Taming the Heiress

by Susan King

  Meg looked behind her. The man stood in the cave entrance, draped in her plaid, gazing toward the open sea. He did not look in their direction as the boat slipped eastward.

  "He's there. Look," Thora breathed.

  "Huh," Norrie grunted, rowing.

  Meg felt a tug in her heart. She could not leave him on the rock. He was not a kelpie, but a man, and she had stranded him. Turning to tell her grandfather to go back, she glanced into the distance—and saw a boat gliding through the mist from the western side of the rock. Two men were in the fishing vessel.

  Her lover ran down the slope, waving to the approaching boat. He grabbed a rope the men tossed, and soon he was climbing in, greeted by the men.

  Fog slid over the sea, and the boat vanished from sight.

  Meg turned back. Her grandparents had not seen the other boat. She said nothing. Inside, she felt ill and ashamed. She had not lain with the great kelpie, but with a man. Just a man.

  Had word gotten that a maiden would be sent to Caransay that night because of the old legend? Had the man come to the rock on a drunken bet? Even now he was probably gleefully detailing his adventure to his friends.

  Gasping, she bowed her head.

  Thora hugged her. "So you met the great kelpie, and I am sure he was tender with you in his magic," she whispered. "The herbal potion helped make you willing. If a child comes of it, we will give it a loving home—and the kelpie will protect Caransay from harm, blessing our isle with good fortune for the sake of his wee son."

  Oh God, Meg thought. A child.

  Chapter 1

  Strathlin Castle, near Edinburgh

  July, 1857

  "A home," Sir John Shaw said, peering down his bulbous nose, "for young women of questionable morals? Lady Strathlin, I must advise against this unwise investment—as a member of the board of Matheson Bank and because I was a friend of your estimable grandfather, Lord Strathlin. He would never—"

  "Matheson House is hardly intended for women of ill repute, Sir John," Meg said calmly, folding her hands as she faced him over a wide oak writing desk in the library of Strathlin Castle. Morning sunlight streamed through tall windows to highlight the pale blue and gold of the Oriental carpet underfoot, reminding her of a Hebridean beach. Together with the seascape painted in oils over the library mantel, the sight helped ease a sudden bout of homesickness. Seven years, and she still deeply missed the Isle of Caransay.

  A week from now, she would be enjoying a rare holiday visit to the island. She drew a hopeful breath at the thought.

  Sir John regarded her with a bleary eyes through a monocle lens. "A home for unmarried young mothers—you must realize that they have exceedingly poor morals, madam."

  "I have sympathy for them—I will not condemn them, sir. Girls of good moral fiber often find themselves in difficult circumstances. I only wish to provide help in such situations."

  "Now that you are Baroness of Strathlin, and no longer—" he sniffed, leaving the rest unsaid.

  "No longer a simple island girl?" She smiled tightly. "True, I am now Lady Strathlin, and I am aware that my inheritance of my grandfather's title may have set some English lords on their ears. But it is proper enough in good Scots peerage." And I do not care what they think, she wanted to say.

  He cleared his throat. "Some thought Lord Strathlin was mad to leave his fortune to you. As I recall, you scarcely spoke English when you first arrived."

  "And had no shoes." She smiled, and so did he. "I did not speak good Edinburgh English, but I was reasonably educated and certainly knew that what is proper behavior in anyone is also proper for a baroness. In other words, I believe that if we are blessed with more, it is especially good to show compassion toward others, regardless of—social position."

  She glanced at the unopened letters piled on a silver tray on her desk. There was much work to be done. Generally each morning she read mail and discussed the replies with her secretary, but Mr. Guy Hamilton had not yet arrived, and Sir John had stayed overlong.

  "Madam, your fortune now exceeds that of the queen herself." Sir John sat forward, folding his hands on the head of his cane. "You could afford to support all the charities in Scotland if you wish, but I urge you to fund this one anonymously. Sir Frederick advises it as well, as he recently expressed to me."

  "Sir Frederick can keep his opinion to himself in this."

  "He is your cousin, madam, and is also on the board at the bank. I understand that he now is your fiancé, as well. May I offer my congratulations? It is a suitable match, I think."

