Chapter Three #3
“I understand. But I have been unable to see her to explain myself and my goals. She refuses all meetings.”
“That may come from her lawyers.”
“Possibly. Well, if she will not see me here, perhaps you will convey a message to her. Though I wager Lady Strathlin is tired of messages from me,” he drawled.
She was looking up. The soft light caught the curve of her cheek, and her eyes grew wide. “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 like silken veils.
Dougal watched, entranced. Without thinking, he took her elbow again, a gentlemanly gesture to lead her closer to the beach.
He wanted to be closer to her as they watched the dancing flares in the sky.
“So beautiful,” she breathed.
“Aye. The aurora borealis—it is always a thrill to see them.”
“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 dancing in heaven.”
“They do look like that. I have seen them before, but never as lovely as this.”
She smiled up at him for an instant. The sky’s lambent colors gave her a graceful glow. Dougal felt an urge to touch her creamy skin, her silken curls. She was a stranger, cool and distant, and yet to him she seemed familiar and dear.
“The colors are pale this time,” she said. “Sometimes they are quite brilliant when the Merry Men go dancing.”
“The sky is not dark enough. In fall or winter they would be brighter.”
“True. Will you still be on Caransay then?” She looked up.
“I hope the building will be done by then, but we will see. If so, we should walk out in the early hours to look for the lights again. If you like,” he added.
She did not answer, staring up at the magical glow. Dougal thought suddenly of the rainy shadows in a cave and the pink light of dawn glowing over this very girl’s face. He recalled how she had felt, drenched and shivering, in his arms as they comforted each other. His body pulsed.
“Tell me,” he said gruffly. “Are you sure we have never met before?”
She shook her head, and would not meet his eyes, though he watched her.
“Tell me,” he repeated. “Was it you that night, out on the rock? Or was it a dream?”
He noticed her gasp, saw the flash of understanding in her eyes. Though she continued to watch the sky, her silence seemed a clear admission. Then he saw tears glint in her eyes.
“My God,” he breathed. “It was you.”
For a long moment, she stood in silence, arms crossed, shoulders rising in tension. Wishing he could ease her anxiousness, he fisted a hand against it and waited, heart thumping hard.
“Was that you, then?” she asked quietly. “Out on the great rock in a wild storm?”
“If we both remember that night, then aye. That was me. And that was you.”
“What were you doing out there?”
“I should ask the same of you. An accident brought me there. Capsized.”
“An accident,” she repeated. “Not—a prank?”
“Good lord!” he burst out, surprised. “Is that what you think? What were you doing out there, for all the world like Andromeda tied to the rock?”
“Oh, and you were Perseus protecting Andromeda from the sea monster?” she snapped.
A barefoot island girl who likely spoke better Gaelic than English, versed in Greek mythology? That intrigued him. “Something like that,” he said, huffing a little laugh.
She whirled. “Hardly amusing, sir.”
“You vanished. I could not find you.”
“You vanished first,” she said. “Gone off with your mates.”
He frowned, then dimly recalled the fishermen who happened by and took him off the rock. He had left her alone there, still in such a haze that he did not realize it until later. That had haunted him.
“I looked for you. I missed you,” he said.
“Missed me!” She tilted her face to him, arms crossed, cheeks flushed, eyes snapping bright. As he regarded her, all the years of wondering, wanting, dreaming, filled him and pushed him.
“Truly, I did.” He took her by the shoulders and leaned down, sliding his hands down her arms, drawing her closer. “Now here you are at last. Finally, I know your name.”
“Do you?” It sounded like a dare.
“Margaret,” he breathed. She leaned forward, not away. He lowered his head, close enough to nuzzle her brow, close enough to kiss, overwhelmed by the desire to pull her to him.
She stiffened in his arms, yet even so leaned her head back, closed her eyes. Silent, still, she seemed to wait. Tipping his head, Dougal touched her lips with his and gently kissed her.
Her lips softened beneath his, and she clutched at his shirtsleeves.
He felt her body sway against his, sensed a moment of surrender and allowance there.
Sliding his hand to the back of her waist, he pulled her close and deepened the kiss.
She accepted it, gave a little moan of need.
Perhaps she had missed him as much as he had missed her.
A force poured through him, relief, joy, shaking free the years of searching for her, hoping for something more with her. Now she was here, and she was real, no dream, no magic. One of the great losses of his life had been restored. It felt like a miracle.
“Margaret,” he whispered, the name a caress on his lips.
Her hand rose to cup his jaw, her breath warmed his mouth.
He sensed a hunger in her that matched his own, and he sensed her need was as sincere as his.
He wanted just to hold her, cherish her, heal her reluctance, ease the hurt he had caused her years back.
He truly regretted it. At last he could try to make it up to her.
She gave a breathy little moan, as if caught in the same heated fog that held him captive. Then, pushing at his chest, she stepped back, and lashed her hand upward to crack across his cheek, whip sharp.
“What the devil!” he burst out.
She whirled and was hurrying away over the sandy slope, breaking into a run as she neared the croft house.
With his palm nursing his stinging cheek, he stared after her. Overhead, the kaleidoscope sky was fading into gray dawn, and a cool, damp breeze cleared his thoughts.
She was no illusion, and he was a fool. He had ruined her that long-ago night, shamed her. No matter that she had gone willingly, wildly, into his arms then. Small wonder she hated him.
But why had she been out there on that wicked night? He wanted to know. And he wanted to explain himself further and apologize.
He owed her more than an apology. He should have married her years ago, and it had been on his mind—but he had not been entirely certain she was real, nor could he locate her.
Now, short of marrying the girl far after the fact, he was not sure how he could best make it up to her.
After that crack across his cheek, he doubted she would consider a marriage proposal.
He shook his head, called himself every sort of bastard and fool.
Margaret MacNeill deserved more than an apology.
He had been a heartless cad, a concussed idiot, far enough gone that night to think himself enchanted.
Morally, socially, deep in his heart, he knew he should marry the girl.
He wanted to. Now that he had found her, he could not live with himself otherwise.
Yet suddenly the prospect seemed a greater challenge than any risk he had ever faced.