Page 11 of Taming the Heiress
"Your kelpie is no fellow to cross," Dougal said.
"It is nothing to laugh at," Norrie's granddaughter said.
"We have a tradition on this island to make sure theeach-uisgeis happy," Norrie said.
"If I were a kelpie, I'd want oatcakes and whisky and all the bonny human lassies I could get," Alan said.
Norrie chuckled, then stopped when he saw his granddaughter scowling at him.
"We have honored these traditions for centuries," she snapped, "even if some do not."
"I beg your pardon, Miss MacNeill." Dougal inclined his head. He knew that the Hebridean day relied on superstitions, and on traditions and a belief in magic that created a sense of security and power in what could be a harsh and unpredictable place. He heard Alan murmur an apology too, while the girl looked sternly from one to the other.
"Stewart, we have heard about your troubles with the lady," Norrie MacNeill said then.
"Lady Strathlin? Aye, some troubles. I understand that she keeps a holiday home on this island. Might she come to Caransay soon? I would like to meet with the baroness and show her the work we are doing."
Awkward silence followed as the old man dragged slowly on his pipe and clicked it between his teeth, and the girl turned to gaze out to sea.
"I am thinking the lady is not here," Norrie said.
"If she does come here, I would like to meet with her."
"When she comes here, she stays at the Great House and sometimes sees no one."
"The Great House?" Dougal asked. The girl was silent, offering nothing, tipping her head under her plaid. But he felt her gaze, steady and keen, and not especially favorable.
"Clachan Mor is her manor house on the other side of the island," Norrie replied. "It is the biggest house on Caransay. So if the lady comes out here," Norrie said, watching the smoke curl up from his pipe, "you could send her a note."
"I prefer to meet with her."
"She does not like visitors." Norrie cast him a sharp glance. "I am thinking you do not have her permission to use the beach and harbor. But you go ahead with the work." He scowled.
"I had no choice, sir," Dougal said, surprised by the urge he felt to earn the old man's approval.
"Well, the lady does not like strangers on Caransay, but if we see her we will tell her you are here." Norrie pointed with his pipe toward the rock in the distance. "To please the lady, find another rock for your light. She wishes to protect the privacy of the island. "
"And the location is dangerous," Margaret MacNeill said then. "There are wild storms and high waves out there."
"I know, Miss MacNeill," Dougal answered quietly, looking down at her. "I know that very well."
Her aqua-blue gaze caught his then, and he saw a flash of awareness there. And anger. Then she hastily looked away.
Oh aye,he thought.You are the one.
* * *
Unable to sleep, Dougal left his barracks hut and walked over the machair in the darkness, the wildflower meadow that stretched across the island near the dunes. Overhead, the sky had finally gone to indigo—Hebridean summer skies could hold a lavender evening light until an hour or so before dawn—and the moon was high and pale, reflected in ripples on the sea.
He strolled deep in thought, considering a stubborn engineering problem. Rectangular stone blocks, each weighing several tons, had to be precisely trimmed to fit the circular foundation cavity. He had drawn diagrams and devised measurements, yet each block had to be hand shaped in situ to ensure the tightest fit between the stones. His masons were reliable, but the figures he gave them, and his design, must be accurate. A long walk often helped him think it through.
He paused to gaze out over the sea, his mind restless as the waves—not because he puzzled over granite blocks but because Margaret MacNeill had invaded his dreams, and that was why he had not slept well, why he had woken. In his dream, she had slipped into his arms, her lips comforting, her embrace luscious, turning hot and passionate. She whispered that she forgave him, and asked his forgiveness.My dear, it was not you did the wrong. My dearest girl....
A most disturbing fantasy. He had woken in warm sweat with a wrench of longing, aroused and quickly furious with himself. And that was why he was walking the machair, trying to shake off the haunting power of the dream.
Waves poured to the shore as he watched, rolling, plunging, streaming in a seductive rhythm. Moonlight gleamed pale through arches of water, their lacy curls looking much like the proud heads and breasts of white stallions.
There are the water horses of Sgeir Caran,he thought.
