Chapter 12
While several voices lifted in singing harmony around him, Dougal saw Meg and Fergus talking privately in a corner, their heads together, their discussion clearly serious.
He wondered what troubled Meg that evening, for she had been preoccupied, even sad, in the midst of the revelry.
He hoped she would at least confide in Fergus, who seemed a good friend to her.
Soon Fergus joined the others, and Meg led a sleepy Iain toward a connecting door. The boy sagged against her, and she bent to gather him into her arms. Dougal rose to offer his help.
"Let me take him for you, Miss MacNeill. He looks like a sack of grain. And you must be tired from such a long evening." He opened the door for her as he spoke.
She hesitated, then gave the boy up to him silently.
Iain's head lolled on Dougal's shoulder, and small arms looped cozily around his neck.
Meg led them through the door into a wing of the house.
Camus nan Fraoch consisted of three croft houses joined together under one long thatched roof, each identical, only differing in their functions of main living area, kitchen and dining area, and what was called the sleeping room.
They entered a large room with low rafters, whitewashed walls, a stone floor, and two small windows.
A hearth at one end blazed with a low peat fire.
Through the shadows, Dougal looked around the sleeping room that the entire family shared with some privacy.
Three curtained box beds lined the walls, and two small rooms were separated from the larger one by doors.
Meg shut the door, enclosing them in darkness and relative quiet. Being alone with her like this would have been shocking on the mainland. In the Isles, Dougal had seen more encouragement than suspicion when a young couple went off alone.
When Meg held aside a curtain to reveal a box bed, Dougal set Iain carefully inside. He stood back while she removed the boy's boots and knickers and tucked the linen sheets and woolen blankets over him. Sighing, Iain rolled over.
"Does he sleep alone in here?" Dougal asked.
"Will he be frightened if he wakes later?
" Thinking of the child's recent ordeal and the terrifying spectre of the shark in the water, he also remembered his own terrors and nightmares as a boy, when he would open his eyes in the darkness to realize that his parents were gone forever.
Watching Iain, so small in the bed, those long-forgotten nights came rushing back to him.
He glanced at Meg. "Should we stay here with him? "
She shook her head. "He will not be alone here.
This is my bed at Camus nan Fraoch. I put him here for the night, though he has his own bed in the other room with Fergus, through that door, while Elga sleeps in the box bed over there.
Small Anna's cradle stays near the door of the room that Thora and Norrie share, through there, so that we can all hear her if she stirs. Iain will not sleep alone for long."
He nodded, amazed at the close quarters, though he knew this was a common—even spacious—arrangement for Hebridean homes.
While they spoke, a small black terrier padded toward them through the open door between the rooms, a dog that Dougal remembered had dozed near the fireside during the ceilidh.
Tail wagging now, it jumped up and leaned its paws on Meg's skirt at the knee.
She bent to pet it, then assisted the little dog in jumping onto the boy's bed.
"Iain has a good nursemaid," Meg said affectionately, ruffling the dog's head.
"That's fine, then, Falla. Just for tonight you may sleep with him.
Thora does not like any of their three dogs to sleep on the beds," Meg added, "but Falla can guard Iain for now.
" The dog curled beside the sleeping child, and Meg closed the curtain.
Standing in the darkness beside her, Dougal felt overtaken by a lush blend of contentment and passion that rushed from heart to groin, smooth and fiery as whisky and cream.
He flexed his hand, wanting to touch her, hold her, more—so much more he dared not think of that.
Reaching out in the shadows, he took her elbow and turned her toward him.
"Meg," he murmured, amazed that his heart could pound so hard over touching her arm or saying her name. Fascination and physical excitement built in him, as if each time was the first time he touched her.
The curve of her cheek was a warm glow in the light of the peat fire, her hair a halo of rich, rippled gold. She waited, silent, expectant, watching him.
He sought for something to say, not yet ready to go back into the crowded room when he could be alone here with her. "The ceilidh has been a grand celebration. I am very grateful for it."
