Chapter Thirteen #2
“I love you,” he repeated. “I want to be with you. I have loved you these seven years and did not know it until now. You were my salvation that night, though I hurt you without realizing it.”
“You saved me, too. I can forgive you the rest of it. But we cannot marry.”
“We can.” His grip was warm, firm. She felt caught by the spell of his presence, easily cast in the starlight and the sweep of the sea. But she could not give in, with so much at stake. “Meg, remember the dream, yours and mine, too.”
“My dreams cannot come true.” The awful finality of that twisted inside her.
“Then neither can mine.” He let go. “Aye, then. We have time to think about this. My offer stands, lass. I do not give up easily, and I am a patient man.”
Again words failed her as she watched him. She felt blessed and cursed, for he was all she wanted and more; yet she could not accept, not now, perhaps never.
Spinning on her heel, she ran, her heart sinking with each step in the sand that took her away from him. Her heart and soul beat against the cage of wealth and secrets that trapped her.
What hurt, suddenly, was that he let her go, gave her the very freedom she wanted. What hurt was that she chose to run, afraid of the truth—who she was, and how much she loved him.
*
Dougal looked up through the crystal depth of the water to see a blur of blue sky and clouds far above, and golden shadows rippling in currents over the enormous base of the great rock. A pair of dolphins swam overhead.
If dolphins swam freely here, then sharks were not in the area.
Good; he did not relish meeting those beasts again.
Awkward in his gear and suit, he moved closer to his companion diver.
Evan Mackenzie, looking like another sea beast, his tentacle-like hoses undulating as he tapped a hammer on the side of the rock, testing for cracks or weakness.
Doing the same, Dougal moved with slow, clumsy grace, hearing constant noise through the brass-and-copper helmet.
The air he breathed, pumped through the long hose attached to the helmet, whooshed in and out, smelling sharply of stale rubber, valves clicking.
Overhead, waves shushed, and the wooden platform suspended nearby knocked against the great rock with the current.
The sea surrounding the reef was never still, never quiet, too powerful to be tranquil.
Dougal shoved the hammer in his belt and traced his gauntlets over recesses and protrusions, searching for cracks or any sign of damage from blasts. Below the surface, Sgeir Caran was so broad and massive that he and Evan needed multiple dives to check for damage as construction continued.
“Dougal.” Alan Clarke’s voice was surprisingly clear through the speaking tube.
“Aye,” Dougal responded. “All is well.”
“Good. You two have been down long enough. Time to come up.”
Dougal signaled Evan, who stepped onto the wooden platform and tugged on the ropes, alerting the men above to haul the platform upward. Dougal watched the platform rise in slow increments that would allow Evan’s body to adapt to the changing depth.
Waiting his turn, Dougal brushed a hand over the rock to examine a horizontal niche, loosening a cloud of sand and debris.
Something glinted in a soft spill of daylight and floated out.
He captured it in clumsy fingers, finding a bit of gold coin encrusted with coral.
He slipped it into the canvas bag attached to his belt.
When the platform descended again, he climbed on and pulled on the ropes.
Going up, he took deep, even breaths to acclimate himself.
Overhead, the water swirled blue, and finally he surged through its mass, dripping.
Once in the air, he felt the crushing burden of the suit, boots, and gear.
Men assisted him to the bench, where he broke out in a hot sweat inside the oppressive suit, still breathing the stale, rubbery air through the hose until the helmet was lifted away.
Cool air burst over him and he sucked it in gratefully while two men removed his cumbersome gear.
Thanking them, he stood, clad only in long, damp woolen undergarments, and went to the metal-sided hut to change.
Once dressed in dry trousers, shirt, and vest, he walked out again, remembered the little gold piece, and fetched it quickly from the canvas bag.
Examining it in sunlight, he flecked the coral crust away to expose a pretty blue-green pendant, an aquamarine stone framed in filigreed gold. The delicate chain attached to its loop was broken and hopelessly encrusted, but the bijou would be lovely once it was cleaned.
The luminous color reminded him of Meg’s sea-colored eyes.
It would be lovely on a new gold chain around her slender neck.
But he hesitated, remembering her rejection the other night.
Though he felt hurt and disappointed, he was not ready to give up on the dream so quickly.
A few days had passed when he had been busy on the rock, hoping she might visit him. But she had not.
Opening his heart had not been easy, but he had managed to crack through old layers for her, only for her.
If she did not want him in her life—she had good reasons for that—he would accept it.
But he could not rest until he knew what troubled her and if he could help.
He owed her. And some inner instinct told him to wait and see.
Pocketing the little bijou, he decided to give it to her as a gesture of friendship—or a gesture of love if she wanted it. Once found, love was not something to let go of easily. He would give it time. Besides, he would be here for months with the work to be done on this infernal rock.
Remembering the tasks needing attention, he broke out of his reverie to attend to them.