  Meg blinked at him. "He told you this?"

  Sir John frowned under her gaze. "Sir Frederick is beside himself with happiness and blurted what was obviously a personal secret between you two, at least for now."

  "He did ask me to marry him, but I have not accepted. His news to you was... premature."

  "Of course you would want to discuss a marriage arrangement with your advisers. The matter of your marriage is of such interest to the bank's board that we expect you would never enter into an engagement without such a discussion."

  "When I decide to marry—if ever," she added, "I would make that decision from my heart with the advice of only one man, my future husband, and I would expect the board to accept that. But I have no such news to report. Indeed, I may never wed," she murmured. "I am grateful for my good fortune, but this inheritance... makes marriage more difficult. I wonder if I could believe any man who declares affection for me. Sir, I hope you will not discuss this with anyone. I value my privacy."

  He cleared his throat. "Of course, Madam," he stammered.

  "Thank you. Sir John, before it slips my mind, please instruct the bank to disperse funds to the new housekeeper at Matheson House as I require."

  "Very well, madam." He stood. "A cheque will be sent." He bid her farewell and crossed the room to a set of double doors with etched-glass panes.

  Meg sighed. Great wealth, while it eased some paths, created thorny thickets elsewhere in her life. Although she had been able to help many—including the islanders on Caransay when she had purchased the island's lease—she bore a burden, secret and deep, that she could not easily share. The gift of the kelpie, as her grandmothers called it, had brought her happiness, good fortune, a beautiful son—and a heartfelt hurt.

  But for the windfall of inheritance, she would have been in similar circumstances as the young women she intended to help through her charitable institution.

  Unmarried, with child, Meg had suddenly been named heiress to Lord Strathlin's estate upon his death. Aided by family and friends, protected by money, her secret was safe, and her child was safe, too, living on Caransay in the care of others.

  And she would always keep to herself the fact that she had met—and had loved—his nameless, unforgettable, despicable father on a rocky, storm-swept isle.

  Married! She wanted to laugh. According to old Scots law, so claimed her grandmothers, she was already married.

  She touched the little golden locket concealed beneath the neck of her day dress of blue satin brocade. Inside its spring catch cover was a tiny portrait of her blond-haired son and a small ring woven of red thread and strands of hair. She wore the locket always—for she would never forget the passion of that night, or its betrayal.

  As for her son, she saw him just four times a year or so, and the months without him tore at her heart. Strathlin Castle was a magnificent place, an old ruin rebuilt in grand style, but it did not feel like home. The castle had many rooms, and here the niceties of existence were legion. But Meg preferred the simplicity of island life, where days were vibrant, tradition brought reassuring routine, and the beauty and power of Nature was real and immediate.

  She glanced along the length of the library, where her companion and former governess sat reading in a far corner. Mrs. Berry's black skirts spilled out of the confines of a green leather wing chair. Meg looked for her other companion, Mrs. Shaw, Sir John's young, widowed daughter-in-law, then remembered she was discus
sing menus with the housekeeper, a duty Meg gratefully entrusted to her capable friend.

  Both ladies had been of invaluable help to her over the past seven years, and they made sure to be nearby whenever Meg met with male advisers and business acquaintances, as Mrs. Berry had unobtrusively done this morning.

  A knock at the door preceded a young maid, small and brown-haired, dressed in dark gray with a white apron and cap; she looked into the room. "Ma leddy, Mr. Hamilton is here."

  "Thank you, Hester. Send him in, please."

  Moments later, a tall, lean, dark-haired man crossed the room with a brisk step, his face familiar and welcome, his brown eyes twinkling. Meg smiled in delight to see her secretary.

  "Good morning, Lady Strathlin."

  "Guy! Do sit." He did, taking a leather chair opposite her desk. His long body was relaxed and agile, and his natural verve made her feel more energetic.

  "I apologize for being late."

  "No matter. Sir John was here, all in knots over my proposed home for young ladies."

