Taming the Heiress (19 page)

He was more than glad to see the delight in her face. Her mood had seemed somber despite the light hearts that surrounded them. He thought something troubled her.

Remembering the gentleman who had walked with her on the beach the other day, he frowned to himself. A quiet question to Norrie that day on the beach had revealed that the man was Sir Frederick Matheson, the owner of the Isle of Guga, who had come out for the day to visit Miss MacNeill.

Not surprised that the landowner might be enamored of a girl from Caransay, Dougal had noticed the evidence of her returned interest—her arm in Sir Frederick's as they strolled the sands and the fact that she had allowed the man to kiss her within sight of others. That sight, proof of a serious courting relationship, had struck him hard as a blow.

Dougal had gone back to the sea rock and his work, returning to Caransay to find Matheson gone, though he had expected Guga's owner to inspect the quarrying site and meet with him.

Just as well, he thought, that he had not met the man.

Now the dancers changed partners, and Meg whirled through some complex steps with Iain, their effort so comical that Dougal, watching, laughed outright. Meg caught his glance and smiled, and he felt a flood of affection tinged with longing.

Kissing her, hidden within their little cave, he had believed that she was attracted to him, that she cared—he was certain of it, damn it, he thought. If she already had a relationship with Matheson, he could not expect that his arrival after a seven year absence would make much difference outside of an impulse. He sighed, smile fading, and folded his arms.

Angus's daughter, Peigi, a handsome, buxom young woman with neatly braided brown hair, came toward him and gave him a cup of whisky brose, a strong, creamy blend of whisky, oats, honey, and spices. Although he had downed three already, he took the cup out of politeness. Peigi spoke in rapid Gaelic, and though he ventured a few words in reply, he ended with an apologetic shrug. She laughed, pointed toward the hearth where Norrie now tuned his fiddle, and shoved Dougal forward.

Anticipating another round of songs, he stood ready to listen as Norrie began a slow, poignant song. Meg came up to him then and tapped at his shoulder.

"Go on," she said. "Grandfather Norrie wants to see you."

"Unless you like caterwauling, do not expect me to sing a tune with him," he drawled. He noticed that Iain stood with her. "Having a fine time, lad?"

"Oh, aye! I know all the dances. Do you want to see?"

"I saw you dancing with Meg MacNeill," Dougal answered. "It was very fine indeed." He looked at her, smiling a little, and saw a burst of pink in her cheeks. She glanced away quickly.

He watched her thoughtfully. Just speaking with her, just standing near her, felt so good. He wanted only to enjoy the evening in her company, but the memory of seeing her kiss another man hovered between them like a shadow.

"It's very late," she told Iain. "You should be going to bed soon. Where is Fergus MacNeill?" She turned.

"He's gone off with Peigi," Iain said, "and he does not care when I go to bed. Even small Anna is still awake. I want to stay up with the rest."

"This is the lad's celebration," Dougal said in his defense.

"It is," Iain agreed.

Meg shook her head. "He will be exhausted tomorrow when it's time for his lessons—"

"Lessons?" Dougal asked.

"Berry is teaching me English and reading and maths at the Great House," Iain said. "I'm doing good."

"The baroness is teaching him?" Dougal asked Meg, confused.

"Mrs. Berry," she answered, bewildering him further. "Oh, look, my grandfather is about to say something," she added quickly, as Iain began to talk. "Go on, now." She gave Dougal a small shove.

He stepped forward as Norrie waved him to the hearth, setting down his fiddle. The old man took up a glass of amber whisky and sipped it. Then he began to speak in Gaelic.

Unable to understand it all, Dougal was grateful when Meg leaned toward him to explain Norrie's words. Soon, though, Norrie began to speak in English.

"When Mr. Stewart first came to Caransay," he said, "we were not of a good mind toward him or his working men or their lighthouse. Some of us have not changed our minds about that." Dougal shot Meg a quick frown and saw her cheeks turn fiery.

