Chapter Three #2
He had awoken in warm sweat with a wrench of longing, half aroused and needing to shake off the dream’s haunting power.
The wind picked up as he stood there, and waves poured to the shore, rolling, plunging, in seductive rhythm. Moonlight gleamed pale through watery arches, their high lacy curls like the proud heads and breasts of white stallions.
There are the water horses of Sgeir Caran, he thought. There is your kelpie.
Seven years ago, washed onto that black rock, he had been drunk, concussed, and half drowned, imagining that the water creatures took him there. A man might see anything under such circumstances, imagine anything.
So he had been saved by waves pushing against the rock, not pale, proud water horses, and the sylph he had encountered had been a lass of Caransay. And he had been daft and lost that night, and yet found in his soul somehow. That night had changed him, bound him to her.
Now that he had found her, he had to make amends. He could not bear knowing that he had so wronged an innocent girl. Her glaring look, hours ago, had been angry, accusing—and deserved.
Girl or none, he had work to do here, and a private mission that drove him to complete it.
Far out, Sgeir Caran was a dark, commanding silhouette. Lesser rocks jutted through swirling water, part of the long reef where ships had sunk and lives had been forfeited over time.
His parents had drowned out there, lost in a storm along that wicked reef, their ship wrecked along its lethal points.
Had a lighthouse been in place out there, his parents might still be alive, and he would not have been orphaned so young.
The light would have guided their ship and others through the treacherous archipelago and safely to port.
He shoved fingers through his hair, sighed.
He was determined to fight for the lighthouse on Sgeir Caran to prevent tragedies and save lives.
Lady Strathlin and her lawyers had to accept that.
For Dougal, that light would be a monument to those who had died among those rocks.
Publicly, its beacon would serve well. Nothing must prevent it from going up on the great rock.
He hardened his mouth, fighting a flash of memory—his parents’ faces, their smiles, their voices. He could not think too long about them, or feel the loss dreadfully, keenly, once more.
Growing up, he had honed self-control and daring as a way to fight those feelings.
Death was no matter to him—he faced it often and no longer feared it.
Death was an element of the work he did, and so far he had escaped.
He had been shipwrecked, had endured outrageous storms, dived deep, climbed high on scaffolds, and had risked his life too many times to count in the work of making lighthouses.
There was a thrill in the dare, a thrill in the courage.
And there was a sense of rightness in what he did.
No matter the risk to those who built them, lighthouses were needed.
Of all the lights he had constructed, this one was far and away the most important for him.
He was known for daring and stubbornness, and he would never give up this fight, despite resistance from the island’s owner.
The physics and logic of the matter dictated that Sgeir Caran was the best site.
And he had the support of the Northern Lighthouse Commission and the Stevenson firm; they had entrusted him to build it in this godforsaken place.
Somehow, he would do this. He owed it to all the souls lost under those waves, owed it to his father, strong and kind, his mother, bookish and lovely.
He sucked in the salty air as if it were a remedy for old pain.
“Mr. Stewart.” The girl’s voice was sweet and soft.
He whirled. She stood a few feet behind him, surrounded by moonlit flowers and grass.
Wind rippled through her hair, shifted her skirt.
She was magic after all, appearing just when he needed her in a lonely, dark moment.
He felt a strong urge to take her into his arms, make his apology, ask forgiveness. Instead he tilted his head in question.
“Miss MacNeill.” He watched her walk toward him, skirt hem swinging through the flowers. She seemed vulnerable, brittle with tension. “I am surprised you are out here at such an hour.”
“I like to come out before dawn on Caransay,” she said. “The chance of seeing the northern lights is worth losing a bit of sleep. Did you hope to see them, too?”
“I came out to walk and puzzle out an engineering problem.” And to shake free of a dream, but now the dream stood beside him. He looked up at the sky to keep from staring at her like a cow-eyed fool. She was beautiful. He felt smitten, awed, awkward suddenly.
“Dawn is near,” she said, searching the sky as he did. “We will not see the northern lights now. Well, good night, Mr. Stewart, or is it good morning?”
“Let me see you safe home.” He turned with her.
“I am perfectly safe on my island. Good luck with your puzzle.” She stepped ahead.
He caught up with a long step and walked beside her through the long grass thick with blooms. The early light rose quickly, illuminating the wild colors and dancing shapes of the flowers. “The machair is a beautiful thing.”
