by Susan King
Taming The Heiress
The Scottish Lairds Series
Book One
by
Susan King
National Bestselling Author
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ISBN: 978-1-61417-759-3
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Dedication
To David, for his endless patience, with love
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to many friends for support and some valuable plotstorming—especially to Mary Jo Putney, Patricia Rice, Pat Gagne, Jaclyn Reding, and Julie Booth. I'm very grateful to Victorian costume expert Meredith Bean McMath for dressing my characters from the inside out, and for suggesting that gorgeous Worth gown. Thanks are due also to ex-diving instructor and dear friend Linda Lawhorne for inspiring the diving scenes. And lastly, thanks go to Matt Jachowski—who knows why.
Prologue
Scotland, the Inner Hebrides Summer, 1850
He washed out of a cold sea in darkness, finding a desperate grip on a huge rock that soared upward through crashing waves. As he lay motionless on the bulwark of rough stone, the water swept over him, withdrew, and surged high again.
Lungs burning, he crawled higher on the sloping rock and collapsed, shivering and half-naked. Peering through darkness and lashing rain, he gradually recognized the unique profile of his sanctuary: Sgeir Caran, the largest rock in the notorious Caran Reef that lay west of the Inner Hebridean islands. The half-mile crescent of black basalt rocks, many of them entirely submerged, formed a wicked lure of eddies and whirlpools, trapping countless boats and ships over the centuries. He had found safety in an unlikely place.
For now, enough to lie on the still, solid breast of the rock; enough just to breathe. He knew this reef, had studied and measured its jagged points in his capacity as a lighthouse engineer, listed the ships wrecked upon these rocks, numbered the lives lost. Some of those names were known to him—his own kin.
This reef had taken his parents, wrecking and sinking their ship as they sailed on a holiday journey, having left their thirteen-year-old son and his sisters in the care of a relative. The devastating loss had changed the course of his life, altering him heart and soul. Now he wondered if he was destined to join his parents here.
Perhaps he was already dead, and with his usual obstinacy had simply not recognized it yet. He lowered his head, closed his eyes, clung to the rock.
Pelting rain brought him back to awareness, confirming that he was indeed alive. The gale raged on, black storm clouds smothering the half-light of the Hebridean night. Daylight had been a warm glow when he sailed out, with no hint of a storm.
He had been a fool to come out alone, sodden drunk, on a dare. But Dougal Robertson Stewart, heir to the estates of Kinnaird and Balmossie, never turned down a challenge or quailed at danger. He welcomed risk—perhaps he ought to reconsider that, he thought wryly, as he crawled up the black, slippery incline of the rock.
A high, fierce wave rose and crashed over him as he scuttled toward the upper plateau of black basalt. Two hundred feet away, a stack rock soared in an eerie natural tower. Caves permeated the far end of Sgeir Caran, he knew, but he was too exhausted to seek them out yet. He lay, summoning strength while he watched the writhing, turbulent sea and felt the sting of rain on his bare back.
They had vanished, the beautiful ones who had carried him here through the storm. Graceful yet frightening, the creatures had appeared as he was drowning in the deep. They had drawn him onto their backs and galloped forward with the waves, their manes pale froth, their hooves whipping the sea to wildness.
Sea kelpies, the legendary water horses who raced through the foam—he had never believed such nonsense, but tonight he had seen them, had twisted his fingers in their wet, white manes and placed his feet on their magnificent backs while they carried him forward like the steeds of Neptune.
Surely he had dreamed it.
My God, he thought, drunk indeed, and in a sorry state.
Concussed too, for he had taken a blow to the head when his borrowed fishing boat had overturned in a high swell brought on by the sudden storm. Fighting to stay conscious, caught in the waves, he had clung to the boat's underplanking. When his heavy coat and wet clothing dragged him under, he had stripped free of most of it to save himself. The sinking boat sucked him downward—and then the legion of pale horses had appeared to sweep him onto the shoulder of the great rock.
As he got to his feet, an arching wave caught him, and though he reached out for a rocky handhold, the water's force knocked his head against the rock. He sank into a black void.
Opening his eyes—how long had passed?—he saw a pair of perfect bare feet.
Pale and delicate, mere inches from his face, the small toes and slender ankles showed beneath the hem of a white gown. Rain splashed all around her, soaking her garment.
A sea fairy, Dougal thought dimly. Kelpies and sea fairies, and he lost to another realm entirely.
She sank to her knees, a sweet blur of a face above her simple gown. Wet hair spilled down in tendrils. A plaid shawl was draped over her shoulders, and she slipped it off to wrap it around him. Its thickness felt divine.
He tried to thank her, but his hoarse voice failed.
"Ach Dhia, you are alive, and come from the sea," she said, her voice soft and calm. "I have been waiting for you."
Gaelic. He understood some, spoke only a little. Waited, is that what she had said—for him?
