Chapter Twenty-One
Meg sat in a chair, having worked off her boots to fling them at him. Now she rolled her stockings down—he glimpsed lace-edged knickers and undone garters before her skirt slid down. Balling up her hose, she tossed those to float and pool on the carpet.
“What the devil are you doing?” he asked.
Without reply, she stood, rucked up the voluminous hem of her dress, and tore at the tapes of her crinoline.
As the cage dropped to her feet, she stepped out of its circle, hands under her skirt struggling with hidden drawstrings.
A white flounced petticoat puddled on the floor, followed by another of linen, a third of red flannel.
“Meg, what are you doing?”
“You wanted Meg MacNeill,” she muttered, ripping at her white half sleeves, tossing them away. One flapped over his face. He batted it away. “I am finding her again.”
Dougal huffed, bewildered, as she tugged at the black net that bound her hair and flung it away, hairpins scattering with it. As she whipped her head side to side, her hair rippled out in a wild golden cloud.
“There!” She lifted the drooping hem of her skirt to reveal bare feet, small toes curling in the plush carpet. “Meg MacNeill.”
He stared at her, heart pounding, head reeling with surprise and a new, fragile hope.
“I like my freedom, too,” she said, breathless, stepping out of the chaos of her underthings. “I have all but lost it. I want it back.” In her voice, he heard a faint trace of a Gaelic rhythm, as if she had tossed her perfect English aside with her fancy clothing.
God, he loved her. He stepped closer. “What else do you want?”
“You.” She met his gaze. “I want you.”
He smiled slowly, but kept still, arms, body, aching for her. “And I want you. So much. Do you want to shed any other burden—besides all this pretty frippery?”
“I do.” She drew a deep breath. Her lip quivered. “You will not like it, though.”
“More about Matheson?” He folded his arms.
“He is an odious bully. But I am not afraid of him any longer. You are not afraid of him.”
He huffed agreement. “True.”
“I can break free of him.” She lifted her chin. “I owe him loyalty for helping me in the past. But lately he has proven not very pleasant.”
“Indeed. Is that all, then?” He moved closer, careful not to crush silks and laces.
“There is. But it might present a—challenge.”
“I love a challenge. You, my lass, are a challenge of the best sort. It is easier to sail into a storm than keep pace with all your surprises.”
“You said you needed Meg MacNeill. Here she is. I know you do not care for the baroness.”
“Meg.” He sighed. “I care about you. And you are the baroness—a fascinating creature who equally has my heart. I see that now. I was wrong to doubt it.”
She nodded, brows tucked over eyes that were uncertain blue pools. Something sincerely troubled her, he saw, more than castles, costly things, and a small island where she could be free.
“What is it?” He moved close, reached out to tip up her chin, dabbing a thumb over a tear. “We need to be honest with each other. We both know that now.”
“True.” She drew a breath. She reached for him, cupping her hands on his forearms, fingers gripping. “Dougal—” But she stopped.
“Whatever it is, I love you, aye?” He bent close, touched her cheek.
Doubts and reserve and resentments dissolved in the magic of her winsomeness.
No matter what she had to say, nothing was insurmountable with trust and faith returning full force.
He lowered his head and kissed her, felt her curve against him, whimper, surrender to the kiss. “And I am sorry.”
“You are not the one who needs to apologize.” She broke away. “Dougal, that night—on Sgeir Caran, I must tell you what happened.”
*
“I am listening.” He drew her in for another kiss. Meg felt herself melting into it, felt the next one turn to flame as his fingers gentled over her jaw, her throat, down until his hand was a warm cradle for the upper swell of her breast. Her knees went buttery, and she sank against him.
He leaned back. “Will you tell me? It cannot be so bad. Say it.”
Heart slamming, she did not want to be blunt, wanted to ease the news to him. But not here, where someone might interrupt. She tugged at his arm and pulled him toward a narrow door in the corner of the library. Taking up a candle burning in a glass lamp, she opened the door.
“Come in here.”
They entered a narrow room shaped like a tower, wrapped in dark, gleaming wood paneling, with a spiral stair to one side that accessed a platform leading to the upper shelves of the library.
It was fitted with a small but handsome desk, two leather armchairs, with a red patterned carpet.
The candle in its glass glowed, and the room had a little warmth from its close shape.
Its dark masculine elegance brought back memories. She loved this place dearly.
