Taming the Heiress

by Susan King

  The best luxury of his little hut was that he had it to himself. He had a canvas hammock, a small cupboard, a wooden chair, and a table large enough to hold maps, charts, and a lamentable amount of correspondence. It was enough. As for the letters, he disliked dealing with those, but he always saw to his duty. As resident engineer, he was also required to keep a daily progress log, crammed with figures and his observations. The Stevenson firm and the lighthouse commissioners expected to be kept informed of all events, problems, and successes in correspondence and, if they requested it, the progress log.

  The wind howled, and the night was heavy with rain. Dougal was weary and sore from another long day out on Sgeir Caran. He and his men had been drilling through solid rock in the beating sunshine that was relieved only by sea spray from waves reaching high enough to splash the workers.

  Out there, Dougal had paused now and then to watch seals cavorting on the rocks, and a few dolphins had made the men laugh with their antics in the waves. Returning to Caransay later, the men had eaten supper and gone off to their huts to rest, but Dougal was up late, working at the notes, the reports, the maps and drawings. He knew that Alan Clarke and Evan Mackenzie would be doing the same. There was a great deal of detail work to make sure that the project was closely supervised and the resulting structure safe and solid and built to last the ages.

  Finishing his report for the commissioners, he then wrote a note to David Stevenson, the brilliant engineer who had recommended him for the job on Sgeir Caran after Dougal had assisted him in completing the nearly impossible task of building a lighthouse on Muckle Flugga, a challenging and inhospitable environment. On Sgeir Caran, Dougal was encountering some of the same issues of design and safety.

  But he had a worthy and experienced crew that he could fully trust, and he knew that together they could build a fine lighthouse on Sgeir Caran, one that would serve many.

  Sealing the envelope, he reached into a small wooden box where he stored his correspondence and removed a recent letter from Lady Strathlin—or more correctly, her Edinburgh solicitors.

  Be assured that you shall not build on Caransay without Lady Strathlin's permission, Mr. Stewart. Despite your parliamentary order, we will stop this enterprise. Your structures will come down, if not by Nature, then by legal writ.

  Dougal frowned as he considered the threat. The new barracks were ten stout houses along Innish Harbor, protected by the high headlands. They would not blow out to sea, like the houses his men had constructed on Guga, the small isle beside Caransay had done. Nature indeed. These new huts would stand in high winds.

  The letter, like the others, was written in the tight script of some anonymous clerk or secretary. Regardless of their protests, Dougal intended to remain and see that lighthouse complete. Somehow he must convince the baroness and her lawyers of the worth of this project.

  Turning the page over, he read the curious postscript there, which had puzzled him earlier. This had been written by the baroness herself—the first direct contact he'd had from her.

  Mr. Stewart, the birds who frequent Sgeir Caran may desert the rock if a lighthouse is placed there. A magnificent pair of golden eagles makes their home there each year. At any time of year there are gannets, puffins, and shearwaters—even the little storm petrels that are rarely seen and that make their homes on the undersides of rocky protrusions. The gannets in particular are hunted cruelly in other places. They are bludgeoned to death in a ritual called "the hunting of the Guga." But on Sgeir Caran, they are safe and protected by ancient tradition. The golden eagles are, of course, most beautiful, most spectacular, and to be revered and protected.

  For the sake of all these birds, I ask you recommend to the commission another location for the lighthouse. I understand the urgent need for a light to aid seafarers, and I applaud the courage of the men who would build it.

  I beg you, sir, to erect your tower elsewhere.

  Yours most sincerely, Lady Strathlin at Strathlin Castle

  Birds! Intrigued by this new action in their little war of words, Dougal sighed. Each letter had been a move or a countermove, as if they played chess. He never quite knew what might come next, and he had begun to enjoy the correspondence, wondering what the baroness and her lawyers would do next.

  But birds—here was an unexpected challenge. He had heard of the lady's acts of charity and generosity, and knew she preferred privacy. He knew little else about her.

