“Do you know these flowers?” He did not care, just wanted something to say. “Buttercups, just there? And bluebells.”
“Buttercups, bluebells, daisies,” she answered. “Over there is yarrow and wild oat grass, and meadowsweet too. Underfoot, those tiny purple flowers are small irises past their bloom. Over there, you can find wild strawberries and brambles and clusters of wild roses growing thick over the stones in the turf.”
“Lovely.” He watched her.
“Over there, the heather blooms are so thick that the hills look purple from out at sea.”
“I noticed that the other day.”
“No one planted these flowers, no one tends them, but they flourish. It has always been thus. In summer, the daisies turn the machair to white and gold and the bees tumble over them, drunk with nectar as they head home to the hive.”
He chuckled. “You love this place. You know it well.”
“I do, Mr. Stewart.” Behind them, the sea shushed endlessly to shore. “It is paradise.”
“I suppose the baroness agrees.”
She stopped. “You can go back now. I will head home from here.”
“I would rather escort you. It is still rather dark.”
“There are no strange men about,” she said. “Just you, I suppose.”
He drew a breath. “I have the sense you do not like me much, Miss MacNeill.”
“I like you fine. Go back to your hut, Mr. Stewart. I do not need you here now. None of us need you here.”
“I suspect you refer to lighthouses now. Are you acquainted with Lady Strathlin?”
Her steps faltered, then she walked on. “Why?”
“She shares your poor opinion of me. So do her passel of lawyers.”
“We cannot all be wrong.”
“Ouch,” he said. She chuckled, walking beside him, and he took her elbow to guide her around a rock at their feet, half submerged under the flowery blanket of the machair.
That quick and simple touch went through him with crackling awareness. He let go, a bit stunned, telling himself it was only the dim light, the lush sound of waves, the strange magic of the hour before dawn. In daylight, he would hardly have noticed. Or would he?
Ahead, he saw a croft house tucked against a hill, whitewashed with a thatched roof and darkened windows. The house faced a small bay, sparkling and peaceful.
“Yours?” he asked.
“My grandparents live here. You can leave now, sir.”
“No need to bristle so, Miss MacNeill. I am no harm to you.”
She stopped, staring up at him, seemed to bite off a reply. A sea breeze fluttered her skirt and plaid shawl, and loose strands of golden hair wafted away from a thick, messy braid. “I am not bristling.”
“You,” he murmured, “are like a porcupine when I am near.” He reached out to brush wayward tendrils away from her brow and eyes. She leaned back.
“Do you know Lady Strathlin very well?” He felt compelled on the subject.
She shrugged. “Everyone here knows her. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. I hear she inherited an enormous fortune from a grandfather from Edinburgh or the Lowlands.”
She shrugged. “So they say.”
