Page 20 of Taming the Heiress
"Berry says we can go to the beach!" Iain said in Gaelic.
"English, dear," Meg reminded him.
He nodded. "I did my lessons and read in English to Berry, who says I did good—well."
"That's excellent, Iain," Meg answered, looking up to smile as a buxom lady entered the room after the child. "Mrs. Berry and I will be happy to take you to the beach. It is a lovely day for it. Grandmother Thora and Mother Elga will be there, too. They promised to meet us there with small Anna."
"Master Iain did verra well today," Mrs. Berry said. "He's speaking nicely and reading well. His maths need work, and his handwriting, but that will come. He made a fine drawing of a sea monster. So fantastic, it frightened me out of me shoes!" Mrs. Berry folded her hands over her ample stomach, encased in her usual black gown, her blue eyes crinkled in a smile. Iain giggled.
Elspeth Berry had been Meg's governess in the winter months, year after year, when she had stayed in her grandfather's castle as a young girl. Her impish smile, easy laugh, and practical, kind manner had endeared her to Meg from the very first. Mrs. Berry was a widow, and distantly related to Meg's deceased mother—whose father had left Meg the bulk of his staggering fortune.
Meg felt a tug of gratitude toward her friend. With wealth and friends and family, with so much fullness in her life, she yet had dark secrets that had bruised her heart. Few knew she had given birth out of wedlock, let alone guessed the boy's father. The wide belief was that Iain was Fergus's foster son.
"Good lad!" Meg told Iain. "Bring a bucket to the beach so you can collect winkles and shells. If you find some, I could draw them in my little notebook. Berry would like to splash in the water, too. The day is perfect for a bathing costume if you would like to fetch it." Meg smiled over at Mrs. Berry.
"Ma leddy, I'd like that. And you, ma dear, must remember your straw hat and your almond cream. You canna return to Edinburgh looking like the nut-brown maiden! Your soiree is only weeks away!"
"Of course. will you run and ask Mrs. Hendry to pack us some things for the beach? A luncheon basket would be nice." As she spoke, he bolted toward the door.
"Walk, Master Iain," Berry said. "We didna mean run!"
He slowed, hand on the doorknob. "I will ask for cheese sand-witches. Come, Berry. Hurry!"
"Mrs.Berry, " Meg reminded him, as the two left.
Alone again, Meg sighed. Her own son did not know that his supposed cousin, a very rich lady, was his mother.
Angela Shaw and Mrs. Berry had guessed soon enough that their new mistress, the young newly inherited baroness, was with child. Later, they knew that the child had been born on the island and given away for fostering. But they never asked about the father, believing him to be some callous young Islesman who had deserted the girl to her fate before she had inherited the estate. She trusted them to keep her secret safe.
But she felt her world crumbling around her. Dougal Robertson Stewart might soon realize the rest of her secrets. And he could expose their brief love affair and claim his child. No one would doubt his paternity, once they saw the resemblance between the man and the boy.
One day theeach-uisgewill come back to Caransay for his son and his bride, and he will take them with him to the bottom of the sea,Elga had told her years ago, repeating it.
The kelpie, Meg thought, was far less a threat than the engineer.
* * *
Dougal sailed back to the island at midmorning, leaving Alan Clarke and the others to their work of laying black powder charges in preparation for clearing the foundation pit. Intending to return before the fuses were lit that afternoon, Dougal needed to fetch some plans that had been left on the island.
He had promised the baroness that the construction would not significantly alter the landscape, and he would keep his word. The beauty of the island and the Caran Reef meant as much to him as it did to her. In his heart, he would dedicate every stone of the lighthouse to those whose lives had been taken by the reef. He looked forward to the day when he could set in place a ray of light to sweep the waters and protect those who sailed through these seas.
Now, with a little time to spare before he needed to return to the black rock, Dougal walked toward the Great House, the baroness's holiday home, Clachan Mor. Caransay was not large, seven miles long in all, three wide at its broadest point. The manor house was just two miles from the harbor over the machair. After the night's rain, the weather was glorious and sunny; puffy white clouds in the summer-blue sky moved with brisk, fresh winds. Here, as everywhere on Caransay, he could hear the steady soothing rush of the waves and the constant call of seabirds.
No wonder the baroness cared so much about this place and its wildlife, he thought, glancing at some gulls wheeling overhead. The island had a strong, simple beauty. He sensed the peaceful, perfect balance of sea and air and sunshine, earth and rock. Another part of the magic of the place were its earnest, handsome people and their fascinating legends. He would never disturb such beauty and serenity, no matter what the baroness believed.
Climbing the rise of a hill, he saw Clachan Mor in the distance, a grand stone house atop a heathery hill, with a pathway leading to a small bay and a swath of beach. If the baroness visited the island, he would walk up and knock on that door. He preferred direct conversation to the delay of letters.
Strolling along a line of sand dunes, he heard women's voices chattering and laughing. Walking to the top of the dune, he saw four women with two young children.
Looking golden in the sunshine, Margaret MacNeill sat on a blanket on sand, legs curled under her dark skirt, a straw hat on her head rather than the provincial shawl. She held a book in her hand. Nearby, he saw two older women—Norrie MacNeill's wife and his mother, he thought—with a chubby baby and a small blond boy.
A fourth woman waded in the water and called back to the others, laughing. She hiked up the black skirt of her elaborate swimming costume to edge deeper into the surf.
Then the little boy turned, saw Dougal, and waved. He raised hand in response, recognizing the bold little fellow who had climbed the headland the other day. The boy ran toward him as the women turned, calling after him. Margaret stood quickly, and Dougal decided he might as well go down and greet them politely. He crossed the beach to where dry sand met damp.
A breeze fluttered the MacNeill girl's hair, blew her skirt back against her, revealing her womanly shape—long slender legs, graceful hips, taut body, firm breasts. Lust panged through him—and Dougal knew he should not have come down to meet her. She was honey-bright and lovely, too much so, and he wanted her with a surprising quake of the spirit, recalling the power of shared kisses—
But then the memory of a stinging slap and the apology he owed her for years ago made him stop. That rather awkward matter between them could not be addressed here, not now.