  "He can be a sour old screw, but he has your best interests at heart. I stopped by Uncle Edward's law office before coming here, or would have helped you fend off Sir John. Hello, Mrs. Berry. On loyal duty, I see," he called pleasantly. Mrs. Berry smiled and waved, then went back to her reading.

  "Please look through these." Meg pushed several letters toward him. "I've added a list of the replies I think necessary."

  "Very good. Where is Mrs. Shaw this morning?" He glanced around the library, and Meg thought she saw a slight flush spill through his cheeks.

  "Downstairs making up menus with Mrs. Louden. They are all in a kerfuffle over the soiree, though it's two months away."

  "It is certain to be an extravaganza." He smiled as he flipped through the letters.

  Watching him, Meg saw an etching of sadness in his fine brown eyes. Widowed a few years earlier, Hamilton kept his grief private and his mood calm and uplifting. He efficiently saw to his duties as Meg's secretary and oversaw her correspondence as well as her travel and social schedule. A new lawyer and new widower when Meg first employed him as her secretary, his humor and graciousness had made him a true friend.

  "Sir John said that Frederick also disapproves of Matheson House for Young Ladies. Apparently Frederick told him that he and I are engaged to be married."

  "How odd. I suppose Sir Frederick has wrongly interpreted your kindness toward him."

  She tipped her head, considering. In the first years of her inheritance, she had relied on her cousin's counsel as a banker, and later, when he was in mourning for his wife and his bills were mounting, she had given him some respite from a financial deal that had gone poorly. "I thought it important to show loyalty to a friend. I meant nothing else by it."

  "My dear, you are a generous friend, as I can attest myself. Not only are you lovely and good-hearted, but you are the richest woman in Scotland. As a man, may I say that it is a perfectly lethal combination."

  "Oh!" Meg felt her cheeks heat.

  "Any man could fall in love with you, and some might scheme to marry you due to your fortune." He smiled. "Not me, my dear. I do adore you, but I keep you firmly on a pedestal, where you belong."

  "I shall only topple." Meg laughed a little. "But you're wrong. No one else has asked for my hand but Sir Frederick."

  "If any fellow makes an unwanted advance toward you, I want to hear about it." Guy frowned. "I shall speak to Matheson."

  "Thank you, but I will do that, after I return from the Isles."

  He nodded, and gestured toward the silver tray. "Quite a few letters this morning, I see."

  "A good number of these are acceptances for the soiree for Miss Jenny Lind in early September."

  "I expect everyone will want to attend."

  "I hope so. There is so much to do to be ready." She felt a moment of doubt, wondering how Angela Shaw had convinced her to host an event for the celebrated Swedish Nightingale. "Did you send an invitation to Mr. Dougal Robertson Stewart?"

  "The engineer? Yes, a servant delivered it to his rooms last week. The man was difficult to find, and the invitation could not be sent by daily post. He's often out in some remote place putting up lighthouses, and his family seat is out in Strathclyde. Fortunately, he keeps rooms in town on Calton Hill. I think you do well to invite Mr. Stewart. A gesture of truce, as it were."

  "No doubt he sees it as a gesture of surrender."

  "Arrogant. When you finally meet him, I hope it will not come to blows," Guy said in a droll tone.

  "His letters over the past several months have been insistent to the point of rudeness. His latest action is a little declaration of war, in my opinion. Obtaining parliamentary permission to construct barracks on my island, when we denied him the right, was—odious!"

  "Mr. Stewart does what he wants, it seems."

  "He is impatient and demanding." She sighed. "I admit that in his letters he shows concern for the welfare of his men. But he is otherwise obstinate in his dealings with my soliciting firm."

  "In person, I hear, he is the very devil for charm."

  "His actions do not reflect it," she snapped.

  "Nonetheless, my sister-in-law knows him, and says that Mr. Stewart is seldom seen at parties—rather like his nemesis, Lady Strathlin." Guy grinned. "But when he does appear, she says young ladies practically faint cold away."

  "Charming? Perhaps he is simply terrifying."

  Guy smiled. "He is a handsome fellow, says my sister-in-law, but it is his daring heroics that give him such a romantic aura. Saving the workmen who fell in that bridge disaster in Fife last year was a remarkable feat."