"You are cold, shivering—not used to human form." She tucked the shawl higher. "I have been waiting here to keep the ancient promise. Perhaps you are a king in your world, but you need care in ours."
Ancient promise? He stared at her. "I am out of the sea," he said in awkward Gaelic. His mind felt muddled. Who was she, he wondered—where was he, what had happened? "I—"
"Hush you." Taking his arm, she helped him to rise on shaky legs, tucking her shoulder to let him lean on her as they stepped forward. She might look elfin, but she had solid strength. They set out over the rock, heads bent against the winds, the blanket whipping about them.
Was she shipwrecked, too, in this wild place? Or had he entered some legendary sea-realm from which he might never return? Whoever—whatever—she was, she seemed magical, a fey creature made of gossamer and seafoam on this wicked rock.
He knew that Hebridean islanders believed the ocean was inhabited by kelpies, selkies, mermaids, sea fairies, blue men, a
nd more. Since he might have encountered water horses himself that night, it was easy to believe this girl was a sea fairy. Too easy. His head ached so that nothing seemed real.
Wind and rain pelted them and he gathered her close under his arm, shielding her as waves slammed the dark, wet rock. The girl clung to him, her arms around his waist in the lashing rain.
Either he was stranded half-naked on this rock with a fairy or he was dreaming—and he hoped he would soon wake up, having slept off the effects of Mrs. MacDonald's whisky, consumed during Mr. MacDonald's wake.
Now he recalled a night of drinking, mourning, music, and fond stories of the deceased. He had tossed back too many drams out of politeness and camaraderie—it had been a fine wake for a good man. When friends had dared him and another fellow to row around the reef in the dark—and brave the kelpies of the sea—Dougal had taken the challenge. When the other man had paused to retch over the side of his boat, Dougal had rowed onward, straight into the mouth of the gale that suddenly opened.
Now the girl cried out as the wind whipped hard, and Dougal held her tightly, peering through the haze of rain. He was determined not to die here on this rock, and he would make sure that this lovely girl—fairy or not—would survive too.
Seeing the dark crease of a cave entrance, he tugged the girl toward it, sweeping her into his arms when she stumbled, carrying her inside the rocky crevice. The niche was just large enough for them to huddle together. He set her on her feet and they stood close together, watching the storm's fury.
Fierce rain and wind broke stones loose from a nearby slope to send them skating into the wild sea. Waves crashed over rock, drenching the plateau, sliding away, arching upward again. Water washed into the little cave, swirling around their ankles.
Shielding the girl from the biting spray and the wind, Dougal was aware that he was half nude and she nearly so as they pressed tightly together, her body curving against his, generating a little blessed heat between them. After a moment she relaxed against him, and he felt their breaths fall into a rhythm, felt her calm and grow lush and warm in his arms.
Desire, raw and sudden, flamed through him. The girl felt it too, pressing closer, her arms around his neck. Their soaked, light clothing was no barrier, her breasts soft against his chest, her hip fitting his hand as she seemed to meld into him.
A tilted cheek, the nudge of a chin, then their lips touched, caressed. Her mouth was tender and willing, his exploring. Thunder boomed, the sea slammed, and the kiss grew wild, deep and desperate. New kisses followed like rushing waves. Urgency blazed through him as he slanted his mouth over hers, wove his fingers through her damp hair, tilted her head. Her lips were fervent beneath his, her passion so willing that it seared through him like a whisky brose, all cream and fire.
The storm faded from his awareness—all he felt was this exquisiteness, this passion and salvation offered at the gates of hell. He drew her tightly into his arms, tenderly kissing, finding her mouth to be as inquisitive as his. Her small waist, the flare of her hips, made his heart pound. Some dreamlike haze told him he should stop—he drew back.
But she took his face in her hands and flattened her belly against the hard, urgent core of him, and her hands moved over him with genuine need matching his own. Rain pummeled the cave entrance and he drew her further into shelter, leaning his back against slick rock, the plaid shawl a damp curtain around them. She leaned against him, her kiss feverish and consuming.
Lightning crashed, rain sheeted, stones skittered—the very rock shivered underfoot. She was his refuge from fear and death, the tender sanctuary of her embrace gave him life, made him feel invincible. She seemed to draw strength from it too.
Sweeping his hands down her back, he snugged her against him, let her know—how could she not?—what he burned for now, the desire and the storm that was taking what was left of his reason. He cupped her breast, stroked, and the girl, the fey creature moaned breathlessly, urging him, arching against him as he slid fingers downward, beneath her damp garment to find the heat of her as she surged against him, graceful as the sea.
Lightning flared and the girl whimpered in his arms, arched and opened for him, wild, luscious, the sweetest rescue he could have. He lifted her and she spread for him—he sank into her and she shuddered with him as he leaned his back against the wall, heart slamming, holding her, breath ragged.
As she kissed him, he tasted salt tears or the sea.
