Taming the Heiress (5 page)

Whoever the girl was, he told himself, she was real—and he had best collect his wits.

* * *

He looked like a pirate, dark and wild, hands at his waist and booted foot propped on the edge of a fishing boat. All banked power and assurance, he glanced toward her as Meg and her grandfather crossed the beach. She felt his gaze move over and almost through her, though he was a stranger.

She expected Dougal Stewart, when they finally met, to be handsome and charming given his reputation in society—but she was not prepared for the impact of his gaze, his presence, even at a distance.

She wanted to turn and go back, but her grandfather waved at him. Meg had no choice but to walk forward too.

Hearing her name called then, she turned to wave at her cousin, Fergus MacNeill, who was with his foster son—her own child, Iain—walking along the upper beach. Meg was glad that Iain had obeyed her when she had asked him to climb down from the headland rock. She saw her little son only when she visited the island; the child believed that she was his cousin, the very wealthy baroness who lived in Edinburgh. Meg and her kin had agreed years ago that it would be best for all if Fergus and Anna raised the child. But now Anna had died with the birth of a daughter a year ago, and Fergus had not yet told Iain the truth. Someday soon he would do so.

Fergus was a good father, but with two small children under his sole care, he and the bairns had gone to live with his grandparents, Norrie and Thora, who were helping to raise Iain and small Anna. And still, only the few of them knew that Meg was Iain's own mother.

Smiling as she gazed at her bonny son, Meg remembered that the obstinate engineer, Stewart, still waited to meet her. Sighing, she pushed back her hair. She was not at her best—hair loose, feet bare, just one petticoat beneath her skirt. Mrs. Berry, her traveling companion, was over at the Great House—the largest house on Caransay Island—enjoying a little luxury and privacy near a secluded beach. But Meg came to Caransay to spend time with her family, so she reverted to the lifestyle she had grown up with and much preferred, staying in her grandparents' croft house, where she could be closer to her son.

Besides, she liked the freedom here, the chance to trade stays and crinolines, stockings, wide skirts and snug shoes for easy, practical clothing and bare feet. Here on Caransay, Meg savored freedoms she otherwise did not have now that she was a rich baroness with responsibilities at home in Edinburgh.

"So what will you tell the man?" Norrie asked her.

"Tell him? He hates me," Meg answered in Gaelic, which she spoke almost exclusively while on Caransay. "I can scarcely tell him that I am Lady Strathlin, the woman he is battling for the sake of this island, when I am dressed like this. I should have invited him to tea at the Great House, rather than meet him here, like this."

"He would expect Lady Strathlin to wear shoes, at least," Norrie laughed. "I am thinking a surprise will do him good."

"Far too much surprise! I hoped my solicitors would find some way to remove the engineer and his work project from here before I arrived on holiday."

"Ach, solicitors, useless fellows. Look there." Norrie gestured with his pipe. "See those huts these outlanders put up. Those Lowland structures would not stand up against a good rain. They do not understand the sort of house that's needed out here in the Isles. But we told them they were good houses, oh, very good, we said." He chuckled. "May their huts all blow out to sea and carry the engineers with them!"

Meg laughed a little. Beyond the bay, she saw the thatched roofs of several cottages with ropes secured as netting, although they were yet flimsy compared to the solid nets weighted with heavy stones that held down true Hebridean thatching. "I never agreed to any of this work on the island, you know that."

"I know." Norrie clamped his teeth over his pipe stem. "And I agree with you—these lighthouse men should be gone from here. The people wonder what you will do about it."

She had to do something, for their sakes, for that of Caransay and Sgeir Caran, and for the legends. She nodded.

"He is not a bad fellow, this Stewart," Norrie said. "I have nothing against the man. It is the construction I do not like, for the harm it causes the great rock and the island."

"I am concerned about the colonies of seabirds and wildlife that settle on that rock each year," Meg said. "And we value our privacy—" She stopped suddenly.

Dougal Stewart turned, and she saw his face clearly then.

Never in her life had she fainted. But now she felt the world reel under her feet. She placed a hand on Norrie's arm.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I—I nearly tripped. That's all."

She expected a handsome man, a devilish, infuriating, obstinate man, the heir to a Strathclyde fortune. A builder of lighthouses, a man who easily did what took courage and daring.

But she had not expected to see the very cad who had fathered her child years ago and had broken her heart forever.

He frowned, his gaze intense and penetrating. Did he recognize her? Oh God, she thought. Please, no.

Drawing closer, she knew he was the man she had met years ago. She would never mistake that face or the lean, stern toughness of him, so rugged, casual, masculine.

Dark brown hair fell in sun-streaked waves, framing a face with straight dark brows above lean features. His coat was dark umber, trousers and vest black, and he wore a collarless shirt that opened slightly to show a strong, tanned throat.

He straightened as she approached, staring, eyes searing her own. Meg lifted a hand to the locket at her throat. She drew her plaid arisaid shawl over her hair to shadow her face as she walked toward the water's edge beside her grandfather.

He must not recognize her. She could never bear it. Her legs quivered—how foolish she would be, now, to reveal that she was Lady Strathlin. She desperately wanted to run.

"Grandfather," she said urgently. "Please do not say who I am. Tell the others to keep it a secret too. My argument with Mr. Stewart belongs with my lawyers, not here on Caransay."

"We will let it wait," he assured her. She nodded in relief.

Dougal Stewart stepped forward and held out his hand. "Mr. MacNeill! Good to see you, sir." He smiled at Meg and nodded, his eyes inquisitive, narrowed, attentive.