  She nodded. "The Edinburgh Review reported that he dove into the cold sea to pull each man out of the water before assistance could arrive. That is admirable."

  "Your generosity was equally admirable, madam. You paid the medical costs of the injured men and contributed funds to restore the bridge after its collapse. Unfortunately, that did not melt Mr. Stewart's heart toward you. Madam, you asked my uncle to send over Stewart's latest letter. Here." Guy removed an envelope from his pocket. "He included a copy of the queen's order and—"

  "Let me guess. More plans," she droned, scanning the pages he handed her. "He is persistent, if infuriating. He sends letters and plans every month, and refuses to be swayed by our refusals. What an odious man," she muttered, studying the copy of the queen's note of permission for Stewart's project and the meticulous line drawings included on another page. Recognizing the coastline of Caransay and then a sketch showing Sgeir Caran's stark grace fitted with an elegantly proportioned lighthouse, her heart quickened.

  "It is a grand thing, that design," Guy murmured.

  "It is," she said, "but I hope the thing does not go up."

  "Uncle Edward thinks he may be able to halt Mr. Stewart's funding and delay or prevent the construction, regardless of government writs. The man requires fifty thousand pounds to complete the work, a great deal of it from private sponsors interested in supporting the project. I doubt the queen will fund his lighthouse out of her own purse."

  "Nor will I." Meg frowned, reading Stewart's letter again. His neat, spiked script gave her an immediate sense of a strong, confident man with a certain edge to his character. "His pleas on behalf of his men are stirring, but he goes too far in forcing this issue."

  "That rock is a dangerous place. He should not allow construction to proceed there."

  Holding Stewart's letter, Meg felt a strange, hot current surge through her. Sgeir Caran brought back emotions and memories that she must try to forget—and could not.

  "The arrogance!" She tapped a finger on Stewart's envelope. "He means to start work on Caransay!"

  "Since you will be there on holiday, perhaps you should meet with him to explain the legal risks if he persists."

  "No. It would ruin my holiday."

  "You cannot avoid him on an island just seven miles long."

  "I can and will," she said bluntly. "And we wil
l rid ourselves of his project somehow. When I purchased the island's lease, I promised my kin and tenants that Caransay would remain free from threats and outsiders. I must keep my word. The thought of a lighthouse on that ancient rock... is unbearable." She glanced away. "Tell Sir Edward that his law firm may deal with Mr. Stewart as seems fit. I will add a personal note to the next letter they send him. It is time I voiced my opinion directly to him."

  "Good idea, madam. Perhaps when you are on Caransay you could try to see what Mr. Stewart is like from a distance. Be a spy."

  She smiled. "If he looks thoroughly wicked, I shall withdraw his invitation to the soiree."

  Guy chuckled. "While you are gone, I will assist Mrs. Shaw with the arrangements for your party."

  "Excellent, thank you." Still holding Dougal Stewart's letter, Meg considered it again. Plain stationery and unadorned black script with an ink smear or two gave her the impression of a practical, wholly masculine man who preferred simplicity and directness. So he was handsome, well educated, and had shown courage in a crisis. Those were attractive qualities in a man, and she wished she could like him.

  But he was the most stubborn man she had ever known. And he threatened all she held dear and vowed to protect. His lighthouse could change the peace and safety she had ensured for the residents of Caransay forever, and its presence could destroy the island's privacy, as well as the mystery and traditions of Sgeir Caran.

  He would simply have to build his lighthouse somewhere else, even if she had to pay the cost herself. Mr. Stewart could go to Hades for all she cared, so long as he left Sgeir Caran and Caransay alone.

  Sgeir Caran. Suddenly, vividly, she remembered a beautiful, virile man standing on a black rock in a wild storm. Feeling a hot blush, she crammed the letter back in its envelope.

  Mr. Stewart could not be allowed to destroy the sanctity of that place.

  Chapter 2

  The golden girl caught Dougal Stewart's attention as he stood on the beach talking with his first foreman. He stopped midsentence and glanced at her. Among the islanders on the beach, she shone like a candle flame.