Taming the Heiress Read online

  "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.

  "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.

  "Your mind is elsewhere." Elga watched her, bouncing the towheaded baby in her lap. Tiny, wizened, bent as a blackthorn stick, the old woman pointed a finger at Meg. "You are thinking of the kelpie-man."

  "I am not." Meg placed bacon slices onto a pan to cook them over the fire. Although she had purchased an iron stove for Thora, her grandmother still did her cooking in the traditional ways over the hearth fire, while the shiny cookstove in the corner provided a convenient shelf for stacking dishes.

  "He has come for you, disguised as a lighthouse man."

  "He always was the lighthouse man, Mother Elga. He was never the each-uisge."

  Elga snorted. "So you think
. But the kelpie is clever."

  Meg sighed, cheeks blushing hot, mouth pinched. She flipped the bacon too quickly and it spattered.

  "Uisht," Elga said disdainfully. "You have forgotten how to cook, fine spoiled lady that you are now in your great castle!"

  "I have not forgotten. But I do not cook or do chores there, only here." She smiled at her great-grandmother. "And this is supposed to be my holiday!"

  "Hah. Listen to me. The each-uisge is real. You do not believe, even though you met him yourself and felt his magic!"

  "There was no magic," she said as she turned the sizzling bacon. But her knees felt weak as she remembered his kisses. Magic—to be resisted with every bit of will in her.

  The door opened and Thora breezed back inside, brown skirts swishing over her plush hips. "He is still out there on the machair, watching the sea." Thora went to the hearth, took a steaming kettle from over the fire, and poured hot water into a teapot to steep. "He is waiting for you."

  "He longs to go back to his home under the waves," Elga said. "A kelpie cannot wear his human guise for very long." She looked hard at Meg. "He must return to the water, and he has come to take you with him."

  "Ridiculous," Meg said. "He is just a man. A stubborn, infuriating man who came to our island to put up a lighthouse on our rock without our permission. He is not a kelpie." Meg transferred the bacon to three plates and spread the hot bannocks with butter after scraping off their charred surfaces.

  "Then why were you kissing him up on the hill, if you are in dispute with him—and if he is not casting his spell on you?" Thora asked. Meg did not answer.

  "He may look human," Elga countered, "but we know better. The kelpie and his ilk have long ruled that reef, and they accept the gift of a bride to fulfill the old bargain to protect our isle. That is you. Where's my tea?" Elga demanded.

  "Here, Mother," Thora said, handing the cup to her.

  Meg placed the breakfast plates on the table and sat down while Thora poured tea into mugs and added sugar and cream for herself and Elga, leaving Meg's plain as she preferred.

  Anna took the spoon and tried to feed herself, while the older women talked. Meg glanced over her shoulder to the small room beyond the main area, where Iain still lay asleep in his box bed. Norrie and Fergus had already gone down to the beach to start the day's fishing, and Fergus had mentioned that he might join Stewart's work crew to earn some extra money.

  None of them needed the money; Norrie and Fergus need not work at all. Meg had offered repeatedly to take care of all of their needs. While they accepted some things from her for the sake of the little ones and the old women, the men would not allow her to provide for all of them.

  They had even refused to move into the great house, with its roomy comfort. Their little croft house had ample room, they insisted, and Norrie and Fergus had pointed out that it was closer to the harbor. The croft house, which had grown over generations, consisted of three spacious buildings attached under one roof, used separately for living, cooking, and sleeping quarters, with a byre for cows, goats, and chickens. They said it was more than enough for them.

  Meg had at least insisted that the smaller house be refurbished and she had sent them new furnishings and had purchased Norrie a new boat and fishing nets. She wanted her kin, and all her tenants, to have whatever they needed. But the islanders rarely asked anything from her.

  "Did you tell Mr. Stewart that you wanted him to leave Caransay?" Thora asked.

  "I did. But he will stay nonetheless, and his crew with him," Meg answered.

  "Ach," Elga said. "Water horses, the lot of them." She nibbled on bacon. "Especially that Stewart. A prince of the sea. He prances about in the waves by night."

  "I saw him outside just now. He was not prancing," Meg said.

  "Why do you think he wants to build his tower on the great rock? It has belonged to the water horses since the time of the mists, when the first each-uisge came out of the sea and took the form of a beautiful man and then fought Fhionn MacCumhaill. He made a bargain with Fhionn that he would keep the rock and let the people have the island, but he must have a bride from Caransay every one hundred years."

  "Stories," Meg said. "Just stories."

  "Easy to say, now that you are a fine lady with riches, a castle, and servants," Elga said. "Years ago, when your heart was pure and your life was simple, you knew the truth."

  "Does this Stewart know you? Who you are?" Thora asked.

  "His bride? Of course," Elga insisted.

  "He recognized her," Thora said. "I was at the harbor yesterday—I saw it in his eyes when he looked at Margaret."

  Meg felt her cheeks grow hot. "He knows nothing."

  "He has come for his son," Elga said.

