Chapter Eight
Dougal noticed the relieved glance Meg gave him upon his return, as if she hoped for a rescue from Alan, who was going on about the mathematics of lighthouse design.
Apparently, she had heard enough about the calculated strength of the tower’s height and mass, factored to the pounds-per-square-inch impact of a gale-force wave.
“Here is Mr. Stewart,” Clarke said. “He can answer some questions for you as well.”
“I can. Alan, you are needed over by the platform.” As Clarke left, Dougal stood near Margaret MacNeill. He had heard others call her Meg, which suited the honesty of her approach—and her earthy beauty—very well.
With a wry glint in her aqua-blue eyes, she regarded him. “I wonder what it is truly like on the bottom of the sea.”
“Rather magical. It is a different realm—peaceful, beautiful, fantastical. When the light comes clear through the water, the coral formations and waving fields of kelp are brightly colored. And the variety of fish and sea creatures is astonishing. But it is exceedingly cold, so we must wear several layers under the suits. It’s noisier than you might imagine down there,” he added, smiling, “with the sound of the waves and the scrape of coral in the current and so on knocking about.”
“It sounds fascinating and so challenging.”
“Nearly anyone could try it with the right equipment and instruction, and a good crew up top to see to things. It’s quite enjoyable. If the Otherworld exists,” he added, “it could hardly be more incredible than the depths of the sea.”
“There is a legendary place called Land-Under-Waves, said to be very beautiful. Tir fo Thuinn,” she translated.
“It is said to lie somewhere in the deepest waters of the Hebrides. Its inhabitants walk among us in human form, they say, so they will not be recognized as sea fairies, selkies, kelpies, and the like.”
“Interesting.” He inclined his head, smiled at her.
“What were you doing down there under the waves?” Norrie asked, joining them.
“Making sure the explosions did not damage the rock bed. A crack could worsen once the weight of the lighthouse tower is in place.” Norrie nodded and turned to examine more equipment.
Meg looked up at Dougal. “Did you find cracks?”
“Nothing unusual at the base of the rock,” he murmured so low only she could hear, “though I found a sea fairy waiting on the rock when I came up.” He smiled, seeing her blink at that.
He felt a warm rush of affection for her then, grateful to know she was real after all.
But it remained for him to explain and apologize.
How the devil could he explain to her that he had thought her some magical creature come to take a drowned sailor to the Otherworld?
“Did you,” she said sourly.
He wanted to move past that quickly. “The base of the rock is enormous, but we will take another look or two. So far, all looks stable.”
“I wish I could go down there to see what it is like,” she said.
“You, a wee lass!” Turning, Norrie gawked at her. “You would be drowned and swept away.”
“Or crushed by the weight of the gear,” Dougal drawled.
“I am a strong swimmer, and have done a fair bit of sea diving with my cousins when we were younger. We used to dive off this very rock. Surely remember, Seanair.”
“A different thing than going far down in heavy gear,” Dougal said. “Not easy for a lass. It takes muscle and strength.”
“This lass thinks all the world is open to her,” Norrie said with a wink. “And it is. If she wants it, she will get it.”
Seeing Meg scowl at her grandfather, Dougal thought the exchange rather odd.
“Though it could be possible,” Dougal went on. “You would need good gear and a lot of courage. But I would guess you have that.”
“Ach,” Norrie drawled. “That wee bit lass will do whatever she has the mind to do.”
“Though there are sea creatures that could carry off a wee bit of a lass,” Dougal said.
She looked at him sharply. “Kelpies?”
“Basking sharks.” What was this family’s fascination with kelpies?
“Ach, a basker wouldna take her,” Norrie said. “A kelpie, now—she had best watch out, especially on Sgeir Caran.”
“We should go, Seanair,” she said firmly, stepping away. “Mr. Stewart is too busy to entertain visitors for long.”
Without reply, Dougal held her gaze for a long moment until she looked away.
“Before we go,” Norrie said, “I want to hear more about the lighthouse. I canna say we will get back here again soon, with all this going on.”
Dougal nodded, and led them toward the crater.
“We blasted this cavity—carefully, mind you—so that it measures eighty feet wide and three feet deep.” As he spoke, men swept away debris while others wielded hammers and chisels to trim the huge blocks of granite that would become the building’s foundation.
