by Susan King
"It sounds fascinating and quite challenging—for those who like risk."
"I'm convinced that anyone could do this, given the right equipment, proper instruction, and a good crew up top to see to things. It's quite enjoyable, really. On sunny days, if the water is calm, it's possible to see the clouds and the sky through the water. Sometimes the stars and the moon can be seen, too, if the hour is late enough."
"If the Otherworld exists," she said, "it must be as fantastic as the depths of the sea."
"It might indeed. I believe there is a legendary place called Land-Under-Waves, said to be very beautiful."
She nodded. "Tir fo Thuinn. Supposedly it lies somewhere in the deepest waters of the Hebrides. The inhabitants walk among us in human form, they say, so that we do not recognize them as sea fairies, selkies, kelpies, and the like."
"Interesting." He inclined his head, smiled at her.
"What were you doing under the waves?" the old man asked.
"Checking the rock bed to make sure the explosions did not damage it. A crack could appear or worsen once the weight of the stone tower is in place." Norrie nodded, then turned to ask Alan more about the explosions, which he had found fascinating.
Meg tilted her head. "Did you find anything?"
"Little enough underneath," he murmured, only for her to hear, "but a sea fairy was waiting on the rock when I came up." Meg blinked, and Dougal smiled, feeling warm toward her, affectionate, glad to know that she was real, after all. A strange coincidence of time and place had brought them together, and their desperate need for comfort had grown naturally to passion. But how the devil was he going to explain that he had mistaken her for a magical creature on what he thought was the last night of his life?
"Well," he said, picking up the thread of her question, "since the base of the rock is enormous, we have not yet finished our investigation. All looks stable so far, but I will not be satisfied until we have gone over every square inch."
"I wish I could go down there myself," Meg said.
"You, a wee lass!" Turning, Norrie chuckled.
"I am a strong swimmer, and I did a good deal of sea diving with my cousins when I was young," she said. "We used to dive down from this very rock, if you remember, Grandfather."
"That's a very different thing than going doon the deep in heavy gear," Alan Clarke pointed out. "I dinna think a lass could do it... or ever should do it."
"This one thinks all the world is open to her," Norrie said, adding with a wink, "as well she should."
Dougal found the exchange odd, seeing Meg scowl at her grandfather as if to hush him.
"I'd like to see what Mr. Stewart described," she insisted. "If I could go diving just once, I could later make some drawings of the coral, the fish, and so on, for my journal."
Realizing that she was sincere, Dougal nodded. "It might be possible," he said quietly. She nodded and smiled, quick and bright. "You'd need some courage for such a venture... but I imagine that you have it." He had seen her face a gale strong enough to tear apart the very rock beneath their feet.
"Miss MacNeill is a wee bit lass, and the weights are brutal," Alan said. "She couldna stand up in the suit."
"She would need help with that," Dougal agreed. "Once she entered the buoyancy of the water, she would be fine. Miss MacNeill looks delicate, but I suspect she is strong enough—and probably stubborn enough—to dive under the sea."
"Ach," Norrie drawled. "You have the right of it. She'll do whatever she minds to do, and in a quiet way. You'll never hear her fuss about it, but before you know it, she's managed to do the very thing you told her not to do."
"Aye, but a wee lass shouldna go diving," Alan said firmly.
Meg gave them a determined look. "I am simply saying that I would like to try it sometime."
"It might be possible someday," Dougal said, "though not practical or proper here on a construction site. Besides, there are creatures in the sea that would carry you off in a moment."
She looked at him sharply. "Oh? Kelpies?"
"I was thinking of basking sharks," he replied.
"Ach, a basker would not take her," Norrie said. "A kelpie, now—then she'd need to watch out. Especially on Sgeir Caran."
Dougal held Meg's gaze for a moment until she finally glanced away.
Eager to continue his tour, Alan led them along the plateau to look at the crater that had been leveled for the foundation. Over eighty feet wide and nearly two feet deep, the cavity was a bustling site. Men inside swept away debris, and masons wielded hammers and chisels to trim the huge blocks of gray granite, some of which had already been fitted into the circle. One was being lowered, as they watched, with ropes and pulleys.
