Page 14 of Taming the Heiress
"Forgive me. On the beach, I saw you with a man and a small boy. I assumed they were your husband and son."
"You saw my cousin Fergus MacNeill and... small Iain."
He nodded, somehow relieved that she was not married. Her name had given him no clue, since Scotswomen often kept their maiden names after marriage. And since Norrie had fetched her from Mull, Dougal assumed she lived there, but she must have a home along the coast in Ardnamurchan or Moidart.
"Where is Clachan Mor, the baroness's estate?" he asked.
"Estate? Just a manor house. That way." She pointed. "The Great House sits at the foot of those hills."
He saw it then, a stone manor house off in the distance, a box shape with a flat facade and a several windows nestled near a dark hill. A sandy peninsula stretched from there to the water.
"Do you know when the baroness might come here again? Are you privy to her plans?"
"Sometimes." Her eyes sparkled, and he felt suddenly that she knew more than she revealed. "But she values her privacy on Caransay and conducts no business when she is here. It is a holiday home for her. A place of respite and rest."
"She does keep to herself, your baroness. I cannot gain any time with her, despite our correspondence."
"I have heard that your exchanges are not amiable."
"Sometimes. Well, if I cannot meet her here, perhaps you will convey a message to her from me. Though I wager Lady Strathlin is heartily sick of messages from me," he added wryly.
She was looking up. The soft light caught the curve of her cheek, and her eyes grew wide.
"Oh, look!" she cried, pointing out to sea. Dougal turned.
A pale green arc bloomed on the horizon and expanded, exploding in sudden swaths of light and color. Pink and green swirled overhead, flinging out like silken veils. Dougal watched, entranced. Without thinking, he lifted a hand to take her elbow again, a gentlemanly gesture, yet he wanted simply to touch her, to watch the miraculous flare in the sky with her.
"So beautiful," she breathed.
"Aye," he agreed. "The aurora borealis."
"The Merry Men, we call the northern lights here."
He smiled. "In the old days, I hear, the lights were believed to be gigantic supernatural warriors—especially when the sky flowed red as if from blood." He had read it somewhere.
"When I was a child, I thought they were angels in heaven," she mused, watching the sinuous dance of colored lights.
"I have seen them before," he said, "but never so lovely."
She nodded, smiling. Lambent color suffused her, gave her a graceful glow. Dougal wanted suddenly to glide his fingertips over her creamy skin, through her silken curls. She felt so familiar and dear, yet a stranger, cool, distant.
"The colors are pale this time," she said. "They are often quite brilliant when the Merry Men go dancing."
"The sky is not dark. Wait until fall or winter."
"Will you still be on Caransay then?" she asked.
"Perhaps. If so, come back—we will walk out to look for the lights then, when it is dark and the colors brilliant."
She stared up at the magical glow, and Dougal thought, then, of the rainy shadow of a cave and the pink dawn light that had glowed over this girl's face. He remembered, too, how she had felt, drenched and shivering, in his arms. His body pulsed.
He stepped closer, motion following thought, and she tilted her head to look at him. "Tell me," he said gruffly, "that we have met before."
"I—" She paused, would not meet his eyes.
"Tell me," he insisted. "Were you there that night, on the rock? Or did I dream it?"
He saw the flash of understanding in her eyes. She only watched the sky, but her silence seemed a clear admission.