  "Hush!" Meg glanced at the door of the sleeping room, where Iain dozed. "He knows nothing of my son. He does not even know that I am Lady Strathlin."

  "Good," Thora said. "Keep that from him for now."

  "I intend to tell him," Meg said stiffly. "When the time is right, I will tell him."

  "I looked into the fire and I knew he is the one," Elga said.

  "That he is the kelpie? Or the engineer who has made my life miserable?" Meg asked bitterly.

  "The one who is meant for you," Elga replied.

  Meg took a sip of tea and did not answer.

  "Uisht, Mother," Thora said. "It is bad luck to talk so much of the kelpie. You must not say it so often."

  "Why? He's come back for his bride," Elga insisted. "He's part of our family now."

  "Oh, do stop," Meg said, and groaned.

  "A prince of the deep, building a tower on his rock for his bride, but guised as a working man," Elga intoned, nodding.

  Meg sighed and leaned her chin on her fist. Through the window, the early sky lightened to blue.

  Since childhood, she had loved and respected her great-grandmother, and had listened to Elga's endless stories of ancient heroes, gods, and goddesses, and had given credence to Elga's divinations. The island's oldest inhabitant, Elga was also its mystic and its bard, respected by all—and perhaps indulged, Meg thought, as she became more eccentric and stubborn with age. Elga clung to the old ways, the old legends and superstitions, and she still practiced spells and charms as she had always done.

  Mother Elga lived in a medieval world, with a medieval mind. The rest of the world had moved on, yet she was content in her ways and certain they were right.

  Yet Meg felt removed from the world of her childhood at times. Years on the mainland had changed her—she had a practical, more modern bent, and knowing both the mainland world and the older island ways, she understood both, saw the benefits of both. Time rolled slow in the Hebrides, and on Caransay, tradition, routine, and simplicity ruled.

  Meg had acquired Caransay's lease and had done all that she could for the islanders, but she knew that Elga would always live by the old ways, and so would Thora. Norrie's wife was kind but meek, and Mother Elga dominated the family with her old-fashioned beliefs.

  Meg had not only outgrown the old ways, she had been deeply hurt by complying with them.

  "Mark me, he is the one," Elga said. "You made a bargain and a binding promise with the kelpie, girl, and bore his child. Now you must pay your agreement."

  "I have paid more than anyone can know," Meg said quietly. She turned away, caught her breath against tears.

  "It was our bargain as much as hers," Thora said. "What she did, Margaret did for us, and everyone on this island. Our homes and our livelihoods are safe. We have all that we could ever want, thanks to her generosity."

  "That fortune of gold and riches came to her through the kelpie," Elga said. "Just as much as that sweet child did."

  "It came to me through my maternal grandfather's will."

  "And never would have come to you at all if his first two heirs had lived," Elga said. "The old man died and left his fortune to his only granddaughter, an island girl. No one expected it. All of it happened within a few weeks of your marriage t
o the kelpie. He made that magic happen."

  "No water-horse could have arranged that," Meg said, letting her impatience slip for a moment. "There is no magic. And he is not my husband!"

  "You did not resist him that night, girl," Elga said.

  Feeling herself blush, Meg sipped her tea and set down the cup with a chinking sound.

  "Once a woman is loved by the kelpie, he will haunt her heart forever," Elga said.

  "Mr. Stewart is not my husband," Meg insisted.

  "One night with him made you his bride," Thora said. "You had his child. Such marriages are still made in Scotland. It is an old custom but still followed. And rightly so—he should marry you if he gave you a child."

  "Go to him," Elga said. "Riches and happiness await. I've seen it in the fire and in the water. Your marriage will—"

  "Enough!" Meg burst out. She could not bear the thought of a marriage to the low cad who had tricked her that night. "Enough of this talk of kelpies. He is just a man, and not one we want in this family. Leave it be!" She would spare her grandmothers the truth of what he had done. "I'm going up to the Great House," she said, standing. "I have correspondence to review with Mrs. Berry. Send Iain up to the house after he has had his breakfast. He is to have lessons with Mrs. Berry in reading and mathematics today. And tell him that if the weather holds, we will take him to the beach to play."

  "We will come, too," Thora said. "Mrs. Berry is a nice woman. And small Anna loves to play in the sand."

  "Small Anna likes to eat sand," Mother Elga grumbled.

  "Good, come to the beach later," Meg said. She grabbed her shawl and went to the door.

  "We must have a great ceilidh to celebrate when she finally accepts the truth," Elga said, leaning toward Thora.

  "He's so handsome," Thora said. "What woman could resist a man like Stewart?"

  Sighing, Meg left. Out on the machair, she saw that Dougal Stewart had gone, and the sun was bright over the sea.

  * * *

  His shelter was snug and cozy, the walls plastered thick to cut the wind and muffle the sound of rain. Barely ten paces side to side, the single room was warmed on cool nights by a coal brazier, and cozy during the days when the sun beat on the thick thatch roof. The small windows let in sea breezes—and sometimes rain and blown sand if Dougal forgot to close the shutters tight.