"The walls," Alan said, "will be nearly nine feet thick at the base, greater than the rest of the tower, to sustain against waves and storms. The force of the strongest gale is calculated against the mass of stone blocks of this size, and the base will curve just so"—he demonstrated with a sweep of his hand—"to compensate for the impact of strong waves on the tower. Each stone is trimmed within an eighth inch of Mr. Stewart's specifications. He carefully planned their shape so they will fit tight as a drum."
"It's based on the idea of a round medieval tower," Dougal explained. "The curved shape helps it resist storm force, just as arrows and cannon bounced off of round towers."
"How tall did you say it would be?" Norrie asked.
"One hundred and eight feet to the roof," Dougal replied. "Its beam will be visible for a distance of about eighteen miles on a clear night."
"You cannot measure fog and rain," Norrie pointed out.
"True," Dougal said. "So we make sure the light can be seen for several miles in the thickest soup, so that seafarers will be warned of dangerous rocks in the area. And a bell will also be installed to give warning in fog."
"How long before the light is working?" Norrie asked.
"Next summer, I hope, given good weather. Poor weather and fierce gales can delay us interminably."
"Ach, dirty weather will take down your tower altogether, lad," Norrie cautioned. "The storms on this reef are fierce."
"Aye," Dougal said gruffly. "I've seen storms on this rock." He did not look at Meg, but he felt her beside him like a flame.
"Many of us on Caransay think you cannot build your tower here at all. The sea will take it—like that." Norrie swept his hand like a cat's paw.
"That would make the baroness happy. But I am determined."
"And Dougal gets what he wants," Alan drawled.
"Does he, indeed?" Meg said, looking at him.
Dougal inclined his head toward her. "He does."
Her cheeks burned so pink that he wondered if it was windburn or sunburn, or the same turbulence of emotion that churned within him. But he reminded himself, the woman did not even like him, and with good reason. The challenge of earning her respect, the need for it, made him more determined than ever. He owed her a considerable debt, and he meant to pay it somehow.
This time, he thought, he would not shame her, as he had unwittingly done before. This time, he would woo her and win her. This time—
A feeling rang inside him like a bell, chiming deep. He knew, suddenly, what he wanted. Gazing at the bright, golden girl beside him, seeing her turn her exquisite aqua eyes up toward him, he knew.
In a secret place in his heart, he had loved her for years, believing she was only a dream. But she was real, made of flesh and blood and a tender heart. He felt a hardening of will and spirit. The intensity of the feeling quaked through him.
He had hurt her in the past, and now, in the present, his lighthouse threatened what she held dear. Certainly, he at least owed her an offer of marriage as recompense for his behavior years ago. He had always avoided such issues before, with other women, preferring the freedom and exhilirating danger of his work to domestic quietude.
Yet as he stood beside her in the damp, salty air, with the seabirds calling overhead and the diamond glint of the ocean in
his eyes, he suddenly knew that he wanted to marry Margaret MacNeill.
Deeply wanted it, fiercely, as if the desire had been there all along, formed over years out of dreams and longing, waiting only for the revelation of her existence.
The wind was quiet, the sea mirror calm, yet he felt as if a gale had just knocked him to his knees.
* * *
Meg sat alone on the far side of the rock, making small sketches in her leather journal. Dougal and Alan had gone to tend to some work, and Norrie was talking with Fergus MacNeill and a few other Caransay men who had joined Dougal's crew. The need was great on Sgeir Caran not only for laborers, but for local men who knew the reef and the Isles and who understood the moods of the sea and the weather.
She sketched quickly, deftly, watching a pair of gannets return again and again to a nest perched on a ledge near the stack rock. The hushed washing of the water over the rocks below was a peaceful, lulling sound.
Turning the page, she began another sketch, but paused, glancing around, unable to ignore where she sat. The little cave they had shared was just beyond a cluster of rocks.