"But we are of one mind that Mr. Stewart is a good and brave man," Norrie continued. "He rescued our wee Iain and plucked him safe from the sea. And then he drove off a shark, even if it was a basker," he added wryly. "I am thinking he is the equal of the great hero Fhionn MacCumhaill himself! He is as great as any kelpie or selkie in the sea, a man of true courage, capable of magical feats!" He grinned. "To Mr. Stewart—the Great Toast!" Norrie stepped up on a stool and raised his glass.

Everyone who held a glass or cup lifted it, then lowered it, held their drink out and pulled it in, all the while chanting in unison, first in Gaelic, then in English.

Up with it, up with it,

Down with it, down with it,

Over to you, and over to you,

Over to me, and over to me.

May all your days be good, my friend!

Drink it up!

They shouted the last line together, walls ringing, and drank. Norrie smashed his drained glass on the hearthstone, and a rousing cheer went up. Dougal, laughing and accepting handshakes and claps on the back, hoisted Iain to his shoulders. The little boy raised his hands to touch the roof beams, yelling happily.

"Aye, my wee friend. Celebrate," Dougal said, grinning. "All this is for you." As he held Iain's legs, he turned to see Meg. For a moment, her sparkling smile and the strange undercurrent of sadness in her eyes dimmed all else around him.

"Thank you, Mr. Stewart," she said, so quietly that he bent to hear her over the ruckus, "for saving our wee Iain."

"You are very welcome, my dear Miss MacNeill," he answered. Norrie spoke again, this time in Gaelic, and he turned. The crowd cheered once more, and glasses clinked in another salute. "What did he say?"

Meg blushed. "Oh, they're drinking a toast to me now."

"'And here's to our Margaret,'" Angus translated, standing nearby, "'the finest lady with the kindest heart in all the Western Isles. May she have all the happiness she deserves!'"

"That is quite a compliment," Dougal remarked.

"Grandfather has half a keg of whisky in him by now," Meg said. "When his fiddle begins to sound wild and beautiful and he calls for the Great Toast, the drink has opened his soul."

"Ah, they do say the more whisky in the fiddler, the better the fiddling," Angus remarked, grinning.

"Whisky or not, I agree with Norrie," Dougal said. "She's a fine lady, our Meg MacNeill." He leaned toward her, lowering his voice so that only she could hear. "If Mackenzie had let you go into the water, I know you would have saved the lad yourself. And fought off that shark, as well."

Her somber eyes were so beautiful that he ached. "I would never have let the sea have him," she said fiercely.

"Iain should learn how to swim. I've offered to teach him. Perhaps his father will allow that, if I talk to him."

"His father—" She drew a breath. "Fergus wants him to stay away from the water until he is older."

"Oh, now," Dougal said, teasing a little, bouncing the boy on his shoulders, "that would break the lad's heart. He's like me, I think. He's drawn to the sea. It's in his blood."

"Aye, in my blood!" Iain said giddily from his perch. He stretched his arms high and laughed as Dougal spun around once.

Meg stared up at them, still serious, and Dougal wondered again at her thoughts. "Well, his family tree is full of fishermen and seafarers," he said, feeling an urge to explain.

Instead of answering, she whirled and shouldered into the crowd. Hands resting on Iain's knees, Dougal watched her go. As Norrie started a slow, poignant fiddle tune, Dougal slid the boy to the ground and fetched him a cup of the fruit brose that Thora had prepared with cream, oats, and wild strawberries.

Watching Meg from across the room, Dougal wondered what the devil he had said or done to upset her.

* * *

"Miss MacNeill," Alan Clarke said later, turning to Meg, who stood nearby. The most recent song had just ended, and Norrie bent to adjust an off-tune string, which gave a narrow whine. "I admit to being curious about something. Is that Lady Strathlin over there?" Alan indicated two women who chatted with Thora and some fishermen's wives while they served food and drinks.

Seeing Mrs. Berry and the housekeeper from Clachan Mor, Meg hesitated. She had dreaded a question like this ever since her grandmothers had told Dougal that Mrs. Berry was Lady Strathlin. Now Dougal Stewart also waited for her answer. The resident engineer turned with interest, hearing his foreman's question.

