a distance now, recognized every nuance of the easy, sure way that he moved. She would have recognized him even if she had not seen his face. His shoulders were broad in a white shirt and dark vest, and his gold-streaked brown hair gleamed in the sunlight. He shaded his eyes and turned to look down the beach.

For a moment, he stared at her, then lifted a hand in a brief, subtle salute before turning away to speak to Alan and Fergus, who were with him. Her heart leaped a little, unaccountably, at that small, private gesture.

"Did that man just wave at you?" Frederick asked.

"I do not think so," she answered.

"How long do you plan to stay on the isle, my dear?"