He felt an exquisite power, two souls raw with fear, desperate for solace. Cradling her head, he kissed her brow. She felt fragile; he felt filled with regret.
"I am sorry," he said in English. He could not find the Gaelic. She only pressed closer as the storm continued.
I am dreaming, he thought. Surely I am dreaming.
* * *
You know what you must do.
Margaret MacNeill leaned her back against the stone of the cave and looked out. Veils of fog obscured the sea and the long reef, but she saw that dawn approached. Rough greenish waves frothed over the edge of the great rock. Through the mist, she could not see the Isle of Caransay, her home, but she knew it lay a mile east of Sgeir Caran.
She glanced at the man who lay sleeping in the shallow cave beside her. All the while, her fingers worked the red thread she had plucked from the plaid that covered him.
You know what you must do, her great-grandmother had said. Well, and so it was done.
She wove the little thread with golden hairs from her head, deep brown from his. She had dreaded staying alone one night on Sgeir Caran, as island tradition demanded of her. Expecting a lonely, fearful night, she had never imagined that a legend would spring to life.
The legend snored as he slept, swathed in her plaid. His dark head and a broad shoulder were visible. Shivering with the memory of secret, exciting touches and soul-stirring kisses, Meg smiled to herself.
Deftly she plaited the threads and the hairs into a love knot, then used the gold and brown strands to create two tiny braids that she tied into two circlets. Sliding one on her finger, she crawled toward the sleeping man and slid the second one onto his long ring finger.
There. She had done as Mother Elga had instructed. The marriage was fixed. Touching his head for a moment, she sat back.
If the kelpie appears to you when you wait on the great rock, her great-grandmother had said, you must offer to ease his loneliness, for such is the ancient agreement. Every hundred years, the lord of the deep claims a maiden from Caransay for his bride. In return, he will protect the island. If the maiden bears his child, he will bestow great favor and fortune on the islanders. And we need his help now more than ever.
Meg had been educated in the island village and later on the mainland too, so she felt part of the modern world that existed beyond their remote little island—and she had dismissed the old beliefs as she grew to womanhood. But Great-grandmother Elga and Grandmother Thora accepted the old legends as absolute truths. The tradition of the kelpie of Sgeir Caran, unique to Caransay, was treasured on their island.
So she had agreed to sit one night on the rock, certain that nothing would happen to her but a little drenching in the rain. But she had to agree—the islanders faced broad eviction by an owner who preferred sheep and money to tenants. Aware of the threat, Meg accepted. A night on Sgeir Caran would do no harm.
She had never counted on a gale—or a kelpie. Bursting from the sea like a muscled arrow, the man had appeared on the rock while the storm that birthed him raged on. He was hard and beautiful and so very real. She was not frightened, feeling surprising compassion instead—he seemed in need of help.
He had smiled, and her heart had melted, and his arms and his kisses whirled her helpless into his spell. She lingered still.
The strange, luscious fog of the potion Elga had given her of whisky and herbs lingered, too. The drink had fired her blood so that she had behaved shockingly, with abandon and passion, swept up in a whirlwind of powerful need.
Willingly, madly, she had cr
aved what she had done with the man—fulfilling an ancient bargain she did not even believe in during the daylight. The warmth of his arms had been magic.
She ducked her head in hot shame. What had happened? Was he just a man—or were her grandmothers right after all? What had happened between them had been extraordinary.
She glanced toward him, yearning, yet knew she must leave soon, vanish to home, or lose herself to him forever. If he touched her again, she could not answer for herself. Even if he was legend, she would have followed him down to the deepest part of the sea.
She rubbed her eyes, feeling the strong whisky potion still making her mind, and her will, muzzy. She was not suggestible and submissive by nature. What was in those herbs?
He sighed, stretched, and the plaid fell away. In the light before dawn Meg saw him clearly—a long, lean, tight-muscled and beautiful man. His features had the uncommon symmetry of real beauty, and his hair was deep brown, brows black, whiskers a dark smudge on his jaw, his chest and flat belly taut and dusted with dark hair, his nestled sex—the sight made her blush as she remembered what she had allowed and wanted of him last night.
His eyes fluttered open. Sea green. A legend's eyes.
She let out a breath as he slept again.
In the silvery dawn, she gazed at him, her husband by right of an ancient agreement. He had roused her with some kind of magic. She would never forget him—but she must go.
A small and reasonable voice told her that he was a real man, no legend, and she wondered what he was doing here. Yet her grandmothers would insist that he was the each-uisge himself, the sea kelpie, the most powerful of magical water creatures.
He stretched, yawned. Moving quickly, Meg slipped out of the cave and ran barefoot over the rocky plateau while the dawn brightened.
At the low end of the rock, a boat waited, oared by her grandfather. Thora, his wife, was with him. Meg ran.
Norrie handed her in and pulled the boat quickly away, and Thora threw a plaid around Meg's shoulders. The fishing boat plowed through low, restless waves and fog toward Caransay.
