Chapter 3 #2
His father and mother had been swallowed in a storm along that wicked reef, wrecked along the lethal points. If a lighthouse had been in place on Caran Reef, his parents might still be alive today. The light would have guided their ship through the treacherous archipelago and safely to port.
He shoved fingers through his hair, sighed.
He was determined to fight for a lighthouse on Sgeir Caran.
The light would prevent tragedies and save lives, if only the baroness and her lawyers would realize it.
For Dougal, it would be a monument to those who had died among those rocks.
Nothing must prevent that silent memorial from going up.
He hardened his mouth, fighting a quick memory of his parents' faces, their smiles. He could not think too long about them—or he would feel the loss keenly, dreadfully, again.
But growing up, he had honed self-control and daring as a way to fight his feelings.
Death was no matter to him. He had faced it often, did not fear it.
He had been shipwrecked himself, had endured storms, dived deep, climbed high on scaffolds, hd risked his life too many times to count in putting up these lighthouses.
He felt a thrill in the daring, and a thrill in the courage.
Above all, he felt the rightness of what he did—no matter the risk to him and his crew, the lighthouses had to go up.
Of all the lights he had constructed, this one was by far the most important to him.
He was known for daring—and stubbornness.
And he would never give up this fight, despite Lady Strathlin.
Aside from his personal reasons, the physics and logic of the matter dictated Sgeir Caran as the best site.
And he already had the support of the Northern Lighthouse Commission and the Stevenson firm, who had worked on the design with him and had sent him out to this forsaken place to execute it.
He would do it. Somehow, he would do this. He owed it to all the souls who had been lost under those waves, and to his father, strong and kind, his mother, bookish and so pretty.
He sucked in the sea air like it was medicine for pain.
"Mr. Stewart." The voice behind him was sweet and soft.
He whirled. The girl stood a few feet behind him, surrounded by moonlit flowers and grasses. Wind rippled through her hair, shifted her skirt.
She was magic after all, to appear like that, just when he needed her—needed someone to ease his lonely, dark moments here. He felt a sudden urge to take her into his arms, find comfort, apologize, begin again. He tilted his head, only that.
She walked closer, the hem of her skirt swinging through the flowers. She seemed vulnerable, brittle with tension.
"Miss MacNeill," he said. "I am surprised to find anyone else out here at this hour."
"I love to walk out at dawn when I am here on Caransay," she said. "The chance of seeing the northern lights is worth losing a bit of sleep. Did you come out here to look for them, too?"
"I took a walk to puzzle over some engineering problems." And to shake himself free of a dream, yet the dream stood beside him now. He kept his gaze on the sky to keep from staring at her like a cow-eyed fool.
"The dawn is coming, " she said, looking up. "We will not see the northern lights. Well, good night, Mr. Stewart."
He turned with her. "I will walk you back to your house, if I may, and see you safe home."
"I am safe on my island. Good luck with your puzzles."
He continued to walk beside her through the long stretch of grasses and blooms. The dawn light bloomed quickly, illuminating the wild colors and fluted, dancing shapes of the flowers. "The machair is a beautiful thing."
"It is," she agreed.
"Do you know what sorts of flowers these are?" He did not particularly care, but needed something to talk about.
"I do," she said, and kept on walking.
"Buttercups, just there?" He pointed. "And harebells."
"Buttercups, harebells, daisies," she answered.
"Over there is yarrow and wild oat grass, and meadowsweet too.
What you are crushing underfoot, sir, are tiny purple irises past their bloom.
If we walked over that way, you would see wild strawberries and brambles and clusters of wild roses spreading so thick over the rock that you can hardly see the stone. "
"Lovely." He was watching her as she spoke.
"Mmm," she agreed. "Close your eyes—inhale the fragrances. In the hills, the heather blooms so thick that the hills look dark pink from far out at sea."
"I have seen it, I think," he said.
