Page 34 of Taming the Heiress
"And Dougal gets what he wants," Alan drawled.
"Does he, indeed?" Meg said, looking at him.
Dougal inclined his head toward her. "He does."
Her cheeks burned so pink that he wondered if it was windburn or sunburn, or the same turbulence of emotion that churned within him. But he reminded himself, the woman did not even like him, and with good reason. The challenge of earning her respect, the need for it, made him more determined than ever. He owed her a considerable debt, and he meant to pay it somehow.
This time, he thought, he would not shame her, as he had unwittingly done before. This time, he would woo her and win her. This time—
A feeling rang inside him like a bell, chiming deep. He knew, suddenly, what he wanted. Gazing at the bright, golden girl beside him, seeing her turn her exquisite aqua eyes up toward him, he knew.
In a secret place in his heart, he had loved her for years, believing she was only a dream. But she was real, made of flesh and blood and a tender heart. He felt a hardening of will and spirit. The intensity of the feeling quaked through him.
He had hurt her in the past, and now, in the present, his lighthouse threatened what she held dear. Certainly, he at least owed her an offer of marriage as recompense for his behavior years ago. He had always avoided such issues before, with other women, preferring the freedom and exhilirating danger of his work to domestic quietude.
Yet as he stood beside her in the damp, salty air, with the seabirds calling overhead and the diamond glint of the ocean in his eyes, he suddenly knew that he wanted to marry Margaret MacNeill.
Deeply wanted it, fiercely, as if the desire had been there all along, formed over years out of dreams and longing, waiting only for the revelation of her existence.
The wind was quiet, the sea mirror calm, yet he felt as if a gale had just knocked him to his knees.
* * *
Meg sat alone on the far side of the rock, making small sketches in her leather journal. Dougal and Alan had gone to tend to some work, and Norrie was talking with Fergus MacNeill and a few other Caransay men who had joined Dougal's crew. The need was great on Sgeir Caran not only for laborers, but for local men who knew the reef and the Isles and who understood the moods of the sea and the weather.
She sketched quickly, deftly, watching a pair of gannets return again and again to a nest perched on a ledge near the stack rock. The hushed washing of the water over the rocks below was a peaceful, lulling sound.
Turning the page, she began another sketch, but paused, glancing around, unable to ignore where she sat. The little cave they had shared was just beyond a cluster of rocks.
A shiver went through her, a deep longing, an ache so fierce it made her head spin. She moaned softly and sank her face into her hands.
"Meg?" He was there beside her suddenly, though she had not heard him approach. "Miss MacNeill—are you well? Is the sun too strong?"
She looked up. "I'm perfectly fine," she said tersely. "Is it time to go? Does my grandfather want me to come back?"
"Not yet. Norrie is having a fine time with his friends from Caransay. The men are taking luncheon now, and Norrie saw you come this way. We wondered if you might be hungry, and I offered to ask. Nothing fancy—just bannocks, cheese, and meat pies prepared by our cook back at the barracks on Caransay. But there's plenty to share."
She shook her head. "Thank you. I'm not really hungry."
"Well, then." He did not leave, but remained standing a little behind her. "I see you found some birds to draw in your journal, after all. They are not all gone, then."
"Yet," she said pointedly, and she closed the book, tucking it and the pencil into her pocket. As she got to her feet, Dougal offered his hand in assistance.
Hesitating, she took it, aware of a thrill of comfort upon touching him. She released his fingers as soon as she stood.
"Mr. Stewart, let me show you something. Come this way."
Runnels of water over ages had worn an inclined pathway in the stone, and Meg took the slope upward, Dougal following, their steps careful on the damp rock.
To one side was the entrance of their little cave, and he glanced at it, tilting his head in question, clearly perplexed and a little startled. Silently Meg turned to face the sea.
She pointed below where they stood. On innumerable ledges and protrusions in the rock, hundreds of birds clustered. The closest birds to them were white with black markings.
"Gannets?" he asked.
She nodded. "They come here every year to nest. In spring, they gather by the thousands to raise their young and to seek shelter from storms. Shearwaters also nest on Sgeir Caran, and guillemots, and a few shags. Over there, see that one on its nest? The dark diamond-patterned feathering gleams in the sunlight. Sometimes we see the shy little petrels that skim close to the water. They make their nests beneath overhanging rocks—"
"Where they cannot be seen," he said quietly. "I know."
