A force poured through him, relief, joy, shaking free the years of searching for her, hoping for something more with her. Now she was here, and she was real, no dream, no magic. One of the great losses of his life had been restored. It felt like a miracle.
“Margaret,” he whispered, the name a caress on his lips.
Her hand rose to cup his jaw, her breath warmed his mouth. He sensed a hunger in her that matched his own, and he sensed her need was as sincere as his. He wanted just to hold her, cherish her, heal her reluctance, ease the hurt he had caused her years back. He truly regretted it. At last he could try to make it up to her.
She gave a breathy little moan, as if caught in the same heated fog that held him captive. Then, pushing at his chest, she stepped back, and lashed her hand upward to crack across his cheek, whip sharp.
“What the devil!” he burst out.
She whirled and was hurrying away over the sandy slope, breaking into a run as she neared the croft house.
With his palm nursing his stinging cheek, he stared after her. Overhead, the kaleidoscope sky was fading into gray dawn, and a cool, damp breeze cleared his thoughts.
She was no illusion, and he was a fool. He had ruined her that long-ago night, shamed her. No matter that she had gone willingly, wildly, into his arms then. Small wonder she hated him.
But why had she been out there on that wicked night? He wanted to know. And he wanted to explain himself further and apologize.
He owed her more than an apology. He should have married her years ago, and it had been on his mind—but he had not been entirely certain she was real, nor could he locate her. Now, short of marrying the girl far after the fact, he was not sure how hecould best make it up to her. After that crack across his cheek, he doubted she would consider a marriage proposal.
He shook his head, called himself every sort of bastard and fool. Margaret MacNeill deserved more than an apology. He had been a heartless cad, a concussed idiot, far enough gone that night to think himself enchanted. Morally, socially, deep in his heart, he knew he should marry the girl. He wanted to. Now that he had found her, he could not live with himself otherwise.
Yet suddenly the prospect seemed a greater challenge than any risk he had ever faced.
Chapter Four
“He is stillthere.” Thora opened the door to peer out.
“Grandmother, please, he will see you!” Meg hissed, trying to close the door.
“He will just think I am feeding the chickens,” Thora said, and stepped outside.
Hearing a chuckle behind her, Meg turned to see Mother Elga, her great-grandmother, laughing. Seated at the table, she was feeding porridge to Fergus’s daughter, Anna, perched on her lap. “The kelpie came back for you,” Elga said. “I told you he would!”
Casting a sour glance at her great-grandmother, Meg went to the window, seeing Thora heading toward the chickens under a dawn sky shining pink and blue-gray. Beyond the small kailyard, Meg saw Dougal Stewart standing on a hillock above Camus nan Fraoch, facing out to sea.
If he stood there waiting for her, he could wait all day. She would not go out to him.
Yet her mind went back to another dawn when that same man—no kelpie, not a bit of it—had waited on a black rock for a boat to fetch him. She could never forget watching him sailing away. At the time, angry and hurt, she hoped he had fallen overboard.
Now, her mind was spinning from discovering that Stewart was that same man—and her heart still thumped with thememory of new kisses and powerful urges awakening in his arms.
She leaned her forehead against the window frame. That night had been wild, desperate, joyful, full of passion and promise—and betrayal. But she had burned for him, body and soul, had loved him, could never forget him. Now she was pressed to either forgive him—or stir up all the hurt and regret again. The only thing she could not regret was wee Sean, born of that night.
Yet she had been foolish. Too trusting. And today, with the dawn, she had succumbed to his same irresistible magic. Well, it would not happen again. She was not the same foolish girl as before, and she would do her best to avoid him.
“Margaret, the bannocks!” Mother Elga reminded her.
“Oh!” She whirled to see smoke rising from the iron griddle over the fire and hastened to the hearth. Grabbing a wooden spatula, she moved the burned cakes to a wooden platter.
“Your mind is elsewhere.” Elga bounced the towheaded baby in her lap. Tiny, bent as a blackthorn stick, the old woman pointed a finger at Meg. “You are thinking of the kelpie-man. He has come here disguised as the lighthouse-man.”
“He was always the lighthouse man, Mother Elga. He was never theeach-uisge.We were all fooled.” With silver tongs, she flipped the bacon slices already cooking in an iron pan suspended over the fire. She had purchased an iron stove for her grandparents’ cottage, but they continued to cook in traditional ways, while the gleaming black oven and cookstove in the corner provided a shelf for stacks of dishes.
Elga snorted. “That kelpie is very clever.”
Cheeks hot, mouth pinched, Meg flipped the bacon too quickly and it spattered.
“Tcha,”Elga said disdainfully. “You have forgotten how to cook, now that you are a fine spoiled lady in a great castle!”