"Oh," she finally said. "The tall lady is the housekeeper, Mrs. Hendry, and the other is Mrs.... ah, Berry, who is Lady Strathlin's... former governess and is now her companion."

"Mrs. Hendry and I have met," Dougal said. "But I have not met Mrs.... Berry?" His tone sharpened. Meg did not answer, looking carefully away from him. Though she had tried to stir up a better sense of joy for tonight's celebration, she harbored fear and guilt after her encounter with Sir Frederick a few days earlier.

"Everyone is here tonight but Lady Strathlin. Seems odd," Alan muttered. "Even such a high-and-mighty shrew as that one couldna fail to be moved by Iain's rescue."

"I assure you she was quite moved," Meg snapped.

"I'm sure she at least sent her respects to the family," Dougal suggested, as he stared thoughtfully at Mrs. Berry.

"I believe she did." Meg wanted to sink into the floor.

"I could swear," he said softly, "that Mrs. Berry was the lady who was pointed out to me on the beach as Lady Strathlin."

"Some women look alike," Meg said, "and some do not."

"Ah, true. So it seems that once more I have missed meeting the lady." Dougal looked at her over Alan's shoulder.

"It would seem so, Mr. Stewart," she replied. She dared to look at him.
I am your shrewish baroness, Mr. Stewart,
she thought boldly, watching him.
And I need you very much just now.

He narrowed his eyes suddenly, as if he had understood her thoughts, and she flickered her eyes away, the risk too great.

"Och, she's probably here, guised as a fishwife while she observes the local peasantry in their habitat," Alan said. "The real Mother Elga is asleep in her bed, y'see, and that wee one there is Lady Strathlin, wearing auld Elga's plaidie." He grinned, and Dougal chuckled softly.

Scowling at both of them, Meg turned away, but Dougal leaned toward her. "Alan's joking. He means no harm," he murmured. The dark velvet of his voice shivered through her. "I'm almost certain the woman over there is your great-grandmother."

She pursed her mouth sourly at his jest and did not answer, while he gave her the subtle smile that he shared only with her—an impish curve to his lips, a green dazzle in his eyes that lingered after the smile vanished. He seemed more beautiful to her in that moment, more appealing, than she dared admit.

And Sir Frederick Matheson seemed even more dastardly for ruining her chances of true happiness.

She turned away to watch Iain dance between Peigi and Fergus, jumping and laughing. She remembered Dougal's sweet playfulness with Iain and his tender strength in rescuing a boy whom he did not even realize was his own son.

Sighing again, she touched her fingers to her mouth and realized that she was shaking slightly. She had hardly slept, had hardly spoken to anyone, pacing out long, solitary walks while she thought about Frederick's threats. His smooth, cruel words kept repeating in her mind. She would soon owe him an answer, and she faced an inevitable surrender.

Desperate, even hopeless, she felt as if her spirit beat its wings on cage bars. He had trapped her so smoothly, without lifting a hand. Somehow she had to resist the forced marriage and stop him from using his knowledge against her. She could not bear to live the rest of her life as Frederick's wife, living in fear that he would expose her youthful mistake and harm her son.

Nor could she bear the thought of living the rest of her life without Dougal. The other day, after mad kisses and breathless apologies, she had felt joyful just knowing that he had not played her falsely that night and that he cared for her. She had begun to hope that he could care for her as much as she did for him. For years, she had both hated and loved him, seeing his face in her son's, holding on to the dream of him while nursing the hurt.

As yet, she did not know his full explanation of that night; they had found no time for it. But the reasons did not matter as much as knowing and believing in his sincerity. Finally she could let that old hurt go, release it like water poured back into the sea. She was free of anguish at last.

Or so she had thought—until Sir Frederick had arrived.

Watching the dancers, listening to the music, she saw Fergus spin around with Peigi, both laughing brightly, without cares. Meg folded her arms tightly, feeling a piercing loneliness. She wanted to be in Dougal's arms again, felt the craving and the need like a weight in her soul. Tears pricked her eyes. She yearned to be alone with him, to tell him that she had forgiven him, that she loved him. She wanted to seek the wildness of her soul in his arms.