She prayed he would not know her. With her skirts hiked over her bare calves, her sleeves rolled, in the shawl of a native Isleswoman, she looked like many other women. In seven years she had changed, matured. A trusting girl no more.

He was still strikingly handsome. Sun and years had etched around his eyes and into the slight creases beside his mouth. He had filled out some, heavier, more powerful. His eyes, edged in sooty black lashes, were the muted gray-green of a stormy sea.

Oh God, she thought. Was he still capable of deceitful tricks, too? Of course he was. She could not trust this man.

He smiled at her, waiting for an introduction. Meg lifted her chin defensively. She would not succumb. He had hurt her deeply, and she would not forget it.

"Good day, Dougal Stewart," Norrie said in English. He nodded to the second man, whom Meg had hardly noticed. "Alan Clarke. This is my granddaughter, Margaret Fiona MacNeill. Margaret—Mr. Stewart and Mr. Clarke."

Blessing her grandfather for simple introductions, Meg offered a hand out of politeness. She hoped it seemed limp.

"Miss MacNeill," Dougal Stewart said, taking her fingers.

A dreadful mistake, she realized, to touch him. The contact shocked through her. Catching her breath, she saw him watching her, his eyes penetrating. Surely he knew her.

Meg shook hands with Clarke and then folded her hands while Dougal Stewart asked Norrie about the mail runs to Mull.

"Miss MacNeill, are you from Mull?" Alan Clarke asked. He was a pleasant fellow, blond and blue eyed, shorter than Stewart with a burly frame. He smiled sincerely.

"I came from Mull, yes," she said. That was true. Norrie had picked her up with Mrs. Berry two days earlier. "I grew up on Caransay and I come back here whenever I can."

"Caransay is a beautiful place," Stewart said, turning toward her. She sensed his piercing gaze, his keen and too-perceptive intelligence. Suddenly she wanted to turn and flee—or, better yet, find the courage to confront him. Slap him, let him know her thoughts, how he had insulted and betrayed her.

For seven years she had been angry at him, even while he filled her dreams sometimes, so that she felt the edge of yearning. He had kept her safe that awful night, had wooed and loved her—and had tricked her.

Temper rising, she wanted to tell him who she was—the girl on the rock, the baroness he despised. But she could not, with Norrie and others here. She had to keep her secrets from the engineer. Only she knew the extent of those secrets.

Dignity. She must summon and retain it, use it as her only shield. Later as the baroness she would invite him to the Great House, and there she could reveal the truth, if she decided to.

"Mr. Stewart," Norrie said. "Angus MacLeod said you went to Mull earlier and hired his son to take you. But I sail to Tobermory twice a week when weather allows. Next time you wish to go, I will take you and bring you back. No need to pay a man to go over the waves for you when Norrie MacNeill will do it for free."

"Thank you. I shall remember." Stewart smiled.

Watching him, Meg felt a wash of sudden anger, standing silently by, sea foam lapping at her feet. But she must quell her emotion, bide her time, think of her child first.

If Dougal Stewart found out about his son, he could claim the boy and take him away from her and her family and away from the island home where she had always thought he would be safe.
Oh dear God
.

She looked at Stewart then and found him studying her, his expression perplexed.

"Miss MacNeill—I must ask. Have we met before?"

Chapter 3

"I do not believe so, Mr. Stewart," Margaret MacNeill replied to his question. Her voice was quiet and melodic, her English perfect, with the soft lilt of the Gael rather than the broader Scots English. Her voice was careful and she seemed wary. Shy, perhaps.

Dougal nodded, and could not help but note as he glanced at her that she was slim and neatly made beneath her plain garments. Her feet were sand-dusted, her clasped hands smooth and lovely. If she worked with nets and gutted fish, like many Hebridean women, her hands did not show it. Her thick golden curls were pulled back beneath the drape and shadow of the light plaid, and her features were beautiful, delicate—yet with a trace of stubbornness in the chin and set of her lush mouth.

No wonder he thought he had seen her before. Such fair coloring and elegant bones were typical of many Hebrideans due to Viking ancestry. Norrie had it, too, in his fair complexion, high cheek bones, and vivid blue eyes.

Her eyes were luminous, silvery aqua. Frowning as he studied her, he remembered a moment when he had opened his eyes from sleep to see the girl sitting at the mouth of the little cave they had shared in the storm. In dawn's light, he had seen her face and her extraordinary eyes clearly, their color the delicate blue-green wash of a sky just before dawn.

Margaret MacNeill had those eyes. In fact, she was so much like the sea fairy he remembered that he felt the shock of recognition all through his body—a prickling along his skin, a deep clutching of certainty in his heart and gut. Could she have been real and he so muddled at the time that he had not known?

If she knew him, she gave no sign, no start. She seemed calm and cool, but he noticed a fine-drawn nervousness, a tight clasping of her hands, a flickering away of those eyes, the clenching of her narrow toes in the sand.

Still frowning, uncertain quite yet, he gave his attention to Norrie MacNeill. "Mr. Stewart is the chief of the lighthouse on the rock," Norrie told his granddaughter.

"Resident engineer," Dougal corrected, smiling. "I was assigned here by the Northern Lighthouse Commission. We have a grant of permission to build on Sgeir Caran and to maintain work buildings here on Caransay."

"I know, Mr. Stewart," the girl said crisply.

If she recognized him, Dougal realized, she was hardly delighted to see him. He could not blame her. What he had done was reprehensible. Disturbed by that thought, he kept an outward calm, yet he knew he must speak with Miss MacNeill alone, and soon.