Page 26 of Taming the Heiress
He smiled. "You sound more like a mother than a cousin." He glanced about. "Is his mother here? I have not seen her."
She felt struck to the heart. "Fergus MacNeill's wife died with the birth of the little one, Anna. Iain permanently fosters with Fergus, who is like... a father to him." She walked over damp sand through a thin wash of water. Dougal went with her, his boots sinking prints beside hers.
"Sad. Will Fergus take another wife?"
"Someday. For now, he lives with my grandparents."
Seagulls dipped and fluttered overhead, and the soothing sounds of the ocean filled the air. Although she knew she should be careful, Meg felt relaxed in his presence. She could have strolled along the beach forever, surrounded by peace, with him.
"I was a daredevil child, like Iain," Dougal mused, watching the boy splash in the shallows. "My mother reined me in tightly to keep me from getting into too much trouble."
"You are still a daredevil to put up lighthouses in such dangerous locations. And you dare to confront baronesses and parliament, too, to get what you want."
He chuckled, and she loved the deep, easy rumble of it, though she did not want to like anything about this man.
"Your mother must be proud of you," she said.
His expression faded to a small frown. "My mother would be proud, I hope, if she knew. But she passed away when I was thirteen, along with my father. They never saw me grow up, or work on lighthouses. They knew nothing of my, ah, escapades." He walked, hands in pockets, head down, the breeze fingering through his hair.
"Oh, I am sorry. I did not know."
"Of course you didn't. As for confronting baronesses and parliament—I have given the baroness a bit of trouble."
"You are notorious on Caransay for it."
"So I gather. I know you would like to see me leave, and I'm sure others feel the same. But I warn you, Miss MacNeill. I will not be dissuaded from my goal. I have one quality above others that is both a flaw and a virtue."
"What is that, sir?"
He stopped and looked at her. "Once I decide upon something, I never give up. Ever." His green turned hard as Venetian glass. "I suggest you explain that to your baroness. And remember it yourself, Miss MacNeill."
"Me?" Her voice wavered.
He leaned down a little. "Shall we talk now, in full view of the other ladies, or shall we wait a bit?"
Heart slamming, she gazed up at him. "We shall wait."
"Very well." He looked down at her leather journal, which he still carried. "This is admirable, Miss MacNeill. I hope you will consider publishing it one day."
"I doubt anyone would be interested in my journals."
"On the contrary, it is unique and lovely. Scotland is very popular with tourists as well as the literati. You could do very well in publishing these."
"It is only a hobby—" She stopped, wanting to be honest with him in one area, at least. She had dreamed of publishing her journals someday, but she did not think them worthy enough, even if she published them anonymously and at her own expense.
"Well," she began, "I have imagined my journals as a handsome set of books." She half laughed. "Bound in green leather with flowers tooled on the front and the title lettered in gold along the spines."
"'A Hebridean Journal,by M. MacNeill,' each volume would say," he suggested.
She shrugged. "A silly dream."
He touched her arm, sending a thrill all through her. "It is a very precious dream, Meg MacNeill. Hold on to it. Never give it up." His voice was deep, sincere. "Someday," he said, handing the book to her, "I hope you discover your dream."
She took the journal, her fingers brushing his. "Thank you," she said. "I have never spoken much about my journals. I appreciate your... encouragement."
He smiled, a warm play of mischief and affection. No one would have thought him capable of cruel tricks.
"I had an uncle who wrote books—poetry, mostly," he said. "Very romantic, lofty stuff, full of legends and tragedy, with much beating of breasts and so forth. Perhaps you have heard of him. Sir Hugh MacBride."
