Page 48 of Taming the Heiress
"Iain was in grave danger, and what you did took strength and courage. The people of Caransay will talk of it for generations." She smiled at him in the darkness. "Even now, while you stand here with me, they are in the next room spinning a tale about Dougal and the shark."
"I would rather stand here with you," he murmured.
"I—" Her eyes gleamed as if with quick tears, and she looked away. "I have had no chance to speak to you alone since that day. I wanted to tell you—I need to tell you... how much it meant to me." Her voice quavered.
He shook his head. "No need to thank me again, my lass."
"But if you had not... we might be... holding a wake tonight," she whispered, as her chin began to wobble.
"Come here," he murmured, taking her shoulders, pulling her toward him. Stiff at first, she melted against him and began to weep quietly. Dougal held her, circling his hand over her back, murmuring soothing noises, while she pressed her face into his shoulder in the darkness.
He sensed that she rarely leaned on anyone for support, or else had not done so for a very-long time. Sighing into the fragrant cloud of her hair, he wrapped her close and felt her arms slip around his waist.
Holding her, Dougal felt good, needed, essential to her. The feeling was new to him. He had faced urgent and dangerous situations before, but saving Iain had brought him an unexpected reward in a sense of true belonging with the islanders, who gave him their respect and seemed ready to cast aside their resentment about the lighthouse.
Comforting Meg, he felt oddly as if he fulfilled more than her momentary need. Holding her approached a destiny, somehow. He belonged here with her.
Most of his adult life, that sense of being needed had been lacking. While putting up lighthouses, he had faced danger in order to eliminate risk for others. His own family had been devastated by a tragedy that he could now help prevent in the future. He was proud to be able to give others safety and security. His skills were needed—but he had never felt necessary to someone for himself alone. He had not even realized it until now, with Meg leaning her head on his chest and weeping.
What if she had needed him all these years—as he had wanted and desired her in dreams and imaginings—yet he had been only a hurtful memory for her? Closing his eyes in anguish, he told himself he should have searched more thoroughly for her. He hoped his apology had not come too late.
Unless he made a difference for someone, for her, he might always feel unsettled and at odds with life, always running toward danger in order to prove himself somehow. Rescuing Iain had opened floodgates of gratitude and goodwill such as he had never felt before, crowned by this moment with Meg in his arms.
Love brimmed in him and spilled over as he held her, and he felt a moment of magnificent, private surrender, as if part of him changed, subtly and surely. He wanted to ease what troubled her now—more than that, he wanted to be with her always.
"Hush, lass," he crooned. "Hush, my dear." Brushing his hand over her hair, he slid his fingers into the wealth of her hair. Meg leaned her head back to gaze up at him, her eyes luminous, awash in tears.
With deliberate gentleness, tipping her chin on his knuckle, he bent and kissed her, a sure brush of the lips, a slight, meaningful tug, another sweet brush. Then she pressed against him, urging them toward a deep meld of mouths and heartbeats. Cradling her face in his hand, he kissed her insistently, sinking his fingers into the golden richness of her hair. He kissed her breathless, until she clung to him and the room seemed to spin.
Through the half-closed door the music and light from the other room faded, but he still heard it and was dimly aware that they were not alone. He had to be alone with her, if only for a little while. Body and soul demanded it.
Tearing away from her, he took her hand, pulling her out of the room and through the outside door of the sleeping room. They stepped into the night, where the sky had finally darkened to starry indigo. He heard the rush of the sea.
Silently, swiftly, he drew her with him toward the bay. She moved beside him, making no sound as they crossed the reedy, kelp-littered sand of the little bay. Her hand felt fervent in his. He drew her down toward the sea, where the water washed, foaming, over the sand. He did not know why he wanted to take her there, but he followed his heart and pulled her along.
Wavelets rinsed over her bare toes, and she splashed a little as she walked beside him. He stopped suddenly, holding her hand, to work off his boots and toss them onto the drier sand, pulling his knitted socks off after them and tossing them, as well. The water felt cool and good over his feet. When Meg laughed, the sound made him feel even finer.
She hastened beside him, walking a little ahead of him, now pulling him along where earlier he had been tugging at her. He let her pull him over a hill and past the small headland that separated the larger bay from this small, private bit of beach in the shadow of the rock wall, with the moon-spangled water beyond.
She turned, walking backwards now, still holding his hand, and he followed her, feeling soft, dry sand beneath his feet. Then he tugged on her hand and pulled her into his arms. Under the moonlight, he touched his mouth to hers, feeling her body curve against him and her arms slide around his waist.
A keen burning slipped through him, and he kissed her in full freedom now, deep and wild and thoroughly, sliding a hand up her back, the other pulling her to him at hip and waist until her abdomen pressed hard against his rigidness. He groaned low and let his hands move upward.
She turned slightly, allowing his fingers to trace over the swell of her left breast, where she tightened like a pearl for him. He felt her small gasp in his mouth, and he touched her other breast, ruching that willing nipple, feeling her sag in his arms a little. She opened her mouth to him, teasing him with her tongue as he teased her breasts, her hands easing over his waist, moving down, then behind him, pulling him against her.
He could not get enough of her. She was like fire to him, like the burn of the whisky in his blood. He wanted her intensely, could not think past that urgency. His pounding heart and throbbing blood dimmed all reason.
Part of him, blood and soul, remembered the night they had shared, and he wanted that back again, not for its incredible physical satisfaction, but for the depth of the passion he had known only in her arms.
He proceeded with care, partaking slowly of the luxury of her, of this, though his heart slammed and his body urged him onward. He framed the deep curves at her waist, and he felt her hands move up his back, shaping, clutching at his shoulders. She gave a breathy moan and curved herself against him.
When he felt that hot, irresistible pulsing of spirit begin between them, when his body throbbed and demanded, he could no longer hold back, and he pulled her tightly against him.
Sinking with her in the sand, he dropped to his knees to face her as she kneeled also, and he pressed her to him in a deep kiss. Then she sank, and he went with her, stretching out with her on a soft cushion of white sand, rolling slightly, so that he lay beside her.
Gathering her to him, he traced his hands over her. Keenly aware of what he wanted, he hoped she wanted it, too. But he could not go on until he knew that she would be his entirely, without hesitation.
Cupping her face in his hand, he pulled his lips from hers and drew her into his embrace, placed his mouth at her ear. "I must know," he whispered, kissing her earlobe, "if you understand what we are about here, if you feel this, too, between us."
