Glancing at gulls wheeling overhead, he remembered that the baroness seemed to care very much about the island, the rock, and the birds. He could hardly blame her. Caransay had a strong, peaceful beauty, a balance of water, air, earth, rock, sunshine, and breeze. The magic of the place was also due to its earnest, handsome people and their fascinating legends. He would never deliberately disturb the beauty and serenity, no matter what the baroness thought.
Climbing a low slope, he saw a grand stone house on a heathery hill. A pathway led down to a small bay and a crescent of beach. He wished the baroness was home; he would knock on the door, preferring direct conversation to the delay of letters.
Strolling closer, he heard laughter and women’s voices, and soon saw women and children. With them, hair a golden glow in the sunshine, Margaret MacNeill sat on a blanket on sand, legs curled under her skirt, a straw bonnet beside her. She held a book in her hands as she watched two other women. He recognized Norrie MacNeill’s wife and elderly mother playing with a chubby baby and a young boy. A fourth woman waded in the water, her elaborate black swimming costume ballooning around her.
The little boy waved at Dougal, who lifted a hand in response, recognizing the bold wee lad who had climbed the headland the other day. The women turned, and Margaret stood quickly as Dougal crossed the beach toward them.
A breeze fluttered her hair and blew her skirt against her body, revealing long slender legs, graceful hips, taut body, firm breasts. Lust plunged through him. She was honey bright and lovely, too much so, and he wanted her with a surprising quake of spirit as well as body as he recalled powerful shared kisses—
But those were followed by a stinging slap. The awkward matter between them could not be addressed here. He paused.
She stared at him, then walked to the water’s edge. Her attitude warned him to be cautious; it would need time to clear the matter between them.
The little fair-haired boy, dressed in short trousers and a linen shirt, padded barefoot over the sands toward him. “Hello! Are you Mr. Stoo-ar?” he called.
“Stewart, aye, lad. Who might you be, young sir?”
“Sean MacNeill, I am.” He puffed out his chest and pointed to himself. “Norrie MacNeill is my great-grandfather, and he is a fisherman. I will be a fisherman someday too. Did you come here to catch a fish?” His English was good for such a small Hebridean. Dougal smiled. He was inexperienced with children, knowing few of them, but judged this one to be five or six years old, a fine, fair, healthy child with wide, very green eyes. A fearless creature, too, from the way he had swarmed up the rocky headland before Margaret had plucked him down.
Dougal bent to shake the boy’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Master MacNeill. I came out to find Clachan Mor, hoping to see the lady who lives there.”
“I know her! She is my mother. She owns all this, every bit.” He spread his arms wide.
Mother! So the baroness had a son here, perhaps a husband? He was puzzled, but it was not really his business to know. “Is she here on the island, then?” Dougal asked.
“She’s here,” Sean said. He gestured vaguely behind him with a closed fist, then opened his fingers to reveal a periwinkle. “I found a shell. See?”
“Very nice! The lady is here? Which one?” Dougal asked, surprised. The boy pointed toward the water, where Margaret MacNeill splashed barefoot in the surf, her back to them as she put on a straw hat against the sun. Norrie’s wife and old motherwere close to the water too, while the lady in the black costume walked farther out.
“The one in the water?”
“Aye,” Sean answered, distracted as he poked in the sand with his fingers. “I have other winkles, too. I have a whole bucket of them. Crabs too. Some are alive,” he added. “Come see.”
“I would like that. Is your mother the lady with the big hat?”
Sean glanced around. “Oh, that’s Berry.”
Confused by that, Dougal heard Sean’s name called as Thora MacNeill hurried forward to take the child by the hand. The elderly lady followed, moving fairly quickly given her age. Elga, he remembered.
“Sean, do not bother the gentleman,” Thora said. “Greetings, Mr. Stewart.”
“Good day, Mrs. MacNeill. And Mrs. MacNeill.” He nodded to both older women. Elga, the very old one, tiny and wrinkled, stared at him intently.
“Mr. Stoo-ar,” she said, her elderly voice shaking. “Left your great black rock, did you?”
“Aye. I will go back soon,” he said, wondering why she ogled him so.
“And sure you will,” Elga said.
“Come, Sean,” Thora said. “We’ll go down to the water the way you like.”
“Will you carry me the way you would carry oldseanairout to his boat when you were young?”
She laughed and bent so Sean could clamber onto her back. Then she hefted the child, grabbed his legs, and began to walk. Dougal smiled and strolled beside her.
“So that is how Hebridean women bring the fishermen out to the boats?” He had seen fishermen’s wives bend to take their husbands on their backs, wading through the water to keep the men dry for the long day at sea. Thora was wide and strong, andhe could well imagine her toting long, lanky Norrie out to his boat for a day’s fishing.
“It is the way, aye,” she said.
