Taming the Heiress (7 page)

Ahead, he saw a croft house tucked against a hill. He could make out its whitewashed contour, thatched roof, darkened windows. The house faced a small bay, sparkling and peaceful in the dim light. "Is that your home?"

"My grandparents' house. You can leave me now."

"No need to bristle so, Miss MacNeill."

She turned, stared up at him. A breeze fluttered her skirt and plaid shawl. Strands of her golden hair sifted loose, wafting over her brow. "I am not—bristling."

"You," he said quietly, "are like a porcupine whenever I am near." He reached out and brushed the hair away from her brow. She leaned away.
See?
he wanted to say.

"Do you know Lady Strathlin well?" He was curious.

"Everyone on Caransay knows her."

They stood on a rise above the croft house and its little bay, where the machair dropped away into a long sandy bank that led down to the shore. Looking at the croft house, Dougal saw that it had two wings adjacent to the main body of the house, all of it whitewashed and topped by thatch held by roof ropes. The whole formed a pretty picture with the sparkling bay while pink dawn billowed up from the horizon over the sea.

"Is that what they call the Great House?"

She laughed, soft and low. "That is Camus nan Fraoch—Heather Bay, we call it. My grandparents live there."

"But you do not live here on Caransay. Do you live on Mull with your husband?"

"My husband? I am not married. I live on the mainland."

"Forgive me. On the beach, I saw you with a man and a small boy. I assumed they were your husband and son."

"You saw my cousin Fergus MacNeill and... small Iain."

He nodded, somehow relieved that she was not married. Her name had given him no clue, since Scotswomen often kept their maiden names after marriage. And since Norrie had fetched her from Mull, Dougal assumed she lived there, but she must have a home along the coast in Ardnamurchan or Moidart.

"Where is Clachan Mor, the baroness's estate?" he asked.

"Estate? Just a manor house. That way." She pointed. "The Great House sits at the foot of those hills."

He saw it then, a stone manor house off in the distance, a box shape with a flat facade and a several windows nestled near a dark hill. A sandy peninsula stretched from there to the water.

"Do you know when the baroness might come here again? Are you privy to her plans?"

"Sometimes." Her eyes sparkled, and he felt suddenly that she knew more than she revealed. "But she values her privacy on Caransay and conducts no business when she is here. It is a holiday home for her. A place of respite and rest."

"She does keep to herself, your baroness. I cannot gain any time with her, despite our correspondence."

"I have heard that your exchanges are not amiable."

"Sometimes. Well, if I cannot meet her here, perhaps you will convey a message to her from me. Though I wager Lady Strathlin is heartily sick of messages from me," he added wryly.

She was looking up. The soft light caught the curve of her cheek, and her eyes grew wide.

"Oh, look!" she cried, pointing out to sea. Dougal turned.

A pale green arc bloomed on the horizon and expanded, exploding in sudden swaths of light and color. Pink and green swirled overhead, flinging out like silken veils. Dougal watched, entranced. Without thinking, he lifted a hand to take her elbow again, a gentlemanly gesture, yet he wanted simply to touch her, to watch the miraculous flare in the sky with her.

"So beautiful," she breathed.

"Aye," he agreed. "The aurora borealis."

"The Merry Men, we call the northern lights here."

He smiled. "In the old days, I hear, the lights were believed to be gigantic supernatural warriors—especially when the sky flowed red as if from blood." He had read it somewhere.

"When I was a child, I thought they were angels in heaven," she mused, watching the sinuous dance of colored lights.

"I have seen them before," he said, "but never so lovely."

She nodded, smiling. Lambent color suffused her, gave her a graceful glow. Dougal wanted suddenly to glide his fingertips over her creamy skin, through her silken curls. She felt so familiar and dear, yet a stranger, cool, distant.

"The colors are pale this time," she said. "They are often quite brilliant when the Merry Men go dancing."

"The sky is not dark. Wait until fall or winter."

"Will you still be on Caransay then?" she asked.

"Perhaps. If so, come back—we will walk out to look for the lights then, when it is dark and the colors brilliant."

She stared up at the magical glow, and Dougal thought, then, of the rainy shadow of a cave and the pink dawn light that had glowed over this girl's face. He remembered, too, how she had felt, drenched and shivering, in his arms. His body pulsed.

He stepped closer, motion following thought, and she tilted her head to look at him. "Tell me," he said gruffly, "that we have met before."

"I—" She paused, would not meet his eyes.

"Tell me," he insisted. "Were you there that night, on the rock? Or did I dream it?"

He saw the flash of understanding in her eyes. She only watched the sky, but her silence seemed a clear admission.

"My God," he breathed. "It was you." Taking her shoulder, he leaned down. Sliding his hand along her cheek, he dipped his head, nuzzled close enough to kiss her, overwhelmed by desire.

She stiffened in his arms, but leaned her head back, closed her eyes. Silent, still, she seemed to wait. Tipping his head, Dougal kissed her mouth gently, felt his soul whirl.

Her lips softened beneath his, her fingers clutched at his shirt. He felt her sway against him, felt a moment of surrender in her. Sliding his hand to the back of her waist, he deepened the kiss.

A force poured through him, relief, joy, shaking free the years of need, of searching for something that he could not define. He had found her. She was real. One loss in his life had been restored to him, and it felt like a miracle.

