“That kelpie is no fellow to cross,” Dougal said, a smile quirking his lips.
“It is nothing to laugh at,” Margaret MacNeill snapped.
“Our tradition is to make sure theeach-uisgeis always pleased,” Norrie said.
“Do you bring him oatcakes and whisky as well as bonny brides?” Dougal meant it lightly, but saw the girl’s sudden scowl. Norrie chuckled, but stopped when she glared at him too.
“We have honored our traditions for centuries,” she said.
“I understand, Miss MacNeill.”
“Do you?” she asked sharply. “The kelpie will not want a lighthouse there.”
Dougal inclined his head. He knew that Hebrideans relied on age-old superstitions and rituals that created a sense of security and power in what could be a harsh and unpredictable environment. He saw the girl send a stern look to her grandfather and back to him again.
“Stewart, we know you have had some trouble with the lady,” Norrie MacNeill said. This remark earned him another pretty scowl from the granddaughter. Even anger could not chase the sweetness from that face, Dougal thought.
“Lady Strathlin? Aye, some trouble. I hear she has a house on Caransay. If she comes here, I definitely want to meet her.”
Silence followed as the old fisherman dragged on his pipe and clicked it between his teeth, and the girl gazed out to sea. She raised her chin, a gesture of truculence.
“She may not want to meet with you, sir,” she said.
“The lady who owns the isle is not here just now,” Norrie said.
“Not here,” the girl echoed.
“I will be on the island for a long while. When she visits again, I need to speak with her.”
“A long while?” the girl asked. Her voice had an odd tremor.
Dougal sent her a sharp glance. That nagging feeling that he had seen her before grew stronger. He had been back and forth to the island for weeks and had not seen this girl until today. Yet she seemed all too familiar.
“She stays up in the Great House,” Norrie said. “Sometimes no one sees her.”
“The Great House?” Dougal asked. The girl stood silent, the sea breeze filtering through her wild honeyed curls.
“Clachan Mor is her home on the other side of the island,” Norrie replied. “If the lady comes here, I can deliver your note to her.”
“I prefer to meet with her in person.”
“She does not like visitors,” the girl said.
“I am thinking you need her permission to use her beach and harbor,” Norrie said. He drew on his pipe. “And yet you go ahead and do it without asking.”
“I have no choice, sir,” Dougal said. “I work for the Lighthouse Commission, and the commission and the government have ordered this work to be done.”
“The lady does not like strangers on Caransay. But if we see her, we will tell her you are here.” Norrie pointed with his pipe toward the black rock out in the sea. “If you want to please thelady, find another rock for your tall light. She wants privacy for her island.”
“That rock is a dangerous place,” Margaret MacNeill said then. “There are wild storms and high waves out there.”
“I know, Miss MacNeill. I have been out there in all sorts of weather.” Dougal met her gaze. “So I know that a light is needed there to protect the ships that pass.”
Her aqua-blue gaze caught his, and he saw a flash of awareness. Then she looked away again, hastily, nervously. Those luscious lips trembled. She glanced back at him, then away.
Certainty slammed through him, clarifying the elusive feeling of familiarity.
Oh aye,he thought.You are the one. Now what do we do, my lass?
