Taming the Heiress (14 page)

"That's very true," Mackenzie said. He stood. "Dougal, I'll be in the office. I want to record what we saw down there. A few drawings will help us assess the condition of the rock."

Dougal nodded. "I'll show our guests around the site." He took Meg's elbow to guide her with him, speaking to Norrie and Alan while resting his hand on her arm. The subtle thrill of that slight touch made her catch her breath.

"Evan Mackenzie of Glencarron?" Meg asked, glancing at Dougal. "Isn't that property owned by the Earl of Kildonan?"

"Glencarron belongs to Mr. Mackenzie," Dougal answered quietly. "To be truthful, he is the earl's heir and a viscount himself, though he dislikes using his rightful title of Lord Glencarron. You've heard of his father, I take it."

"The man is notorious. He is much hated in the northern Highlands," she said. "He has a wretched reputation for cruelty in his methods to clear his people from his land in order to allow for sheep."

Dougal nodded. "Evan wants nothing to do with his father and refers to himself only by the family name and his own property. But I hear now that the earl is quite ill. If he passes away, he will leave the title of Lord Kildonan to an heir who does not care to inherit a single stick or coin from his father. Evan prefers his work in engineering. He designs bridges and docks, mostly on the east coast so far. A brilliant fellow, though he's the last to admit it. We attended university together, along with my cousin, Sir Aedan MacBride."

She nodded, having heard of MacBride's work in engineering along the byways of Scotland. Having financed some of the work herself, Meg knew more about Scottish bridge and road projects than Dougal Stewart could possibly imagine. "Mackenzie is an experienced diver as well," she said.

Dougal nodded and accepted a towel from Alan Clarke, wiping his brow and slinging the cloth around his neck. "Very competent, and an expert in the new science of geology. I asked him to come out here to advise me on the state of the foundation rock."

"Mr. Stewart is a master diver," Alan Clarke said. "There's none so skilled at it in all Scotland. 'Tis as if he were born to the sea. We can hardly keep him out of it, and though he's had his share of troubles in the water, he always goes back to it."

"Share of troubles?" Meg asked.

Dougal shrugged. "Shipwrecked, among other things. If you will excuse me, Miss MacNeill, I must change into dry clothing." He walked over the roof of the rock toward the strange iron barracks where Mackenzie had gone.

Shipwrecked.
Meg narrowed her eyes, wondering if that was why Dougal Stewart was so adamant about building his lighthouse. Had he been involved in a wreck on the Caran Reef or perhaps lost someone to a tragedy?

He had assured her that they would talk, and she had dreaded it. Now she was impatient for the chance to learn more about him. So far, he had surprised her at every turn.

His behavior in the last few days did not reconcile with his prank seven years ago. Granted, she told herself, he must have changed in that time. She had changed, too, matured, and found a deep compassion for others and stronger respect for herself. And she could allow the possibility that what Dougal had done years ago, he might never do now.

But she could not forgive him so easily for the past.

Chapter 8

Dougal noticed the relieved glance Meg gave him upon his return, as if she hoped for a rescue from Alan, who had begun an enthusiastic lecture on the mathematics of lighthouse design. Apparently the islanders had heard enough about the calculated strength of the tower's height and mass, factored to the pounds-per-square-inch impact of a gale-force wave.

"Miss MacNeill, are there some questions I can answer for you?" Dougal had already begun to think of her as Meg—the simple, forthright name suited her well.

The wry flicker in her aqua-blue eyes told him that her true questions were not about the lighthouse. She tilted her head and regarded him. "I admit I have sometimes wondered what it is really like at the bottom of the sea," she finally said.

That, at least, he could answer. "Magical, really. Quite a different realm—peaceful, beautiful, fantastic. When the light is clear from above, the colors are very bright, and it's easy to see the coral formations and waving fields of kelp. The various fish and sea creatures are astonishing, too." He described a few of them. "It's exceedingly cold, so we wear several layers under the air-inflated rubber suits. And it's noisier than you might imagine," he added, smiling, "with the sounds of the waves and the scrape of corals in the current, and stones and rocks and so forth knocking about."

"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.