Her hand came up to his jaw, her breath warmed his mouth. He sensed a hunger in her that matched his own, and he felt her need, as deep and sincere as his. He wanted to hold her, cherish her, heal her reluctance, ease the hurt he had caused years back.

She moaned a breathy protest and seemed to wake from the same heated fog that held him captive. Pushing at his chest, she stepped back. Then her hand lashed upward to crack across his cheek, whip-sharp.

"What the devil—"

She whirled and hurried down the sandy slope, breaking into a run as she headed toward the croft house.

Dougal watched her, palm nursing his stinging cheek. After a moment, he realized that the bright kaleidoscope overhead had faded into a gray dawn.

The wind blew past, clearing his thoughts. She was no illusion, and he was indeed a fool. He had ruined the girl that long-ago night, had shamed her. No matter that she had gone willingly, wildly, into his arms. She had been a virgin that night.

Small wonder she hated him.

Why had she been out there on that wicked night? He had never known, and now it made a difference to him. He wanted to know more, wanted to explain himself, too, and apologize.

He owed her more than that, but did not know how to make it up to her—short of marrying the girl far after the fact. And he doubted she would consider that for a moment. He had not even thought of it himself until this moment.

Watching the moving sea, he called himself every sort of bastard. Margaret MacNeill deserved more than apologies. He had been a heartless cad, a drunken, concussed idiot, thinking himself enchanted. Morally, socially, ethically, he was obligated to make amends and marry the girl.

The prospect gave him greater pause than any risk he had ever faced before.

Chapter 4

"He is still there." Thora opened the door to peer out.

"Grandmother, please, he will see you!" Meg said.

"What harm if he sees me feeding the chickens?" Thora asked, and opened the door to go outside.

Norrie's mother chuckled as she sat on a stool by the hearth, feeding Fergus's daughter, small Anna, who sat on her lap while Elga fed her porridge from a bowl. "That kelpie's come back for you," Mother Elga told Meg. "I knew he would."

Casting a glance at her great-grandmother, Meg crossed the room to glance out. Dawn shone pink and blue-gray over sea and island, and still Dougal Stewart stood on the machair above Camus nan Fraoch, facing the sea.

She thought of another dawn when that same man—and no kelpie, not a bit of it—had waited on the black rock for a boat to fetch him. Meg had seen that, and had kept it to herself these seven years.

Now, her senses spinning from his kisses, she knew this was the very man she had met on Sgeir Caran.

She leaned her forehead against the door. The night of Iain's conception had been wild, desperate, joyful, a night of passion and promise. She had loved him, his hard, warm body pressed to hers—she had burned for him, body and very soul.

Foolish, she had been. So trusting.

Setting a hand to her brow, she wished she had never met him—but for Iain. She had ached at the memories of that night, seethed at the man's betrayal, and treasured her child. And she had wondered what she would do if she ever saw him again.

What had she done? Succumbed to the same irresistible magic as before. Surrendered—and she was furious about it.

Well, it would not happen again.

"Margaret, the bannocks," Mother Elga reminded her.

She turned. "Oh!" Smoke was rising from the iron griddle by the fire. Hastening there, she removed the burned oatcakes from the heat to a plate.

"Your mind is elsewhere." Elga watched her, bouncing the towheaded baby in her lap. Tiny, wizened, bent as a blackthorn stick, the old woman pointed a finger at Meg. "You are thinking of the kelpie-man."

"I am not." Meg placed bacon slices onto a pan to cook them over the fire. Although she had purchased an iron stove for Thora, her grandmother still did her cooking in the traditional ways over the hearth fire, while the shiny cookstove in the corner provided a convenient shelf for stacking dishes.

"He has come for you, disguised as a lighthouse man."

"He always was the lighthouse man, Mother Elga. He was never the
each-uisge."

Elga snorted. "So you think. But the kelpie is clever."

Meg sighed, cheeks blushing hot, mouth pinched. She flipped the bacon too quickly and it spattered.

"Uisht,"
Elga said disdainfully. "You have forgotten how to cook, fine spoiled lady that you are now in your great castle!"

"I have not forgotten. But I do not cook or do chores there, only here." She smiled at her great-grandmother. "And this is supposed to be my holiday!"

"Hah. Listen to me. The
each-uisge
is real. You do not believe, even though you met him yourself and felt his magic!"

"There was no magic," she said as she turned the sizzling bacon. But her knees felt weak as she remembered his kisses. Magic—to be resisted with every bit of will in her.

The door opened and Thora breezed back inside, brown skirts swishing over her plush hips. "He is still out there on the machair, watching the sea." Thora went to the hearth, took a steaming kettle from over the fire, and poured hot water into a teapot to steep. "He is waiting for you."

"He longs to go back to his home under the waves," Elga said. "A kelpie cannot wear his human guise for very long." She looked hard at Meg. "He must return to the water, and he has come to take you with him."

"Ridiculous," Meg said. "He is just a man. A stubborn, infuriating man who came to our island to put up a lighthouse on our rock without our permission. He is not a kelpie." Meg transferred the bacon to three plates and spread the hot bannocks with butter after scraping off their charred surfaces.

"Then why were you kissing him up on the hill, if you are in dispute with him—and if he is not casting his spell on you?" Thora asked. Meg did not answer.

"He may look human," Elga countered, "but we know better. The kelpie and his ilk have long ruled that reef, and they accept the gift of a bride to fulfill the old bargain to protect our isle. That is you. Where's my tea?" Elga demanded.