  Sometimes he imagined her as a formidable older woman. At other times, he wondered if she could be some magnificent, mysterious creature. Whoever she was, he was sure she took some pleasure in their little game of wills. At times she surprised and secretly delighted him—witty, commanding, haughty, plaintive at times, all through her lawyers, but for the new message about the birds. He had a grudging respect and a growing curiosity about the baroness. He did not care for her lawyers at all.

  Her handwriting intrigued him, too, now that he saw it. This was not the wobbly hand of an elderly lady, but flowing, feminine, confident, educated. It was the hand of a well-educated and seemingly younger woman.

  He laughed outright. Of course. The baroness must have had someone, a companion perhaps, write the postscript. His Aunt Lillian rarely wrote her own notes these days, dictating letters to his sisters, who lived with her.

  The poignant touch of the little handwritten note from the sainted baroness was meant to cajole him. He would not relent. Nor was he overly concerned about the birds—they would adapt to any changes on their rock.

  Ready to compose his reply, he smoothed a fresh piece of foolscap and dipped a pen in ink.

  To the Right Honorable Lady Strathlin

  Madam,

  I am dismayed that your solicitors have not better informed you. Even as I write this, I am installed in comfortable quarters on the Isle of Caransay, with Sgeir Caran in view through my window. There was a most spectacular sunset this evening, and the northern lights graced the sky last night. The weather is of course glorious.

  The wind howled strong enough to rattle the door, and rain gusted against the shutters. Dougal eased his back against the stiff wooden chair and squinted in the oily lamplight.

  I appreciate your concern regarding the wildlife on the rock. Let me assure you that it is not our intention to disturb Nature, or to significantly alter the appearance of the island.

  I have not yet seen any golden eagles, madam. When I do I will give them your best regards.

  Smiling to himself, he signed the note, sealed the envelope, and dropped it in the mail pouch to give to Norrie MacNeill for posting at Tobermory the next day.

  Chapter 5

  "Madam," the housekeeper said, opening the door to the drawing room, "is something required?"

  "Ah, Mrs. Hendry," Meg said, looking up from the writing table where she sat. A minute earlier, she had tugged at the bell pull, knowing the housekeeper liked her to do that. Although Meg preferred less formality, Mrs. Hendry, who lived on the Isle of Mull when Meg was not at Clachan Mor, insisted on maintaining a household befitting a baroness. The woman seemed to enjoy that, so Meg indulged her.

  "Please inform Mrs. Berry that I will shortly be ready to go down to the beach with her and Master Iain," Meg said. Mrs. Berry had enjoyed a few schoolroom duties with Iain whenever she and Meg visited Caransay.

  "Very good, madam." Mrs. Hendry's pursed lips and angular face were softened only by her luxurious silver hair and lace cap. She closed the door, and Meg went back to her task.

  She wrote a quick note to Mr. Charles Worth in Paris, thanking him for his offer to send an assistant to Edinburgh to fit her gown for the September soiree. Mr. Worth was eccentric and exacting, but his creations were so elegant and lovely that Meg had traveled to Paris a few times to be fitted for her wardrobe at his shop on the Rue de la Paix. Her companion Angela Shaw, who understood such matters, had advised it. The newest Worth gown promised to be exquisite as the others, judging from the sketches and fabric swatches he had sent.


  The next note was from Guy Hamilton, who reported that the Northern Lighthouse Commission had notified the law firm of Hamilton and Shaw that Mr. Dougal Stewart did indeed have governmental authority to proceed with the lighthouse on Sgeir Caran. Stewart had the right to do the work. Guy assured Meg that they were still looking for a way to stop it, and he reminded her that the engineer was on Caransay and to avoid him.

  Too late, she thought. The damage was done.

  She answered Guy and sealed it, adding it to the envelopes for Norrie to post when next he ran the boat to Mull.

  Then she penned a quick note to Sir Frederick Matheson, who had written of his desire to visit her at Caransay, since he would be on the neighboring island of Guga. My days here are peaceful and a bit dull, and you would not be entertained, she told him. She then glanced through the other letters.