A shiver went through her, a deep longing, an ache so fierce it made her head spin. She moaned softly and sank her face into her hands.
"Meg?" He was there beside her suddenly, though she had not heard him approach. "Miss MacNeill—are you well? Is the sun too strong?"
She looked up. "I'm perfectly fine," she said tersely. "Is it time to go? Does my grandfather want me to come back?"
"Not yet. Norrie is having a fine time with his friends from Caransay. The men are taking luncheon now, and Norrie saw you come this way. We wondered if you might be hungry, and I offered to ask. Nothing fancy—just bannocks, cheese, and meat pies prepared by our cook back at the barracks on Caransay. But there's plenty to share."
She shook her head. "Thank you. I'm not really hungry."
"Well, then." He did not leave, but remained standing a little behind her. "I see you found some birds to draw in your journal, after all. They are not all gone, then."
"Yet," she said pointedly, and she closed the book, tucking it and the pencil into her pocket. As she got to her feet, Dougal offered his hand in assistance.
Hesitating, she took it, aware of a thrill of comfort upon touching him. She released his fingers as soon as she stood.
"Mr. Stewart, let me show you something. Come this way."
Runnels of water over ages had worn an inclined pathway in the stone, and Meg took the slope upward, Dougal following, their steps careful on the damp rock.
To one side was the entrance of their little cave, and he glanced at it, tilting his head in question, clearly perplexed and a little startled. Silently Meg turned to face the sea.
She pointed below where they stood. On innumerable ledges and protrusions in the rock, hundreds of birds clustered. The closest birds to them were white with black markings.
"Gannets?" he asked.
She nodded. "They come here every year to nest. In spring, they gather by the thousands to raise their young and to seek shelter from storms. Shearwaters also nest on Sgeir Caran, and guillemots, and a few shags. Over there, see that one on its nest? The dark diamond-patterned feathering gleams in the sunlight. Sometimes we see the shy little petrels that skim close to the water. They make their nests beneath overhanging rocks—"
"Where they cannot be seen," he said quietly. "I know."
She flickered a glance at him. "Puffins nest here, too, though at the other end of the rock, where there is more consistent sunshine. This end lies in the shade of the stack rock. Seals sun themselves on the lowest slopes of the Sgeir Caran, there"—she pointed—"where the rock slopes toward the water. There is a little sandy beach they love." She gestured out toward the sea. "If we waited here long enough, we would see dolphins, perhaps a whale or some basking sharks. The dolphins and the sharks will not appear together—where there is one, you will not see the other. But either is quite a sight, a reward for the patient observer."
"Obviously you've spent a good deal of time observing here."
"I come here fairly often. Over the last few years, I have filled my journals with drawings and notations about the wildlife and the sea and birdlife on Caransay and Sgeir Caran." She faced the water, the wind fresh on her cheeks, ruffling her hair. "I come to study, but I love the peacefulness here, too."
"Miss MacNeill, I know the rock is a naturalist's paradise and a worthy habitat for many creatures. I can appreciate that, too, though you think I do not."
She slanted a sideways glance at him and waited.
"I assure you that we will not disturb any seabird or wildlife colonies. When we put up lighthouses elsewhere, the wildlife did not seem to be effected except during actual construction, when they shy away from the site. Does that suit you? Take that message back to Lady Strathlin, if you will, though I suspect neither of you will believe me or trust that I am sincere. Too many people have died on this reef. I cannot forget that."
"Nor can I, Mr. Stewart," she said stiffly. "But the construction will frighten away many of these creatures. Look up there," she said, indicating the stack rock. "We call that Creig nan Iolair."
"Creig nan yoolur," he repeated softly. He tipped back his head. "What does it mean?"
"Eagle Rock," she said.
"Aye, someone told me that eagles nest here."
She had told him, in a letter to which he had not yet replied. "They build aeries up there and have done so for many generations. We see golden eagles soaring around the rock sometimes, and for a few years, a pair of sea eagles has nested up there—the white-tailed iolair mhar, the rarest of the eagles in Scotland."
