by Susan King
"For freedom, I suppose," he murmured. "I like wanderlust too well, and risk. I like my pride as it is, I think. Good day, madam." He stepped toward the door.
As he reached out for the door handle, something struck him between the shoulder blades. He looked down.
A narrow leather boot lay on the floor, its side buttons loosened. Before he could look up, another boot hit him square in the hip. He whirled.
Chapter 21
She sat in a chair, having worked off her boots to fling them at him. Now she slid off her silk stockings, hastily rolling them down her legs, pushing up the embroidered hems of her knickers to get at the garters. The silk hosiery flew outward and floated down to the carpet.
"What the devil are you doing?"
Without answer, she stood and reached under the voluminous hem of her dress, tearing at the tapes of her crinoline. The cage dropped to her feet and she stepped out of it, still struggling with other hidden drawstrings. She wriggled out of a white flounced petticoat, another of cotton, a third of red flannel.
He strode toward her. "What the devil are you up to?"
"You want Meg MacNeill," she muttered, "and so you shall have her." Stepping out of the pool of cottons and laces, she then ripped off her embroidered half sleeves and tossed them outward. One of them flapped over his face. He tore it away.
Pulling at the black net that bound her hair, she tugged it free, scattering silver hairpins with it. She whipped her head from side to side, and her hair spilled out, gloriously wild and rippling with natural curl, full as a golden cloud.
"There," she said, lifting the limp hem of her skirt to reveal her bare feet, small toes deep in the plush of the blue-and-gold carpet. "There. Meg MacNeill."
He stared at her, heart pounding, head reeling with surprise and with a hope so fragile he hardly dared express it.
"I like my freedoms, too," she said, chest heaving. "I have lost them. I want them back." He heard a faint trace of the Gaelic in the rhythm of her speech, as if she had tossed aside her perfect English with her fancy clothing.
God, how he loved her.
"What else do you want?" he asked softly, coming closer.
"You," she said, watching him. "I want you."
He gave her a slow, quizzical smile. "And what of Frederick and your promise to marry him?"
"He is an odious bully. I will not let myself be afraid of him any longer." She paused. "You are not afraid of him."
He huffed to express the truth of that and walked carefully over what seemed an acreage of lace, silk, and cotton scattered at his feet. "Now you're showing some sense."
"I will need some help to break free of him, though." She lifted her head as he stopped a hand-breadth away. "It will not be easy. I owe him loyalty for all his help to me in the past, but he has proven himself lately not a... pleasant man. Nor will you will be pleased with me, once I tell you the rest."
"So there's more," he murmured. "Miss MacNeill, you are never dull. You are more a challenge than any I have ever faced. Far simpler to charge into a storm or dive into the sea than to keep pace with you, with all your turnabouts."
He reached out and tipped up her chin, and with a thumb wiped the damp traces of tears from her cheeks. Her delicate nose and exquisite eyes were touched with pink.
She sniffled, tilted back her head. "You said you needed Meg MacNeill. I have found her for you."
"So you have," he murmured. "And the baroness, too. The lass tends to herself quite well, but the lady needs reassuring."
"But you do not care for the baroness."
"Did I say it? The bonnie lady is a fetching creature," he said, "and she has all my heart—but for the deepest part, which belongs to the bonnie lass." He bent down, slipping his hands along the fine-boned frame of her jaw.
Unable to help himself, he felt his anger dissolve under the magic of her winsomeness. Later, he thought, he would seek the rest of the truth, for he sensed there was far more she had not told him. Now, though, he felt trust and faith return full force. He wanted only to love her and leave the rest until its time. He lowered his head and kissed her.
Caught in the spell of his lips, Meg felt herself melting into his kiss, turning to flame as his fingers gentled over her throat and downward. She pulled in a quick breath as he found the swell of her breast, his hand lingering there, a warm cradle. Her knees turned buttery, and she grabbed his arm for support. He broke the kiss, drew back and dragged a fingertip over the shell buttons that closed her bodice.