"We wanted to celebrate Iain's safety and show our thanks for what you did, Mr. Stewart."
"Dougal," he corrected, and he reached up to brush back her hair where it fell softly along her cheek. She watched him, did not protest. "Any man could have done what I did."
"Iain was in grave danger, and what you did took strength and courage. The people of Caransay will talk of it for generations." She smiled at him in the darkness. "Even now, while you stand here with me, they are in the next room spinning a tale about Dougal and the shark."
"I would rather stand here with you," he murmured.
"I—" Her eyes gleamed as if with quick tears, and she looked away. "I have had no chance to speak to you alone since that day. I wanted to tell you—I need to tell you... how much it meant to me." Her voice quavered.
He shook his head. "No need to thank me again, my lass."
"But if you had not... we might be... holding a wake tonight," she whispered, as her chin began to wobble.
"Come here," he murmured, taking her shoulders, pulling her toward him. Stiff at first, she melted against him and began to weep quietly. Dougal held her, circling his hand over her back, murmuring soothing noises, while she pressed her face into his shoulder in the darkness.
He sensed that she rarely leaned on anyone for support, or else had not done so for a very-long time. Sighing into the fragrant cloud of her hair, he wrapped her close and felt her arms slip around his waist.
Holding her, Dougal felt good, needed, essential to her.
The feeling was new to him. He had faced urgent and dangerous situations before, but saving Iain had brought him an unexpected reward in a sense of true belonging with the islanders, who gave him their respect and seemed ready to cast aside their resentment about the lighthouse.
Comforting Meg, he felt oddly as if he fulfilled more than her momentary need. Holding her approached a destiny, somehow. He belonged here with her.
Most of his adult life, that sense of being needed had been lacking.
While putting up lighthouses, he had faced danger in order to eliminate risk for others.
His own family had been devastated by a tragedy that he could now help prevent in the future.
He was proud to be able to give others safety and security.
His skills were needed—but he had never felt necessary to someone for himself alone.
He had not even realized it until now, with Meg leaning her head on his chest and weeping.
What if she had needed him all these years—as he had wanted and desired her in dreams and imaginings—yet he had been only a hurtful memory for her? Closing his eyes in anguish, he told himself he should have searched more thoroughly for her. He hoped his apology had not come too late.
Unless he made a difference for someone, for her, he might always feel unsettled and at odds with life, always running toward danger in order to prove himself somehow.
Rescuing Iain had opened floodgates of gratitude and goodwill such as he had never felt before, crowned by this moment with Meg in his arms.
Love brimmed in him and spilled over as he held her, and he felt a moment of magnificent, private surrender, as if part of him changed, subtly and surely. He wanted to ease what troubled her now—more than that, he wanted to be with her always.
"Hush, lass," he crooned. "Hush, my dear." Brushing his hand over her hair, he slid his fingers into the wealth of her hair. Meg leaned her head back to gaze up at him, her eyes luminous, awash in tears.
With deliberate gentleness, tipping her chin on his knuckle, he bent and kissed her, a sure brush of the lips, a slight, meaningful tug, another sweet brush.
Then she pressed against him, urging them toward a deep meld of mouths and heartbeats.
Cradling her face in his hand, he kissed her insistently, sinking his fingers into the golden richness of her hair.
He kissed her breathless, until she clung to him and the room seemed to spin.
Through the half-closed door the music and light from the other room faded, but he still heard it and was dimly aware that they were not alone. He had to be alone with her, if only for a little while. Body and soul demanded it.
Tearing away from her, he took her hand, pulling her out of the room and through the outside door of the sleeping room. They stepped into the night, where the sky had finally darkened to starry indigo. He heard the rush of the sea.
Silently, swiftly, he drew her with him toward the bay.
She moved beside him, making no sound as they crossed the reedy, kelp-littered sand of the little bay.
Her hand felt fervent in his. He drew her down toward the sea, where the water washed, foaming, over the sand.
He did not know why he wanted to take her there, but he followed his heart and pulled her along.