"And you are concerned that the lighthouse will keep the eagles away."
"Yes, the sea eagles in particular. Eagles are over-hunted, and every year there seem to be fewer of them—not only here in the Isles, but in the Highlands, too, so I hear. But they have always been safe on Sgeir Caran, and so they come back."
"They will continue to be safe," he said firmly. "We would never disturb their aeries or the nesting places of any seabirds here on Sgeir Caran."
"But you can do nothing about the noise and activity, the men, the boats going back and forth. Sgeir Caran has always been a peaceful sanctuary for the birds. It must stay that way."
"The construction is temporary. Once the lighthouse is up, the sea rock will be quiet again. There will be one or two keepers here with their families and some coming and going of boats, but no more than usual. Peace will return, I promise you."
"If they cannot nest here next season, they will not come back the year after that. Another improvement"—she uttered the word with contempt—"that is set to destroy a cherished tradition in these Isles."
Dougal shook his head. "Let me assure you—"
"You cannot!" she burst out. Her breath tightened as she glared at him. All thoughts of birds and lighthouses, the frustration of months of unpleasant letters, suddenly fell away as deep-set anger and the hurt and grieving of years overwhelmed her. "You cannot assure me of anything!"
She turned, meaning to stomp off, but his hand lashed out. He grabbed her arm and pulled her back. "Meg," he said gruffly, turning her swiftly, so that she came close to him, felt his heat, felt the subtle tug between his body and hers and the answering whirl in her belly.
She raised her hands to push him away. "Leave me be!"
His hands closed tight around her wrists. "Come here," he growled, yanking her toward him, holding her bent and resistant arms against his chest. He lowered his face toward hers, imprisoning her hands in his.
She half closed her eyes, tipping her head, expecting him to kiss her at any moment. Feeling the throb of need in her body, she wanted to be kissed just as much as she wanted to flee.
Instead he rested his brow on hers. "Meg MacNeill, hold now, and hear me out." His voice was a tender rumble. He leaned his cheek against her head and kept her hands pressed between them. Her krifees went weak beneath her, and she c
losed her eyes, still expecting to fight, to struggle in defense of all the hurt, all the years of wondering, resenting, and longing.
"Let go," she gasped, a desperate half sob. "I do not want to talk to you any longer. You have nothing to say that I want to hear, and you cannot hold me against my will." She twisted her hands in his.
"It's only a precaution, should you feel tempted to slap me again," he said.
"Why? Are you going to kiss me?"
"If you want," he murmured, his face pressed to hers, his breath upon her lips. She longed for it, and did not want to, for his mouth hovered close to hers. His lips brushed the edge of her lip and traced over her cheek, an enticement rather than a kiss. Her legs felt so weak that she was glad for his support.
He drew back. "I only want to talk to you."
"We have nothing to say."
"You may have nothing to say to me. But I owe you an apology, and you are going to listen."
"Do not think to charm me again." She tried to wrench out of his unrelenting grip. "If that is what you call it."
"Easy, love," he murmured. "First, let me apologize for that kiss when we were out on the machair."
"That hardly matters. And do not call me love." She crabbed her fingers on his shirt. His fingers were strong on hers, and his other hand, at the small of her back, pinned her against him.
"Be still and listen. Allow me the chance to speak before you claw me to bits."
"Seven years," she said between her teeth. "You come back after seven years—"
"And I found you, when I thought I'd never see you again."
"Found me?" She stared up at him. "Did you ever look?"
"My dear girl, I searched for you but did not believe it was possible to find you. Now that I have, you make clear that you have no desire to see me. Sometimes you seem so furious with me that I must fear for my life." His tone held a wry gentleness.
"Did you expect a happy reunion of lovers?" Meg wished, all at once, that she had a hand free with which to slap him—yet she wished, too, that he would pull her into his arms and kiss away the hurt, help her dissolve the bitterness she had carried for years. She wanted to be free of that anger and sadness, but did not know how to release it or if it was even possible after so long.
