Page 80 of Taming the Heiress
"So I thought you were the horrid man who had used me cruelly on the rock, and I did not want... anyone to know. And I did not want you to use me again... like that."
"I never did." He leaned down."Never."
"I know that now. Not then."
"Yet once you realized that I was not the ogre you thought me to be... you still kept the truth from me."
"What could I do? You despised the baroness. You did not trust me... as Lady Strathlin. If you learned who I was, you would not... I feared you would not... love me," she said, and she began to cry in great, gulping sobs, salt tears and the scent of roses and his broad, black, turned figure, cold and unrelenting.
"I always loved you," he murmured without moving.
"And I love you," she whispered, starting to sob again, aching for the feel of his arms. "I do love you."
He did not answer, stood so long she reached out to touch his arm. "And if I were to ask you again to marry me—what would you say?"
She caught her breath. She must tell him about Iain before anything else transpired.
And then she remembered that Frederick knew about Iain.
Even if she married Dougal, even though Iain was their son, Matheson knew of his illegitimate birth. He would spread that word. He would find proof in the records of the island kirk, even though the minister had promised secrecy. Frederick would see that the baroness was thoroughly ruined.
That damage would affect Dougal as well.
"I will give you an answer... later," she said in a small voice. "Let me think on it. I beg you."
"Too much in the balance, is there, madam?" he asked. He glanced down at her over his shoulder. "We cannot let an untitled gentleman come too close to the accounts, can we? Or is it that you have already promised yourself to Sir Frederick? Perhaps you did not want to be saved from your wee garden interlude. I should not have interfered."
Murmuring protest, she reached out to him, but he walked away. With a fast, angry stride, he left the conservatory and crossed through the drawing room to the front door, where she heard the butler inform him that a handsome cab was ready and waiting to take him home.
Meg stood in the darkness for a long time. She thought she would never inhale the fragrance of roses and gardenias again without feeling her heart break.
* * *
Perhaps he should not have come.
Hat in hand, Dougal stood in the front entryway of Strathlin Castle after being admitted inside by a surly butler who had hastened off to deliver the message to Lady Strathlin. Several days had passed since the soiree on Charlotte Square, days when Dougal determined he should never see Meg MacNeill—Lady Strathlin—again. But he had one matter to attend to before he could try to endure that painful sentence.
Yet each time he had picked up her leather journal and the publisher's cheque to send them to her, his hand stayed. Finally he had decided to bring it and leave it for her. But the old butler had tottered off before Dougal could voice his intentions.
Now he turned slowly, gazing at red mahogany paneling on walls that soared to ornately carved ceiling beams at an impossible height; crystal chandeliers in full gas flare, though it was yet daylight; polished carved furnishings set on plush Turkish carpets; and a march of stately portraits that lined the upper gallery above the grand staircase that divided the front hall.
And that, he told himself, was just the foyer. Strathlin Castle was a luxurious and stately home in grand Scottish baronial style, quite possibly the work of David Burn—he had a good understanding of architectural style and appreciation for its details, which had helped him attain a certain elegance in his own lighthouse designs.
Turning, strolling, sitting for a moment on a tapestried bench and standing again, he contemplated a grouping of oil paintings of lush seascapes filled with wild, frothing waves and atmospheric light. He paced a path on a thick Oriental carpet and wiggled his hat in his hand.
Although he admired elegant simplicity and particularly liked homes that were plush and cozy as well as aesthetically beautiful, he realized that he could never give Meg MacNeill the sort of home she was accustomed to having. His engineer's salary would never support a place like this, nor would the respectable nest egg that he had inherited at a young age, which included his own manse. He visited Kinnaird House too seldom in his wandering, hectic life, and left its primary upkeep to his elder sister, Ellen, and her husband, Patrick.
Perhaps, he told himself, he ought to leave now, walk down to the stables and fetch the horse he had hired for the long ride from Edinburgh. He had no real reason to stay.
"Mr. Stewart?"
He turned. A lovely young woman came toward him, slim and pale blond with vivid blue eyes, dressed in a high-necked black gown that subdued her delicate summery coloring. She smiled.
"I am Mrs. Shaw, Lady Strathlin's companion," she said, extending her hand. "We met at Lady Strathlin's soiree."
"Aye, of course. I remember. How nice to see you again."
"May I be of some service to you, sir? MacFie said you did not wish to disturb Lady Strathlin, but you had a message for her."