"What about," he murmured, "your stays, madam? Will you dress again, now that you have made your point, or will you revel in a little more freedom?"
Freedom. She longed for it, had been caged too long as the baroness. He understood her need, shared it himself. Her fingers flew to the neck of her gown, slipping off the lace collar, working the long line of buttons. Dougal reached out, and his fingers worked the buttons slowly, his knuckles next to her skin, grazing over the swells of her breasts.
She tipped back her head, closed her eyes, sighed as he worked down to her waist and opened the bodice of her gown. He drew the separate blouse away from the skirt, exposing the corset cover, the bothersome stays, and the ruched chemise.
Silently he turned her to work the laces at the small of her back, drawing away the stiff whaleboned canvas. Then he spun her to face him, and she came willingly into his arms.
Her body felt free and sensuous, clothed now only in chemise and knickers, for Dougal quickly loosened the tapes of the satin skirt and let it fall to the floor. She looped her arms around his neck and leaned into him, reaching up to work off his coat and his waistcoat, while he kissed her so deeply that she faltered where she stood, moaned breathily.
He lowered her with him to the floor, down to the thick blue-and-gold carpet that reminded her of the beach at Caransay. They sank down behind a blue horsehair sofa, and Meg stretched out beside him, the silky thickness of the Aubusson carpet cushioning her back.
Kissing him, she sighed as his lips, the tip of his tongue, swept the shell of her ear. Her fingers were nimble at the buttons of his shirt, and she tugged the linen away, finally sliding her palms over the firm planes of his chest. Leaning forward, she touched her lips to his warm skin, its taste slightly salty. He streamed soft kisses along her jaw and down the arch of her throat until his lips touched her upper breast.
Gasping deeply, she threaded her fingers into his thick hair and writhed under his mouth, his deft fingers. The fine golden chain around her neck shifted, and she felt the slight weight of the gold locket against her throat, a reminder.
She must stop, she told herself hazily, stop this and deny herself what she wanted so very much. What remained unsaid between them still burned in her. Honest, he had called her once. Earnest and pure.
She had to tell him. But his hands, his lips coaxed her to wait. Just one more kiss, once more to touch him like this, like that, as she explored his body with more boldness. Her fingers found him, shaped him, caressed, and he groaned against her lips. Slipping her hand under wool, under linen, she took him in her hands, warm velvet over heated steel, and he sucked in a breath.
And then she could not stop, not then, for he had found her, too, discovered the tender places that only he had touched, that honeyed slick for him. Tearing at his clothing, rolling and shifting with him on the silken carpet, she surged against him, moved with him like the sea, merging and seeking, soaring and arching, and then, through some sparkling natural magic, vanishing into him as he poured into her.
* * *
"This way," she whispered, tugging at his hand. Her skirt and crinoline, restored to her, rustled and swung gently against his trousered legs as he followed her into the room.
She took him into a small study off the spacious library, a cozy room with dark, gleaming wood paneling and a large mahogany desk, leather armchairs the color of sherry, carpets of red and gold. The walls were crammed with books from floor to ceiling. The fireplace was cold and dark now, but t
here was more than enough fire and spirit in the masculine elegance of the room.
"This was my grandfather's study," she said. "He preferred this small room to all the others, in all the houses he owned."
She went to a small japanned cabinet of black and gold and opened a door to take out a box of inlaid wood. The exotic smell of sandalwood wafted from it as she set it on the desk and opened it, removing two thick bundles of letters tied with white ribbon.
"When I first inherited and came to live at Strathlin," she said, "Mr. Hamilton and I were exploring this study looking for some important documents. I found this."
"To be stored there," Dougal said, "they must be from someone special."
"They are all from me," she said, "to him. I wrote to him for years. I visited him every winter for several weeks and spent most of that time with tutors. My grandfather was already a widower, and his sons were grown. My mother, his only daughter, would bring me here to visit."