  Finding nothing from Dougal Stewart, she felt strangely disappointed. He had not replied to the latest letter the law firm had sent, to which she had added a personal note pleading for the welfare of the birds on the sea rock.

  No doubt he was too busy building barracks and drilling holes in Sgeir Caran to reply. Through the open window, Meg could see an angle of the sea rock where she knew the men were working with their sledges and drills.

  For a moment, she felt strongly tempted to sail out there, announce herself as the baroness, demand a halt to the construction—and tell Stewart the truth. But that was not so easy, in reality, much as she wanted this over and done.

  If her past with him was known, she risked genuine ruin; the repercussions could ruin her family, her island, her son's future. She knew a few acquaintances on the mainland, including distant kin, who would relish her downfall and any benefit they could take from it.

  If Dougal Stewart knew the entire truth, he would have enough fuel for any enemy's fire. She could not trust him. She had learned that much.

  Her stomach twisted, knowing one day she would have to tell him. Else the truth would out on its own, as truths would do.

  She rose to gaze through the window. The house was set on a high rise that overlooked much of the island, with a view of white beaches, rocky hills, and the colorful machair, surrounded by endless sky and ocean. To the east lay Scotland's coast. To the west, Sgeir Caran was a dark dot on the sea.

  Sighing, she leaned her head in her hands, wondering what to do. Stewart could ruin the peace of this place, her life—

  She turned as the door of the drawing room burst open and Iain ran toward her, fresh and smiling. His blond hair, shaped to a bowl and in need of cutting again, fell over his eyes. Meg smiled and brushed back the thick golden locks to see his big green eyes. His father's eyes.

  Her heart bounded, turned deep each time she saw him. Her love for this child nearly overtook her at times. She smiled, gave none of that almost desperate emotion away. He deserved only her best and warmest.

  "Berry says we can go to the beach!" Iain said in Gaelic.

  "English, dear," Meg reminded him.

  He nodded. "I did my lessons and read in English to Berry, who says I did good—well."

  "That's excellent, Iain," Meg answered, looking up to smile as a buxom lady entered the room after the child. "Mrs. Berry and I will be happy to take you to the beach. It is a lovely day for it. Grandmother Thora and Mother Elga will be there, too. They promised to meet us there with small Anna."

  "Master Iain did verra well today," Mrs. Berry said. "He's speaking nicely and reading well. His maths need work, and his handwriting, but that will come. He made a fine drawing of a sea monster. So fantastic, it frightened me out of me shoes!" Mrs. Berry folded her hands over her ample stomach, encased in her usual black gown, her blue eyes crinkled in a smile. Iain giggled.

  Elspeth Berry had been Meg's governess in the winter months, year after year, when she had stayed in her grandfather's castle as a young girl. Her impish smile, easy laugh, and practical, kind manner had endeared her to Meg from the very first. Mrs. Berry was a widow, and distantly related to Meg's deceased mother—whose father had left Meg the bulk of his staggering fortune.

  Meg felt a tug of gratitude toward her friend. With wealth and friends and family, with so much fullness in her life, she yet had dark secrets that had bruised her heart. Few knew she had given birth out of wedlock, let alone guessed the boy's father. The wide belief was that Iain was Fergus's foster son.

  "Good lad!" Meg told Iain. "Bring a bucket to the beach so you can collect winkles and shells. If you find some, I could draw them in my little notebook. Berry would like to splash in the water, too. The day is perfect for a bathing costume if you would like to fetch it." Meg smiled over at Mrs. Berry.

  "Ma leddy, I'd like that. And you, ma dear, must remember your straw hat and your almond cream. You canna return to Edinburgh looking like the nut-brown maiden! Your soiree is only weeks away!"

  "Of course. will you run and ask Mrs. Hendry to pack us some things for the beach? A luncheon basket would be nice." As she spoke, he bolted toward the door.

  "Walk, Master Iain," Berry said. "We didna mean run!"

  He slowed, hand on the doorknob. "I will ask for cheese sand-witches. Come, Berry. Hurry!"

