Page 55 of Taming the Heiress
Meg glanced up in time to see a muscle bounce subtly in his cheek. She reached out impulsively and touched his forearm, without thought for the new, painful rift between them. She cared only about the pain he was feeling. He did not look at her, but allowed her hand to linger.
Sensing the deep, old hurt he carried, she understood it far too well. Her own father had drowned out on that reef. "Mr. Stewart," she murmured, "I am sorry. We did not know."
"Why should you?" he asked softly. "But thank you."
"Poor lad," Thora said. "We know what it is to lose someone in that way. We all do, here in this room. Our son, Margaret's father, was taken by the sea, too."
Dougal nodded, and although he did not look at Meg, he rested his hand over hers briefly. That silent gesture of compassion gave her a quick, bright hope that he still loved her. Her refusal of him had not destroyed that. She closed her eyes in relief. Though she was not free to marry him, she desperately needed to know that he cared for her, as she did for him, even if they had to part.
"It's a hard thing for a young lad to bear, Dougal Stewart," Norrie murmured. "I think this is why you build lighthouses—to save others from such a fate." He nodded his approval.
"Aye, sir," Dougal said quietly. "And that's why I want the Caran light to go up. It is especially important to me."
Meg caught her breath. Of course, she thought, Dougal would have a strong reason for wanting to build the lighthouse on that very spot. Now that she knew him as a man of heart and integrity, she realized that his private suffering had helped create the rich vein of compassion that was such a part of him. Further, she understood why he had been so stubborn and persistent.
She looked down at her hands, realizing that she had acted selfishly, had made assumptions, and had allowed solicitors to speak for the baroness. Far better, she thought, if she had taken the time to discover for herself why Dougal Stewart was so adamant and dedicated to his lighthouse project.
And the contents of the one letter in his pocket could very well destroy all of that. Pressing her lips together, she lowered her head, feeling heavy remorse. She should not have encouraged her solicitors in this matter.
"A lighthouse would not have saved our son," Norrie was saying. "He knew those rocks well. It was the strength of the squall that took him." He looked at Meg. "We will tell Lady Strathlin that there are noble reasons for putting that light just there and that Dougal Stewart has good reason to ask for her help."
"I doubt she would care," Dougal said.
Tears stung Meg's eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, finally done with holding back, done with the hurt and the ruse that she had hated. None of her lies had protected her. They had only caused more difficulties for her and for Dougal.
With this man, strong and deep and loving, there was no threat from which she needed protection. She had been wrong about the obstinate, odious Mr. Stewart, and she had hurt him deeply, with more hurt inevitable—and all at her hands.
"Mr. Stewart—" she began.
Norrie glanced at her and shook his head. "Not now, girl'" he said in Gaelic. "Now is not the time to tell him."
She subsided, knowing he was right to stop her. If she told Dougal the truth now, he would hate her forever, but that could not be avoided. Once he learned about their son, he might well try to take him from her, which was within his rights as the child's father.
But she could not risk causing a threat to Dougal, too, from Sir Frederick. If Matheson discovered that the lighthouse engineer was the father of her child, he would do his best to ruin Dougal and his career. She was certain of it.
She bit her lip and sighed. First she must resolve her problem with Sir Frederick Matheson. Then, she thought, she could—and would—explain the truth with a great sense of relief, no matter what Dougal thought of her afterward.
* * *
"Thank you for telling me about thePrimrose,Mr. MacNeill. I appreciate it more than I can say." Dougal set his emptied glass down. "And thank you for the hospitality, Mrs. MacNeill. I must go. The weather is poor, and I have some work to do yet."
He stood, although the elderly MacNeills protested with genuine warmth for him to stay. Smiling, he shook his head, and Norrie gestured for Meg to open the door for him.
She rose and went forward, opening the door without a word. Wind stirred the delicate golden strands of her hair, blew at her plain skirt. The sky beyond had grown darker, and in the little time that Dougal had been inside the house, the wind had grown colder and faster and the rain had increased.
"Dirty weather indeed," Norrie said from his place by the hearth. "It will blow hard tonight. Best get back to your wee house, Mr. Stewart."
"Aye. Good night, then." Dougal nodded toward the others, then looked at Meg. She watched him, a hand quiet on the edge of the door, her gaze wide-eyed and haunted.
He glanced around. The fire crackled in the hearth, the elders sat quietly, and the little black terrier slept peacefully at Norrie's feet. The scene inside the shadowed room was simple and cozy, and the amber glow of lamplight over Meg's hair and creamy skin was warm and lovely.
He did not want to leave, suddenly. The storm had nothing to do with it. The lure was the golden girl in the shadows, the welcome of hearth and home, the simplicity and honesty and goodness of this place and these people.
He hesitated, hand upon the door. The humble croft felt more like home to him than his aunt's grand manse in Strathclyde, although he dearly loved the kinfolk who had taken him and his sisters willingly into their home after the deaths of their parents on the Caran Reef. He would see them again soon, but he would not feel quite the sense of a true home that he felt so easily here.
"Good night, Mr. Stewart," Meg said. "You'd best take your hat." She lifted it from a peg and handed it to him.
"Miss MacNeill," he said quietly, formally, and reached into his pocket. "I nearly forgot. I also came here hoping to give you this." He handed her a small paper packet. "Open it," he urged, when she looked at him in surprise.