He recalled what little she had said of her parents. "I thought Lord Strathlin did not approve of her marriage to her Hebridean fisherman."
"He did not, but she remained loyal and still came here to visit, bringing me with her. After she was gone, I came to Strathlin myself every winter until my grandfather died. And I wrote to him often."
She lifted a packet of letters, fanning the edges without opening the ribbons. "I told him about Caransay," she went on. "I described the island and the flowers on the machair, the shells on the beach, the birds and seals on Sgeir Caran. I told him about sailing and fishing with Grandfather Norrie and about how I played on the beaches and swam in the sea, climbed the hills and the headland. And I would make drawings for him, lots of drawings." She touched the bundle. "They are all here."
Dougal felt a sense of amazement, realizing the importance of that for her. "Your journals started with these letters," he said, "when you were a child."
She nodded. "He never wrote back to me. Except for a yearly invitation to come to Strathlin Castle for tutoring and for the fitting of a new wardrobe, he never wrote, never even mentioned the letters I sent. But I sent them, one after the other."
"He must have appreciated your loyalty," Dougal said. "He must have been glad to know you were fond of him."
She nodded. "Gruff as he was, I loved him. And I felt sorry for him," she added. "I thought he was lonely here. I did not realize how busy he was, building a shipping and banking empire. I was a child, and I scarcely knew about Matheson Bank then."
She walked around the great mahogany desk, fingers trailing. "He would sit here working, ignoring me when I stayed at the castle. When I was small, my mother would bring me in to talk to him, and I would tell him about our puppies on Caransay or show him my drawings. He would write or read, and I would chatter on. And then he would tell me to go."
She shrugged. "I thought he did not love me, that he tolerated me as an obligation, especially after my mother's death."
"But then he left everything to you. His sons were gone. There were no others in line for it?"
She shook her head. "Only cousins after us. And he designated me his heir—I did not even know about it. But when I came here to live, after his death, I discovered this box."
Dougal nodded. "He kept your letters."
"Every one I ever wrote. Every drawing I sent."
"He loved you very much. Perhaps he simply did not know how to express it at the time, and so he left you all he had."
She nodded as she put the letters back in the box and shut it away in the cabinet. "Nearly two million pounds, they told me, when the will was first read out, along with title and properties and ownership, though not authority, over the bank."
"Astonishing," he murmured.
"Incomprehensible to me. I did not want it. I railed against it, cried, refused at first. I wanted to stay on Caransay, for that was my home. But the will was ironclad. I had no choice, or the estate would go into the bank's control, and this beautiful house, all the others, would be locked to Lord Strathlin's descendants. I was to inherit it all, the title as well, which could be done easily enough in Scotland. I had so much to learn in the first years after the inheritance. Fortunately, Mrs. Shaw became my tutor and companion, as did Mrs. Berry, who had been my governess whenever I stayed here at Strathlin."
"Ah, Mrs. Berry. The lady who is fond of swimming." He grinned a little.
"And the bankers and solicitors were good men, well intentioned if not accustomed to dealing with young women outside their own families. They honored Lord Strathlin's wishes and brought me up to the task, holding my hands like a child that must learn to walk. Including," she added, looking up at him, "Sir Frederick."
Dougal nodded, frowning. "You mentioned that he has been helpful to you."
She nodded, faced the window, where clear afternoon light showed her deeply creased brow. "My grandmothers on Caransay believe that the inheritance came to me through... magic," she said. "From that night we spent together on the rock."
"Aye, magical indeed," he murmured. Then he realized that something greatly disquieted her, for her posture was taut and her eyes had darkened to a stormy blue-green.
"The legend," she said, "of the kelpie of Sgeir Caran who comes for his bride on the sea rock. He grants good fortune on his bride and on Caransay...." She paused, turning to look at him, her eyes wide with that look of haunted emotion that he had seen when something troubled her greatly.
