Page 7 of Taming the Heiress
Dougal nodded, glancing again at the blond woman on the beach. The amber sunset made her look as if she were formed of light and magic. She reminded him of the girl who still haunted his dreams. He had never sorted out if the girl had been real, a dream, even a fairy if such creatures existed. Whatever she was, he had not forgotten her.
Sea fairies indeed. The young woman on the beach was fetching—and he was too near that mysterious rocky isle, which led him to think about the past. That was all.
"Who's that with Norrie, then?" Alan asked. "A bonny sight."
"Aye." Dougal agreed, watching her.
Golden haired and reed slim, she shaded her brow with a hand and turned toward the women and children helping the fishermen as they came in from a day's work. Laughing and calling out, they all helped to pull the boats high on the sands and drag nets bulging with fish and creels full of lobsters out of the water's reach. A few children stopped to speak with her, and the girl nodded, waving them off as they ran past.
An elderly man strolled over to her, smoking a pipe. Dougal recognized tall, white-haired Norrie MacNeill, a crofter fisherman who sailed weekly to the Isle of Mull to fetch mail and supplies for the islanders. He had offered to do so for the lighthouse crew as well. When Norrie spoke, the girl wrapped her arm in his and he patted her hand.
So she was some relation of Norrie's, Dougal surmised. She was dressed plainly and practically like the other women, and everyone seemed familiar with her. A brisk breeze whipped at her dark skirt, revealing bare calves and bare feet, hinting at her slender form. Thick honey-colored hair, wildly curled, was partly tamed by a black ribbon. She wore the plaid arisaid shawl so common among the other women, dropping it down to drape over her shoulders.
She turned then to look in his direction, her hand above her eyes. Sensing her stare, he felt an odd response within, like the turning of a key. Fantasy or not, she reminded him strongly of the exquisite sea fairy he had dreamed of one wild black night, when he had been in a bad way.
Frowning, he looked away. He needed a good night's sleep. The pace of the work had made him imaginative and maudlin.
Near the water's edge, members of his crew hauled up the fishing boat they used daily to cross back and forth to Sgeir Caran. Today they had drilled and hacked into black basalt to cut the foundation cavity for the lighthouse. As resident engineer, Dougal supervised every aspect of the work and often lent a hand with the actual physical labor.
Tired and gritty from the day's work, he tensed and relaxed the stiffness from his shoulders. He craved a wash and fresh clothing, a hot supper, time alone in his hut to study plans by lamplight. The engineering log needed to be filled out each day with a report of progress, and facts and measurements checked and rechecked before the next phase began.
He glanced along the crescent of white sand that defined Caransay's small natural harbor. The single quay was tied up with fishing boats, and more boats rested on the sand. Two dark headlands framed the beach like enormous sentinels, the black rock matching the basalt of the reef a mile or so out to sea.
Seagulls called, reeling overhead, and waves swept over the pale, soft sand. Dougal turned, enjoying the salty breezes that fingered his thick brown hair, fluttering his coat and collarless shirt—he rarely wore stiff collars or neckcloths out here. Children raced past, laughing. A few scrambled up the nearest headland, calling out as they followed a path there.
"Norrie MacNeill's granddaughter," Alan said. "He said she was coming this week for a visit. She lives off Caransay."
"Ah." So that was why he had not seen her before.
"Maybe she'll dance wi' me at the Friday ceilidh," Alan mused. "Last Friday I sat with Norrie's auld mum all night. Mother Elga tells a good tale and sings a fine song, but she isna much for dancing." He chuckled. "We noticed, the lads and I, that Caransay has few young and unmarried lassies. I do wish you'd looked into that before you arranged for us to stay here the whole of a year." Alan shook his head.
"You'll work harder without distractions." Dougal grinned.
"So will you, clever lad, wi' nae fine lassies flockin' aboot you as they did in Edinburgh and Glasgow. Och, look! There goes my heart." Alan set a hand on his chest with flair as Norrie's granddaughter walked toward the headland with long-legged grace, skirt swinging neatly. She waved toward the children climbing the rock, calling up at them. "A pity for me if she's married already." Alan sighed dramatically.
"If not, then you may yet have a chance."
"I doubt it. See that tall fellow wi' her? Oh and the smile she gave him, it breaks my heart. What a bonny thing she is."
"Aye, well," Dougal commiserated. A tousle-haired man wearing the baggy jacket, trousers, and boots of a fisherman joined the young woman. She smiled up at him even as she snatched the shirttails of the smallest of the bold climbers, plucking the blond-haired boy off the headland slope. The child leaped down beside her and took her hand.
Watching the girl greet what must be her family, Dougal felt an unexpected stab of disappointment, as if he shared Alan's dream—as if he had found his sea fairy and she was beyond his reach. Then Alan asked about the next day's plans, and Dougal replied, all the while watching the girl.
Glancing out at the sea then, he narrowed his eyes against the sunset glare on the waves. Breezes stirred his hair as he looked toward Sgeir Caran.
Only a mile from the island, the massive black rock was easily visible, thrusting up through the waves, silhouetted against the golden sky. Sgeir Caran was the largest formation in a half-mile-long archipelago of the Caran Reef, whose rocks littered the sea like thorns. Many of the points were treacherously hidden below the constant sweep of the Atlantic.
Mostly Dougal thought of Sgeir Caran in terms of the work challenges it presented, its geology, the weather, the physics of wind and wave force. But sometimes, at moments when the light was extraordinary or the mist deep, the rock seemed otherworldly, an ancient portal for legends and magic. He would never forget the night he had nearly died out there, the night when water horses and a sea fairy had saved him. That magic lingered, though he would never understand it.
Fool, he told himself, turning away. He needed his attention on the here and now. Hard enough to work out on Sgeir Caran every day without dreaming idly of lost moments.
"She will find you," Alan said.
Dougal turned, startled. "What?"
"The Baroness of Strathlin. When she hears we're about to quarry stone from her island, she'll come after you."
"There's little Lady Strathlin can do now but accept it."