“A secret room?” Dougal’s voice echoed gently in the tower-like space.
“This was my grandfather’s private study,” she said. “He would come here to read and work on journals. Seeing that, I wanted to do the same. He did not seem to mind a little girl underfoot if I was quiet. I would sit over there and draw.”
She went to a small japanned cabinet of black and gold and opened a little door to take out a box of inlaid wood. The exotic smell of sandalwood and memories wafted from it as she set it on the desk and opened it to remove two bundles of letters tied with white ribbon.
“When I first inherited and came to live here,” she said, “Mr. Hamilton and I came in here to search for some of Grandfather’s private papers.”
“If he stored them there, they must have been written by someone special.”
“They are all from me,” she said, “to him. I wrote to him for years. I visited him every winter for several weeks, and he even hired tutors for me—Mrs. Berry and others. He was a widower, and his sons were grown but without children. My mother, his only daughter, brought me here often.”
He recalled what she had said of her parents. “Even though Lord Strathlin did not approve of her marriage to an islander, a fisherman.”
“He did not, but he did not disown her and welcomed us. After both Mama and Papa were gone, I visited him until his last days. And all those years, I wrote to him. He kept them.”
She lifted a packet of letters, fanning the edges.
“I wrote to him about Caransay—the island, the flowers, the shells I found on the beach, the birds and the seals on the sea rocks. I told him about sailing and fishing with Grandfather Norrie and about playing on the beaches and swimming in the sea. I made drawings for him too.” She touched the bundle. “It’s all here.”
Amazed, touched, Dougal realized the importance the letters held for her. “Your journals started with your childhood letters and drawings.”
She nodded. “He would thank me for the letters, though he never wrote back. Just a yearly invitation to come to Edinburgh or Strathlin Castle, wherever he would spend the winter depending on business matters. I was tutored, and often fitted for a wardrobe as I grew. Though I always preferred plain gowns and bare feet.” She laughed a little.
“He must have appreciated the letters to keep all of them. He was very fond of you, to make sure you had a good education and all your needs met.”
“Gruff as he could be, unhappy as he was about my father being a fisherman, he was good to my mother and me. I loved him, and I felt sorry for him, a little. I thought he was lonely. I did not know then how busy he was, building a shipping and banking empire. I scarcely knew about Matheson Bank then.”
She walked around the great mahogany desk, fingers trailing. “He did not show much affection. I thought he just tolerated me, his only grandchild. An obligation.”
“But he left everything to you. That says a great deal.”
“My uncles were gone, and I did not know he had designated me his heir. Then I found this box when Mr. Hamilton and I were looking for something. A deed, I think.”
“He not only loved you, he had faith in your intelligence and judgment, entrusting all this to a young woman.”
She put the bundled letters back in the box and shut it away in the cabinet. “Nearly two million pounds, they told me, when the will was read, along with title and properties and ownership, though not authority, over the bank.”
“That is astonishing,” he murmured.
“At the time, it was incomprehensible. I did not want it. I railed against it, cried, refused at first. I wanted to live on Caransay, for that was my home. But the will was ironclad—either I accepted and took on the responsibilities, or the entire estate would go into the bank’s control.
This beautiful Edinburgh house, the castle, the other properties, all of it would be forever locked to Lord Strathlin’s descendants. My descendants.”
“Your son Sean,” he said. “Your late husband’s child, as you let them think. But a fisherman—did your grandfather frown on that also?”
“He never knew. Sean was born after he died. But I already knew the fortune would leave the family, so I had to agree. It is easy enough in Scotland for a female to inherit a title and an estate, no matter the scope of it. So here I am.”
“And doing a remarkable job. It must be a great deal of work.”
“I had much to learn those first couple of years, true. Fortunately, I had friends to help. Mrs. Shaw, whom I met in Edinburgh when we were girls, came with me. So did Mr. Hamilton, who had been Grandfather’s protégé.
He was familiar with matters I knew little about.
And Mrs. Berry had been my governess when I visited Grandfather. ”
“Ah, Berry, who is so fond of swimming,” he drawled.
“I am sorry about that,” she said, and saw him shrug it away. “The bankers and solicitors were well-meaning, if not used to dealing with a young woman. They brought me up to task. Including,” she added, glancing at him, “Sir Roderick.”
Dougal frowned. “You mentioned he was helpful. A cousin?”