"No one planted it, no one tends it, but it flourishes. It has always been here. Sometimes the daisies turn the machair to white and gold and the bees tumble drunken through the flowers."
He smiled. "You love this place."
"I do, Mr. Stewart." Beyond the meadow, beyond the dunes, the sea shushed endlessly to shore. "It is paradise."
"I suppose the baroness agrees."
She stopped. "You need not walk me any further."
"I'd rather you had an escort in the middle of the night."
"Do you think there are strange men about?" she snapped.
He drew a breath sharply. "I think you do not like me much, Miss MacNeill."
"Go back to your barracks, Mr. Stewart."
"First I will see you safely home."
"I do not need you to do that. None of us need you here."
"I suspect you refer to lighthouses rather than a stroll at dawn. Are you by any chance acquainted with Lady Strathlin?"
Her steps faltered, and she moved ahead. "Why?"
"She shares your opinion of me. Her passel of lawyers would agree with you, too, I think."
"We cannot all be wrong," she said.
He huffed, a grudging smile at his lips, and she laughed a little as they walked side by side. Glimpsing a rock among the grasses, he took her elbow to guide her around it.
A simple touch, but the contact went through him like lightning, a crackling awareness.
Stunned, he let her go, telling himself it was only the romantic moonlight, the lush sound of the sea, the strange magic of the hour before dawn.
In daylight, he would not have felt so vivid a sensation, nor would he entertain such astonishing thoughts.
Ahead, he saw a croft house tucked against a hill. He could make out its whitewashed contour, thatched roof, darkened windows. The house faced a small bay, sparkling and peaceful in the dim light. "Is that your home?"
"My grandparents' house. You can leave me now."
"No need to bristle so, Miss MacNeill."
She turned, stared up at him. A breeze fluttered her skirt and plaid shawl. Strands of her golden hair sifted loose, wafting over her brow. "I am not—bristling."
"You," he said quietly, "are like a porcupine whenever I am near." He reached out and brushed the hair away from her brow. She leaned away. See? he wanted to say.
"Do you know Lady Strathlin well?" He was curious.
"Everyone on Caransay knows her."
They stood on a rise above the croft house and its little bay, where the machair dropped away into a long sandy bank that led down to the shore.
Looking at the croft house, Dougal saw that it had two wings adjacent to the main body of the house, all of it whitewashed and topped by thatch held by roof ropes.
The whole formed a pretty picture with the sparkling bay while pink dawn billowed up from the horizon over the sea.
"Is that what they call the Great House?"
She laughed, soft and low. "That is Camus nan Fraoch—Heather Bay, we call it. My grandparents live there."
"But you do not live here on Caransay. Do you live on Mull with your husband?"
"My husband? I am not married. I live on the mainland."
"Forgive me. On the beach, I saw you with a man and a small boy. I assumed they were your husband and son."
"You saw my cousin Fergus MacNeill and... small Iain."
He nodded, somehow relieved that she was not married. Her name had given him no clue, since Scotswomen often kept their maiden names after marriage. And since Norrie had fetched her from Mull, Dougal assumed she lived there, but she must have a home along the coast in Ardnamurchan or Moidart.
"Where is Clachan Mor, the baroness's estate?" he asked.
"Estate? Just a manor house. That way." She pointed. "The Great House sits at the foot of those hills."
He saw it then, a stone manor house off in the distance, a box shape with a flat facade and a several windows nestled near a dark hill. A sandy peninsula stretched from there to the water.
"Do you know when the baroness might come here again? Are you privy to her plans?"
"Sometimes." Her eyes sparkled, and he felt suddenly that she knew more than she revealed. "But she values her privacy on Caransay and conducts no business when she is here. It is a holiday home for her. A place of respite and rest."
"She does keep to herself, your baroness. I cannot gain any time with her, despite our correspondence."
"I have heard that your exchanges are not amiable."
