Page 15 of Taming the Heiress
"My God," he breathed. "It was you." Taking her shoulder, he leaned down. Sliding his hand along her cheek, he dipped his head, nuzzled close enough to kiss her, overwhelmed by desire.
She stiffened in his arms, but leaned her head back, closed her eyes. Silent, still, she seemed to wait. Tipping his head, Dougal kissed her mouth gently, felt his soul whirl.
Her lips softened beneath his, her fingers clutched at his shirt. He felt her sway against him, felt a moment of surrender in her. Sliding his hand to the back of her waist, he deepened the kiss.
A force poured through him, relief, joy, shaking free the years of need, of searching for something that he could not define. He had found her. She was real. One loss in his life had been restored to him, and it felt like a miracle.
Her hand came up to his jaw, her breath warmed his mouth. He sensed a hunger in her that matched his own, and he felt her need, as deep and sincere as his. He wanted to hold her, cherish her, heal her reluctance, ease the hurt he had caused years back.
She moaned a breathy protest and seemed to wake from the same heated fog that held him captive. Pushing at his chest, she stepped back. Then her hand lashed upward to crack across his cheek, whip-sharp.
"What the devil—"
She whirled and hurried down the sandy slope, breaking into a run as she headed toward the croft house.
Dougal watched her, palm nursing his stinging cheek. After a moment, he realized that the bright kaleidoscope overhead had faded into a gray dawn.
The wind blew past, clearing his thoughts. She was no illusion, and he was indeed a fool. He had ruined the girl that long-ago night, had shamed her. No matter that she had gone willingly, wildly, into his arms. She had been a virgin that night.
Small wonder she hated him.
Why had she been out there on that wicked night? He had never known, and now it made a difference to him. He wanted to know more, wanted to explain himself, too, and apologize.
He owed her more than that, but did not know how to make it up to her—short of marrying the girl far after the fact. And he doubted she would consider that for a moment. He had not even thought of it himself until this moment.
Watching the moving sea, he called himself every sort of bastard. Margaret MacNeill deserved more than apologies. He had been a heartless cad, a drunken, concussed idiot, thinking himself enchanted. Morally, socially, ethically, he was obligated to make amends and marry the girl.
The prospect gave him greater pause than any risk he had ever faced before.
Chapter 4
"He is still there." Thora opened the door to peer out.
"Grandmother, please, he will see you!" Meg said.
"What harm if he sees me feeding the chickens?" Thora asked, and opened the door to go outside.
Norrie's mother chuckled as she sat on a stool by the hearth, feeding Fergus's daughter, small Anna, who sat on her lap while Elga fed her porridge from a bowl. "That kelpie's come back for you," Mother Elga told Meg. "I knew he would."
Casting a glance at her great-grandmother, Meg crossed the room to glance out. Dawn shone pink and blue-gray over sea and island, and still Dougal Stewart stood on the machair above Camus nan Fraoch, facing the sea.
She thought of another dawn when that same man—and no kelpie, not a bit of it—had waited on the black rock for a boat to fetch him. Meg had seen that, and had kept it to herself these seven years.
Now, her senses spinning from his kisses, she knew this was the very man she had met on Sgeir Caran.
She leaned her forehead against the door. The night of Iain's conception had been wild, desperate, joyful, a night of passion and promise. She had loved him, his hard, warm body pressed to hers—she had burned for him, body and very soul.
Foolish, she had been. So trusting.
Setting a hand to her brow, she wished she had never met him—but for Iain. She had ached at the memories of that night, seethed at the man's betrayal, and treasured her child. And she had wondered what she would do if she ever saw him again.
What had she done? Succumbed to the same irresistible magic as before. Surrendered—and she was furious about it.
Well, it would not happen again.
"Margaret, the bannocks," Mother Elga reminded her.
She turned. "Oh!" Smoke was rising from the iron griddle by the fire. Hastening there, she removed the burned oatcakes from the heat to a plate.