"What is it, love?" He reached out his hand to brush at her hair, which was loosely caught up in a black net after their lovemaking; a few wayward curling strands had slipped free. "It seems almost as if there is some truth to that legend."
She nodded. "I came by much good fortune after I spent the night on the sea rock, just as the legend says," she murmured.
"Even though the kelpie did not really appear to you," he said with a soft chuckle.
She did not smile, remaining so somber that it puzzled him. "My grandmothers believe it. And they... they have their reasons. Dougal, I need to show you something."
She slipped a finger under the high neck of her plaid bodice and drew out her small golden chain with its dangling locket. Wordlessly, she flipped the tiny catch and opened the twin oval frames.
He saw the ring made of threads and golden and brown hairs that she had woven that morning and beside it a tiny portrait, a towheaded infant whose sweet face reminded him of her. He thought it must be a picture of herself as a child, perhaps commissioned by her mother.
"Aye," he said, his voice roughened, low. "The ring. I know." He pulled out his pocket watch and opened the hidden compartment in it, a false backing lined with thin glass, then held it out to her. She gasped.
The glass circlet pressed his own woven ring, which she had made for him and slipped on his finger as he slept. "I've carried it with me everywhere," he said. "It was all I had of you, those years... and all the while, I was not sure you existed. I had this, which was real, but I wondered if it could be a bit of fairy thread, woven of magic."
"While I always knew that you were real. Too real," she said. "But my grandmothers thought you were the kelpie of the reef. They still believe it. They believe... that we were married that night and that the ring proved it. And..." She paused, looked at him, her eyes lustrous and tormented.
"And what? What other proof could they have of it?" He almost smiled, but for her solemn mood.
"They say the kelpie of the sea rock bestows unusual good fortune if his bride pleases him greatly," she said, fingering the little open locket with its ring and its portrait, "and gives him a child."
He frowned, baffled. "But you—you did not—you are not—"
She gazed up at him. "I did."
He grabbed her by the shoulders. "What do you mean? What are you saying? A child came of that night? Our child?"
She nodded, her eyes swimming in new tears, some of them spilling free down her cheeks.
"For the love of God, woman," he said, nearly shaking her. "Tell me!"
"Iain," she whispered. "He's... Iain."
"My God," he breathed. "How could you not tell me that!" He nearly shouted, stepping away. Shoving a hand through his hair, he turned back to her, stunned. "Iain?"
She nodded, her lower lip wobbly. "I have kept the secret of it for years, and I knew I had to tell you, but I... I could not, until I trusted you and knew you would not try to take him away from me."
He stared hard at her, not certain how he felt—angry, elated, still shocked. "My God. I would never do that."
"I know that now. I did not know it then."
"Fair enough." He rubbed his brow, thinking. "Who knows about this?"
"Very few people. My grandparents on Caransay and Fergus, of course. And Mrs. Shaw and Mr. Hamilton." She paused. "And... and Sir Frederick knows."
Dougal felt a cold chill run through him. "Sir Frederick?"
She nodded. "Somehow he found out from a doctor who tended me in the early months. Frederick told me that he knew and that he would tell everyone that I had an illegitimate child being fostered with a family on Caransay. So I..."
"So you promised to marry him," he finished for her. "That blasted pig," he muttered under his breath.
Meg squeezed her eyes shut against an onslaught of tears, and lowered her head. "Dougal, I am so sorry," she whispered. "I have made a mess of this... from the very... beginning."
"Hush." He crossed to her in two strides and pulled her into his arms. "Hush, my bonny," he murmured. "When I think of you alone with this—bearing a child, not knowing the father, I am angry at myself for allowing it to happen to you. But now that it is out, we can fix it easily enough."
"How—how is that?" she gulped.
"Well, I suppose I ought to marry you," he whispered against the soft crown of her head. "I do not see how it can be avoided."
