Page 3 of Taming the Heiress
The strange, luscious fog of the potion Elga had given her of whisky and herbs lingered, too. The drink had fired her blood so that she had behaved shockingly, with abandon and passion, swept up in a whirlwind of powerful need.
Willingly, madly, she had craved what she had done with the man—fulfilling an ancient bargain she did not even believe in during the daylight. The warmth of his arms had been magic.
She ducked her head in hot shame. What had happened? Was he just a man—or were her grandmothers right after all? What had happened between them had been extraordinary.
She glanced toward him, yearning, yet knew she must leave soon, vanish to home, or lose herself to him forever. If he touched her again, she could not answer for herself. Even if he was legend, she would have followed him down to the deepest part of the sea.
She rubbed her eyes, feeling the strong whisky potion still making her mind, and her will, muzzy. She was not suggestible and submissive by nature. What was in those herbs?
He sighed, stretched, and the plaid fell away. In the light before dawn Meg saw him clearly—a long, lean, tight-muscled and beautiful man. His features had the uncommon symmetry of real beauty, and his hair was deep brown, brows black, whiskers a dark smudge on his jaw, his chest and flat belly taut and dusted with dark hair, his nestled sex—the sight made her blush as she remembered what she had allowed and wanted of him last night.
His eyes fluttered open. Sea green. A legend's eyes.
She let out a breath as he slept again.
In the silvery dawn, she gazed at him, her husband by right of an ancient agreement. He had roused her with some kind of magic. She would never forget him—but she must go.
A small and reasonable voice told her that he was a real man, no legend, and she wondered what he was doing here. Yet her grandmothers would insist that he was theeach-uisgehimself, the sea kelpie, the most powerful of magical water creatures.
He stretched, yawned. Moving quickly, Meg slipped out of the cave and ran barefoot over the rocky plateau while the dawn brightened.
At the low end of the rock, a boat waited, oared by her grandfather. Thora, his wife, was with him. Meg ran.
Norrie handed her in and pulled the boat quickly away, and Thora threw a plaid around Meg's shoulders. The fishing boat plowed through low, restless waves and fog toward Caransay.
Meg looked behind her. The man stood in the cave entrance, draped in her plaid, gazing toward the open sea. He did not look in their direction as the boat slipped eastward.
"He's there. Look," Thora breathed.
"Huh," Norrie grunted, rowing.
Meg felt a tug in her heart. She could not leave him on the rock. He was not a kelpie, but a man, and she had stranded him. Turning to tell her grandfather to go back, she glanced into the distance—and saw a boat gliding through the mist from the western side of the rock. Two men were in the fishing vessel.
Her lover ran down the slope, waving to the approaching boat. He grabbed a rope the men tossed, and soon he was climbing in, greeted by the men.
Fog slid over the sea, and the boat vanished from sight.
Meg turned back. Her grandparents had not seen the other boat. She said nothing. Inside, she felt ill and ashamed. She had not lain with the great kelpie, but with a man. Just a man.
Had word gotten that a maiden would be sent to Caransay that night because of the old legend? Had the man come to the rock on a drunken bet? Even now he was probably gleefully detailing his adventure to his friends.
Gasping, she bowed her head.
Thora hugged her. "So you met the great kelpie, and I am sure he was tender with you in his magic," she whispered. "The herbal potion helped make you willing. If a child comes of it, we will give it a loving home—and the kelpie will protect Caransay from harm, blessing our isle with good fortune for the sake of his wee son."
Oh God,Meg thought.A child.
Chapter 1
Strathlin Castle, near Edinburgh
July, 1857
"A home," Sir John Shaw said, peering down his bulbous nose, "for young women of questionable morals? Lady Strathlin, I must advise against this unwise investment—as a member of the board of Matheson Bank and because I was a friend of your estimable grandfather, Lord Strathlin. He would never—"
"Matheson House is hardly intended for women of ill repute, Sir John," Meg said calmly, folding her hands as she faced him over a wide oak writing desk in the library of Strathlin Castle. Morning sunlight streamed through tall windows to highlight the pale blue and gold of the Oriental carpet underfoot, reminding her of a Hebridean beach. Together with the seascape painted in oils over the library mantel, the sight helped ease a sudden bout of homesickness. Seven years, and she still deeply missed the Isle of Caransay.
A week from now, she would be enjoying a rare holiday visit to the island. She drew a hopeful breath at the thought.
