Page 8 of Taming the Heiress
"At least she's far away in Edinburgh."
"Aye, but I hear she keeps a manor house on the other side of the island. She'll have to come here sooner or later. I mean to meet her when she does."
"She will whaup yer head for being a great loon and causing her such grief. Old hag," Alan muttered.
"I was invited to a soiree at her home in a few weeks. She can whaup me there at her convenience."
"Fought you every step of the way, she has."
"Her solicitors have done the real fighting."
"She canna be bothered, eh? She has nearly two million pounds, they say!" Alan shook his head in disbelief. "Your own fine inheritance is a wee sum compared to that."
"Huh. Well, she gives freely to charities, and she assisted in the costs after the bridge collapsed last year."
"You're a fair man, Dougal Stewart. Truth is, she canna find it in her cold heart to be generous about the Caran light. We need contributions. Those Fresnel lenses you ordered for the tower will be devilish expensive. 'Twill raise the whole cost to nearly sixty thousand pounds by the time we are done."
"We have interested investors in Edinburgh. If I attend Lady Strathlin's soiree, I can try to tap them for commitments. As for the lady, she would never invest in this herself."
"Hell's own gale, she is. But you do not run from storms."
"All we need is good luck and good weather to finish the job." Dougal turned to see Norrie MacNeill looking toward him. The old man lifted a hand, and Dougal waved. Moments later, the fisherman and the girl crossed the beach toward them.
Graceful, poised, lovely, she held his attention. All else seemed to fade. He heard the rush of the sea in his ears, and his heart beat hard and fast. He thought of his dreams of the sea fairy, and the sudden longing he felt had crushing strength.
Whoever the girl was, he told himself, she was real—and he had best collect his wits.
* * *
He looked like a pirate, dark and wild, hands at his waist and booted foot propped on the edge of a fishing boat. All banked power and assurance, he glanced toward her as Meg and her grandfather crossed the beach. She felt his gaze move over and almost through her, though he was a stranger.
She expected Dougal Stewart, when they finally met, to be handsome and charming given his reputation in society—but she was not prepared for the impact of his gaze, his presence, even at a distance.
She wanted to turn and go back, but her grandfather waved at him. Meg had no choice but to walk forward too.
Hearing her name called then, she turned to wave at her cousin, Fergus MacNeill, who was with his foster son—her own child, Iain—walking along the upper beach. Meg was glad that Iain had obeyed her when she had asked him to climb down from the headland rock. She saw her little son only when she visited the island; the child believed that she was his cousin, the very wealthy baroness who lived in Edinburgh. Meg and her kin had agreed years ago that it would be best for all if Fergus and Anna raised the child. But now Anna had died with the birth of a daughter a year ago, and Fergus had not yet told Iain the truth. Someday soon he would do so.
Fergus was a good father, but with two small children under his sole care, he and the bairns had gone to live with his grandparents, Norrie and Thora, who were helping to raise Iain and small Anna. And still, only the few of them knew that Meg was Iain's own mother.
Smiling as she gazed at her bonny son, Meg remembered that the obstinate engineer, Stewart, still waited to meet her. Sighing, she pushed back her hair. She was not at her best—hair loose, feet bare, just one petticoat beneath her skirt. Mrs. Berry, her traveling companion, was over at the Great House—the largest house on Caransay Island—enjoying a little luxury and privacy near a secluded beach. But Meg came to Caransay to spend time with her family, so she reverted to the lifestyle she had grown up with and much preferred, staying in her grandparents' croft house, where she could be closer to her son.
Besides, she liked the freedom here, the chance to trade stays and crinolines, stockings, wide skirts and snug shoes for easy, practical clothing and bare feet. Here on Caransay, Meg savored freedoms she otherwise did not have now that she was a rich baroness with responsibilities at home in Edinburgh.
"So what will you tell the man?" Norrie asked her.
"Tell him? He hates me," Meg answered in Gaelic, which she spoke almost exclusively while on Caransay. "I can scarcely tell him that I am Lady Strathlin, the woman he is battling for the sake of this island, when I am dressed like this. I should have invited him to tea at the Great House, rather than meet him here, like this."
"He would expect Lady Strathlin to wear shoes, at least," Norrie laughed. "I am thinking a surprise will do him good."
"Far too much surprise! I hoped my solicitors would find some way to remove the engineer and his work project from here before I arrived on holiday."
"Ach, solicitors, useless fellows. Look there." Norrie gestured with his pipe. "See those huts these outlanders put up. Those Lowland structures would not stand up against a good rain. They do not understand the sort of house that's needed out here in the Isles. But we told them they were good houses, oh, very good, we said." He chuckled. "May their huts all blow out to sea and carry the engineers with them!"
Meg laughed a little. Beyond the bay, she saw the thatched roofs of several cottages with ropes secured as netting, although they were yet flimsy compared to the solid nets weighted with heavy stones that held down true Hebridean thatching. "I never agreed to any of this work on the island, you know that."
"I know." Norrie clamped his teeth over his pipe stem. "And I agree with you—these lighthouse men should be gone from here. The people wonder what you will do about it."
She had to do something, for their sakes, for that of Caransay and Sgeir Caran, and for the legends. She nodded.