"Sometimes. Well, if I cannot meet her here, perhaps you will convey a message to her from me. Though I wager Lady Strathlin is heartily sick of messages from me," he added wryly.
She was looking up. The soft light caught the curve of her cheek, and her eyes grew wide.
"Oh, 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, flinging out like silken veils.
Dougal watched, entranced. Without thinking, he lifted a hand to take her elbow again, a gentlemanly gesture, yet he wanted simply to touch her, to watch the miraculous flare in the sky with her.
"So beautiful," she breathed.
"Aye," he agreed. "The aurora borealis."
"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 in heaven," she mused, watching the sinuous dance of colored lights.
"I have seen them before," he said, "but never so lovely."
She nodded, smiling. Lambent color suffused her, gave her a graceful glow. Dougal wanted suddenly to glide his fingertips over her creamy skin, through her silken curls. She felt so familiar and dear, yet a stranger, cool, distant.
"The colors are pale this time," she said. "They are often quite brilliant when the Merry Men go dancing."
"The sky is not dark. Wait until fall or winter."
"Will you still be on Caransay then?" she asked.
"Perhaps. If so, come back—we will walk out to look for the lights then, when it is dark and the colors brilliant."
She stared up at the magical glow, and Dougal thought, then, of the rainy shadow of a cave and the pink dawn light that had glowed over this girl's face. He remembered, too, how she had felt, drenched and shivering, in his arms. His body pulsed.
He stepped closer, motion following thought, and she tilted her head to look at him. "Tell me," he said gruffly, "that we have met before."
"I—" She paused, would not meet his eyes.
"Tell me," he insisted. "Were you there that night, on the rock? Or did I dream it?"
He saw the flash of understanding in her eyes. She only watched the sky, but her silence seemed a clear admission.
"My God," he breathed. "It was you." Taking her shoulder, he leaned down. Sliding his hand along her cheek, he dipped his head, nuzzled close enough to kiss her, overwhelmed by desire.
She stiffened in his arms, but leaned her head back, closed her eyes. Silent, still, she seemed to wait. Tipping his head, Dougal kissed her mouth gently, felt his soul whirl.
Her lips softened beneath his, her fingers clutched at his shirt. He felt her sway against him, felt a moment of surrender in her. Sliding his hand to the back of her waist, he deepened the kiss.
A force poured through him, relief, joy, shaking free the years of need, of searching for something that he could not define. He had found her. She was real. One loss in his life had been restored to him, and it felt like a miracle.
Her hand came up to his jaw, her breath warmed his mouth. He sensed a hunger in her that matched his own, and he felt her need, as deep and sincere as his. He wanted to hold her, cherish her, heal her reluctance, ease the hurt he had caused years back.
She moaned a breathy protest and seemed to wake from the same heated fog that held him captive. Pushing at his chest, she stepped back. Then her hand lashed upward to crack across his cheek, whip-sharp.
"What the devil—"
She whirled and hurried down the sandy slope, breaking into a run as she headed toward the croft house.
Dougal watched her, palm nursing his stinging cheek. After a moment, he realized that the bright kaleidoscope overhead had faded into a gray dawn.
The wind blew past, clearing his thoughts. She was no illusion, and he was indeed a fool. He had ruined the girl that long-ago night, had shamed her. No matter that she had gone willingly, wildly, into his arms. She had been a virgin that night.
Small wonder she hated him.
Why had she been out there on that wicked night? He had never known, and now it made a difference to him. He wanted to know more, wanted to explain himself, too, and apologize.
He owed her more than that, but did not know how to make it up to her—short of marrying the girl far after the fact. And he doubted she would consider that for a moment. He had not even thought of it himself until this moment.
Watching the moving sea, he called himself every sort of bastard. Margaret MacNeill deserved more than apologies. He had been a heartless cad, a drunken, concussed idiot, thinking himself enchanted. Morally, socially, ethically, he was obligated to make amends and marry the girl.
The prospect gave him greater pause than any risk he had ever faced before.