“The walls will be nearly nine feet thick at the base to hold fast against waves and storms,” Dougal went on.
“We calculate the force of a strong gale against the mass and tonnage of the stone blocks. The curved base will further strengthen the structure.” He gestured wide.
“Everything is meticulously planned, measured, and fitted so the stones create a tight drum. The design is like a round medieval tower. Even the heaviest waves wash and bounce off curved walls, just as arrows and cannon would bounce off round towers.”
“Ah. How tall will the thing be?” Norrie asked.
“One hundred eight feet to the roof, with a light beam that can be seen for nearly twenty miles on clear nights. Less so in fog and rain, but far enough to make a difference in bad weather. And we will install a bell to sound a warning in heavy fog. It should be finished by next summer.”
“Best hope that dirty weather willna take down your great tower,” Norrie said. “The storms on this reef are the fiercest you might see.”
“I know.” Dougal darted a glance toward Meg. He sensed her nearness like a flame.
She was quiet, but her cheeks burned pink, as if she had windburn or sunburn. But he knew she reacted to the remark about storms on the rock.
He had to make that night up to her somehow.
This time, he wanted to woo and win her, if she would allow it.
The feeling rang inside him like a deep bell.
He knew, suddenly and surely, what he wanted.
Gazing at Meg MacNeill, he knew that in some hidden place in his heart, he had loved this girl for years, even when he was uncertain if she were real or imagined.
And she was very real, and very attractive, and he very much owed her. An intense craving quaked through him, a mingling of remorse and guilt and a powerful desire to make this right.
He had hurt her before—he realized that now.
And his lighthouse threatened what she cherished.
He knew that, too. His behavior years ago was inexcusable, and was an obligation of marriage.
She had mentioned a husband whom she had lost early on.
If she was free to marry, Dougal had a chance to offer her the security she deserved for herself and her son.
If she agreed to accept Dougal after so long, he would be glad to take in another man’s son.
Then he shook his head in surprise. He had always avoided marriage, vastly preferring the freedom and danger of his demanding work over settling into domestic quietude.
“Mr. Stewart,” she said then, bringing him around. “My grandfather asked about the birds.”
“Ah, the birds,” he said, coming back from his thoughts. He explained that he would ensure that the birds could still lay claim to more than half the great rock.
As Norrie and Meg MacNeill walked ahead of him to look at another section of the rock, Dougal followed. He had work to do, but he did not want them to leave yet. He did not want her to leave.
Watching her, he had a sudden memory, a strong feeling, that years ago he had married this girl in one sense. A pledge, a promise—and a little threaded ring. He had kept it safe. Did she still have hers? Had any of that truly happened?
As he stood beside her in the damp, salty air, with the seabirds reeling and calling overhead and the blue-diamond glint of the ocean sparkling bright on the water, he knew, fiercely, keenly, that he wanted to marry Margaret MacNeill.
The desire and the need had been there all along, yet he suddenly became aware of it.
Perhaps that was why he had never pursued marriage to another.
Despite a calm wind and a soft-rippled sea, he felt as if a gale had knocked him to his knees.
*
Sitting on a ledge of stone on the far side of the rock, Meg sketched in her leather journal and waited for Norrie.
Her grandfather was so fascinated by the work of building the lighthouse as well as the diving equipment, that he continued to stroll the site asking questions of the laborers, many of whom were local men who knew the reef and understood the moods of the sea and the weather here.
Dougal Stewart had gone to supervise some task, and though she was ready to return to the island, Meg was content to wait.
She was glad of a little time alone, a respite of peace watching the changeable clouds, listening to the shush of the sea and the creel and call of birds.
She sketched quickly as a pair of gannets returned to a nest perched on a ledge on the tall stack rock that thrust out of the water near Sgeir Caran.
Turning the page, she began another sketch, but paused as she noticed a deep crevice beyond a cluster of rocks.
The little cave she and Dougal had shared was just there.
A shiver went through her, then an ache of longing so fierce that she sank her face into her hand and shook her head a little. If only she had known who he was—if only he had stayed, life would have been so different. So good, dare she imagine it.
“Miss MacNeill?” He was there beside her suddenly, though she had not heard him approach. “Meg—are you well? Is the sun too strong here?”
She looked up. “I am fine,” she said tersely. “Is my grandfather ready to go?”