  "Mrs. Berry, " Meg reminded him, as the two left.

  Alone again, Meg sighed. Her own son did not know that his supposed cousin, a very rich lady, was his mother.

  Angela Shaw and Mrs. Berry had guessed soon enough that their new mistress, the young newly inherited baroness, was with child. Later, they knew that the child had been born on the island and given away for fostering. But they never asked about the father, believing him to be some callous young Islesman who had deserted the girl to her fate before she had inherited the estate. She trusted them to keep her secret safe.

  But she felt her world crumbling around her. Dougal Robertson Stewart might soon realize the rest of her secrets. And he could expose their brief love affair and claim his child. No one would doubt his paternity, once they saw the resemblance between the man and the boy.

  One day the each-uisge will come back to Caransay for his son and his bride, and he will take them with him to the bottom of the sea, Elga had told her years ago, repeating it.

  The kelpie, Meg thought, was far less a threat than the engineer.

  * * *

  Dougal sailed back to the island at midmorning, leaving Alan Clarke and the others to their work of laying black powder charges in preparation for clearing the foundation pit. Intending to return before the fuses were lit that afternoon, Dougal needed to fetch some plans that had been left on the island.

  He had promised the baroness that the construction would not significantly alter the landscape, and he would keep his word. The beauty of the island and the Caran Reef meant as much to him as it did to her. In his heart, he would dedicate every stone of the lighthouse to those whose lives had been taken by the reef. He looked forward to the day when he could set in place a ray of light to sweep the waters and protect those who sailed through these seas.

  Now, with a little time to spare before he needed to return to the black rock, Dougal walked toward the Great House, the baroness's holiday home, Clachan Mor. Caransay was not large, seven miles long in all, three wide at its broadest point. The manor house was just two miles from the harbor over the machair. After the night's rain, the weather was glorious and sunny; puffy white clouds in the summer-blue sky moved with brisk, fresh winds. Here, as everywhere on Caransay, he could hear the steady soothing rush of the waves and the constant call of seabirds.

  No wonder the baroness cared so much about this place and its wildlife, he thought, glancing at some gulls wheeling overhead. The island had a strong, simple beauty. He sensed the peaceful, perfect balance of sea and air and sunshine, earth and rock. Another part of the magic of the place were its earnest, handsome people and their fascinating legends. He would never disturb such beauty and serenity, no matter what the baroness believed.

  Climbing the rise of a hill, he saw Clachan Mor in the distance, a grand sto
ne house atop a heathery hill, with a pathway leading to a small bay and a swath of beach. If the baroness visited the island, he would walk up and knock on that door. He preferred direct conversation to the delay of letters.

  Strolling along a line of sand dunes, he heard women's voices chattering and laughing. Walking to the top of the dune, he saw four women with two young children.

  Looking golden in the sunshine, Margaret MacNeill sat on a blanket on sand, legs curled under her dark skirt, a straw hat on her head rather than the provincial shawl. She held a book in her hand. Nearby, he saw two older women—Norrie MacNeill's wife and his mother, he thought—with a chubby baby and a small blond boy.

  A fourth woman waded in the water and called back to the others, laughing. She hiked up the black skirt of her elaborate swimming costume to edge deeper into the surf.

  Then the little boy turned, saw Dougal, and waved. He raised hand in response, recognizing the bold little fellow who had climbed the headland the other day. The boy ran toward him as the women turned, calling after him. Margaret stood quickly, and Dougal decided he might as well go down and greet them politely. He crossed the beach to where dry sand met damp.

  A breeze fluttered the MacNeill girl's hair, blew her skirt back against her, revealing her womanly shape—long slender legs, graceful hips, taut body, firm breasts. Lust panged through him—and Dougal knew he should not have come down to meet her. She was honey-bright and lovely, too much so, and he wanted her with a surprising quake of the spirit, recalling the power of shared kisses—

  But then the memory of a stinging slap and the apology he owed her for years ago made him stop. That rather awkward matter between them could not be addressed here, not now.