“I—nearly tripped. That’s all.”
She had expected to see a handsome man, a devilish, infuriating, obstinate man, the heir to a fortune, a builder of lighthouses. A persistent man whose work took real courage and daring.
She never expected to see the cad who had fathered her child and had broken her heart forever.
Stewart frowned at her, his gaze intense and penetrating. Did he recognize her? Oh God, she thought. Please, no.
Drawing closer, she was convinced this was the man she had met on that rock years ago. She would never mistake that face or the lean, stern toughness of him, a rugged, masculine beauty. The man she dreamed of—in dreams where she told him frankly what she thought about what he had done that night. Yet a man she loved and could not forget.
Dark-brown hair fell in sun-streaked waves, framing a face with rounded cheekbones, a firm jaw, a dusting of dark beard; his brows were straight, his smooth skin tanned from sun and wind. He wore a brown vest, dusty black trousers, and no coat; his shirt sleeves were rolled, and his open collar showed a strong, tanned throat. He stared as she approached.
Dear God, this was him, and no mistake. Meg touched the locket at her throat, and drew her plaid shawl over her hair to shadow her face as she approached him beside her grandfather.
He could not be allowed to recognize her. She could not bear it. Her legs quivered. She would be very foolish now to reveal that she was Lady Strathlin. She felt desperate to run away.
“Grandfather,” she said urgently. “Please do not tell him who I am. Not yet. We must all keep that secret until I decide what to do.”
“We can let it wait,” he replied.
Dougal Stewart stepped forward and held out his hand. “Mr. MacNeill! Good to see you, sir.” He smiled at Meg and nodded, his eyes inquisitive, narrowed, so keen on her.
She prayed he would not know her. In seven years she had changed, matured. And he was still the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Sun and years had etched intelligence and wisdom around his eyes and in the slight creases beside hismouth. He had filled out, was larger, even more powerful. His eyes, edged in sooty black lashes, were the muted gray-green of a stormy sea.
He waited for an introduction, smiling politely. Meg lifted her chin, feeling defensive. He had hurt her deeply once, and she must tread carefully, not let him know just yet.
But the urge to tell him, corner him, find out why he had done what he had done, filled her, pushed at her. She flared her nostrils, tightened her lips. He sent her a puzzled glance.
“Good day, Dougal Stewart.” Norrie spoke in English. “And Alan Clarke. This is my granddaughter, Margaret Fiona MacNeill. Lass, this is Mr. Stewart and Mr. Clarke.”
She offered a hand in silence as Stewart took her fingers. “Miss MacNeill, good to meet you.”
Touching him was a dreadful mistake. That ordinary contact shocked through her. Catching her breath, she met his penetrating gaze. He frowned. Did he recognize her?
She snatched her hand away, nodded to Clarke, and stepped back. Dougal Stewart turned to Norrie with a question about the mail runs to the Isle of Mull.
“Miss MacNeill, are you from Caransay?” Alan Clarke asked politely. He was a pleasant fellow, blond and blue-eyed, stockier and shorter than Stewart.
“Originally, aye, but I live elsewhere now. I come back to visit when I can.”
“It is a beautiful place,” Stewart said, having heard their exchange. She felt caught once more in his piercing gaze. Earlier she had wanted to flee—but now she wished for the courage to confront him. Slap him, give him her fierce thoughts on being betrayed. Not now, not here.
But suddenly, fiercely, she wanted him to know that she had felt betrayed, had felt angry toward him ever since that night, not knowing who he was or if she would ever see him again.Now, certain of his identity, she was stunned. How could he return to Caransay in this capacity, an engineer planning to destroy a legend by building on the very rock where he had once betrayed an island girl he did not even know?
Yet her heart conflicted with her sense of indignation. Sometimes she dreamed of him and yearned for him, wished for the return of that love, that bond. He had been protective and tender that stormy night, had wooed, won, loved her—and tricked her. He was only ordinary after all.
Temper rising fresh, she urgently wanted to tell him exactly who she was, and what had become of her after he left. But she had to wait, had to keep her identity secret from the engineer.
She must summon dignity and bide her time. The baroness would invite the engineer to the Great House to reveal the truth when the time was right.
“Mr. Stewart,” Norrie said then, “I heard you hired the MacLeod lad to take you over to the Isle of Mull in his wee boat. Just so you know, I sail to Tobermory on Mull once or twice a week when the weather allows. Next time you wish to go, I will take you and bring you back. No need to ask the lad, though he was glad to do it.”
“Thank you. I shall remember.” Stewart nodded.
Meg stood silent, quelling rising emotion. Sea foam lapped at her feet, cooling her body, cooling her ire. She had to think of her child and find the right moment.
Then she caught her breath. Would Dougal Stewart want to take his son away from the island, away from her and her kin, board him in a school as was common for young lads? She wanted him to stay on the island where he was safe, away from her other life. She could never allow him to be put in a school until he was ready—and she was ready.
Thinking that, she glared at Stewart. He returned a quizzical glance.