“It is,” she agreed.
“Do you know these flowers?” He did not care, just wanted something to say. “Buttercups, just there? And bluebells.”
“Buttercups, bluebells, daisies,” she answered.
“Over there is yarrow and wild oat grass, and meadowsweet too. Underfoot, those tiny purple flowers are small irises past their bloom. Over there, you can find wild strawberries and brambles and clusters of wild roses growing thick over the stones in the turf.”
“Lovely.” He watched her.
“Over there, the heather blooms are so thick that the hills look purple from out at sea.”
“I noticed that the other day.”
“No one planted these flowers, no one tends them, but they flourish. It has always been thus. In summer, the daisies turn the machair to white and gold and the bees tumble over them, drunk with nectar as they head home to the hive.”
He chuckled. “You love this place. You know it well.”
“I do, Mr. Stewart.” Behind them, the sea shushed endlessly to shore. “It is paradise.”
“I suppose the baroness agrees.”
She stopped. “You can go back now. I will head home from here.”
“I would rather escort you. It is still rather dark.”
“There are no strange men about,” she said. “Just you, I suppose.”
He drew a breath. “I have the sense you do not like me much, Miss MacNeill.”
“I like you fine. Go back to your hut, Mr. Stewart. I do not need you here now. None of us need you here.”
“I suspect you refer to lighthouses now. Are you acquainted with Lady Strathlin?”
Her steps faltered, then she walked on. “Why?”
“She shares your poor opinion of me. So do her passel of lawyers.”
“We cannot all be wrong.”
“Ouch,” he said. She chuckled, walking beside him, and he took her elbow to guide her around a rock at their feet, half submerged under the flowery blanket of the machair.
That quick and simple touch went through him with crackling awareness. He let go, a bit stunned, telling himself it was only the dim light, the lush sound of waves, the strange magic of the hour before dawn. In daylight, he would hardly have noticed. Or would he?
Ahead, he saw a croft house tucked against a hill, whitewashed with a thatched roof and darkened windows. The house faced a small bay, sparkling and peaceful.
“Yours?” he asked.
“My grandparents live here. You can leave now, sir.”
“No need to bristle so, Miss MacNeill. I am no harm to you.”
She stopped, staring up at him, seemed to bite off a reply. A sea breeze fluttered her skirt and plaid shawl, and loose strands of golden hair wafted away from a thick, messy braid. “I am not bristling.”
“You,” he murmured, “are like a porcupine when I am near.” He reached out to brush wayward tendrils away from her brow and eyes. She leaned back.
“Do you know Lady Strathlin very well?” He felt compelled on the subject.
She shrugged. “Everyone here knows her. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. I hear she inherited an enormous fortune from a grandfather from Edinburgh or the Lowlands.”
She shrugged. “So they say.”
They stood on a rise above the croft house and its little bay, where the machair dropped away into a sandy bank that led to the shore.
Dougal saw that the house had two wings added to the main house, its thatch roof held down by ropes and stones.
It was a pretty picture with the sparkling bay and pink dawn billowing up from the far horizon of the sea.
“Is that what they call the Great House?”
She laughed. “That is my grandparents’ croft. We call it Camus nan Fraoch—Heather Bay.”
“Though you do not live on Caransay now, but elsewhere with your husband?”
“Husband? I am not married. I have a house on Mull and another on the mainland.”
“Is it so? Some prosperity in hard times, then?”
“Just—an inheritance.”
“Like Lady Strathlin?”
She laughed. “No one has a fortune like Lady Strathlin, so I am told.”
“Aye. Well, forgive me. I saw you earlier with a man and a boy and assumed they were your family.”
“That was my cousin Fergus and…small Sean.”
Not married. He felt relieved. “I see. Where is Clachan Mor, the baroness’s great house?”
“That way.” She pointed. “At the foot of those hills.”
Narrowing his eyes, he could just see a stone manor house in the distance, a boxy shape with a flat facade and several windows nestled in the protection of a dark hill. Fronting the house, a grassy sward and a sandy peninsula stretched in a crescent to form another quiet bay.
“Do you know when the baroness might come here again? Are you privy to her plans?”
She tilted her head. “You ask a great many questions.”
“For good reason.” He sensed she knew more than she would say.
“The lady values her privacy and avoids conducting business when she is here. Caransay is a place of rest and joy for her. She does not want that spoiled.”