*
Restless, unable tosleep, Dougal left his small hut in the darkness to walk over the machair, the wildflower meadow that stretched over part of the island to the dunes. Overhead, the sky had finally gone indigo—Hebridean summer skies could hold a lavender light nearly through the night. The moon, high and pale, reflected in ripples on the sea as he strolled.
Deep in thought, he considered a stubborn problem. Rectangular stone blocks, each weighing several tons, had to be precisely trimmed to fit the circular foundation cavity of the lighthouse. He had drawn diagrams and devised measurements, but knew each block must be hand-shaped in situ to ensure a tight fit. The figures he gave his masons had to be accurate. Long walks often helped him think such things through.
Pausing to gaze out over the dark sea, his mind was as restless as the waves, not because he puzzled over granite blocks,but because Margaret MacNeill had invaded his dreams. He had startled awake from a dream of the girl in his arms, her embrace comforting, luscious, then passionate.
He had awoken in warm sweat with a wrench of longing, half aroused and needing to shake off the dream’s haunting power.
The wind picked up as he stood there, and waves poured to the shore, rolling, plunging, in seductive rhythm. Moonlight gleamed pale through watery arches, their high lacy curls like the proud heads and breasts of white stallions.
There are the water horses of Sgeir Caran,he thought.There is your kelpie.
Seven years ago, washed onto that black rock, he had been drunk, concussed, and half drowned, imagining that the water creatures took him there. A man might see anything under such circumstances, imagine anything.
So he had been saved by waves pushing against the rock, not pale, proud water horses, and the sylph he had encountered had been a lass of Caransay. And he had been daft and lost that night, and yet found in his soul somehow. That night had changed him, bound him to her.
Now that he had found her, he had to make amends. He could not bear knowing that he had so wronged an innocent girl. Her glaring look, hours ago, had been angry, accusing—and deserved.
Girl or none, he had work to do here, and a private mission that drove him to complete it.
Far out, Sgeir Caran was a dark, commanding silhouette. Lesser rocks jutted through swirling water, part of the long reef where ships had sunk and lives had been forfeited over time.
His parents had drowned out there, lost in a storm along that wicked reef, their ship wrecked along its lethal points. Had a lighthouse been in place out there, his parents might still be alive, and he would not have been orphaned so young.The light would have guided their ship and others through the treacherous archipelago and safely to port.
He shoved fingers through his hair, sighed. He was determined to fight for the lighthouse on Sgeir Caran to prevent tragedies and save lives. Lady Strathlin and her lawyers had to accept that. For Dougal, that light would be a monument to those who had died among those rocks. Publicly, its beacon would serve well. Nothing must prevent it from going up on the great rock.
He hardened his mouth, fighting a flash of memory—his parents’ faces, their smiles, their voices. He could not think too long about them, or feel the loss dreadfully, keenly, once more.
Growing up, he had honed self-control and daring as a way to fight those feelings. Death was no matter to him—he faced it often and no longer feared it. Death was an element of the work he did, and so far he had escaped. He had been shipwrecked, had endured outrageous storms, dived deep, climbed high on scaffolds, and had risked his life too many times to count in the work of making lighthouses. There was a thrill in the dare, a thrill in the courage. And there was a sense of rightness in what he did. No matter the risk to those who built them, lighthouses were needed.
Of all the lights he had constructed, this one was far and away the most important for him.
He was known for daring and stubbornness, and he would never give up this fight, despite resistance from the island’s owner. The physics and logic of the matter dictated that Sgeir Caran was the best site. And he had the support of the Northern Lighthouse Commission and the Stevenson firm; they had entrusted him to build it in this godforsaken place.
Somehow, he would do this. He owed it to all the souls lost under those waves, owed it to his father, strong and kind, his mother, bookish and lovely.
He sucked in the salty air as if it were a remedy for old pain.
“Mr. Stewart.” The girl’s voice was sweet and soft.
He whirled. She stood a few feet behind him, surrounded by moonlit flowers and grass. Wind rippled through her hair, shifted her skirt. She was magic after all, appearing just when he needed her in a lonely, dark moment. He felt a strong urge to take her into his arms, make his apology, ask forgiveness. Instead he tilted his head in question.
“Miss MacNeill.” He watched her walk toward him, skirt hem swinging through the flowers. She seemed vulnerable, brittle with tension. “I am surprised you are out here at such an hour.”
“I like to come out before dawn on Caransay,” she said. “The chance of seeing the northern lights is worth losing a bit of sleep. Did you hope to see them, too?”
“I came out to walk and puzzle out an engineering problem.” And to shake free of a dream, but now the dream stood beside him. He looked up at the sky to keep from staring at her like a cow-eyed fool. She was beautiful. He felt smitten, awed, awkward suddenly.
“Dawn is near,” she said, searching the sky as he did. “We will not see the northern lights now. Well, good night, Mr. Stewart, or is it good morning?”
“Let me see you safe home.” He turned with her.
“I am perfectly safe on my island. Good luck with your puzzle.” She stepped ahead.
He caught up with a long step and walked beside her through the long grass thick with blooms. The early light rose quickly, illuminating the wild colors and dancing shapes of the flowers. “The machair is a beautiful thing.”
“It is,” she agreed.
