“Somewhat,” she said, as a stiff breeze fluttered her hat brim and loosened spirals of her hair. She reached up just as Stewart grasped her hat brim. Their fingers brushed, lingered. He lowered his hand.
“Your hat was about to blow away. Golden as sunshine, your hair,” he added.
Her knees went weak, and a yearning spun through her. She moved back. “That was rather too familiar, sir,” she said primly.
“We were once,” he murmured. “I thought—well. Forgive me.”
She was not ready to forgive him and did not know if she ever would. Yet she liked the man, which she had not expected, should they ever meet again. Silent, she watched their son splash along the shore.
“Well, I must go,” Stewart said then. “Please tell Lady Strathlin that I shall call on her soon.”
“I will,” Meg said.
He smiled, his eyes crinkling. “Tell her I look forward to meeting her.”
She narrowed her eyes. Would he guess? How long before he worked it out, with his habit of walking about to think things through?
“And tell the lady she is welcome to come out to Sgeir Caran to see the work we are doing. Perhaps if she saw the site, she would understand the need for the project. And if you would care to visit the rock, as well, I would be more than glad of it.”
She caught her breath at the very thought of standing on that rock with him again. “I will think about it.”
“Fine. Good day, then.” He smiled down at her, and that mischievous, gentle curve dissolved something deep inside her. Another barrier of resentment tested, weakened. He had a certain magic, this man, a natural ease of humor and intelligence that intrigued her. And his slightest touch, smallest smile cast a spell.
She bent to gather Sean’s bucket and shells. Her notebook lay on the rock and she reached for it, but it slipped and fell at the engineer’s feet. The pages fluttered open, revealing pages covered with sketches and notes.
He stooped to pick it up. “Yours?”
“Aye. Just a journal of the flora and fauna on the island.”
“May I see?” He flipped through some of the pages, pausing to admire a study of a shell, a starfish, a bird.
“Fascinating,” he commented. “You are a scientist and an artist, Miss MacNeill. These are very good. You like birds, I see.” He glanced up at her, then back to the page. “And careful notations in English and Gaelic, too. Remarkable work.”
“I have been keeping journals for years, making drawings and then looking up the names of shells, plants, birds, and such.”
“You must have a fine library…where you live. The Isle of Mull, is it?”
“My grandfather collected an excellent library.” She stopped, saying too much again.
He lifted a brow. “Yourseanairhas a library?”
“Not Norrie. My maternal grandfather.”
“I see.” He turned more pages. “Gannets, puffins, storm petrels…and eagles. I did not know there were so many birds on Sgeir Caran until I came here again.”
Again.She looked out to sea. “Birds, aye. And on the island, an abundance of wildlife, plants, seaweed too. There are several varieties of kelp here.”
“Kelp. Interesting.” He closed the book.
“Kelp is essential to the island’s wellbeing. It is gathered and dried for potash and exported to the mainland and elsewhere. It is used in manufacturing glass.” She spoke too fast, wanting to rush past a mention of birds. She recalled the note she had sent him about protecting the seabirds.
“It provides a solid income on some islands, I know. I have some investments in the kelp industry, and in herring, too. Silver darlings bring a good income too,” he explained. “Nicely done, Miss MacNeill.” He handed the book to her.
“Every page is impressive. Will you begin another? Perhaps study birds—on the rock?”
She felt her cheeks burn. “I may do that. We—we all love the birds here. The wildlife and plant life on the island and the reefare precious, Mr. Stewart. Caransay is beautiful and idyllic. It is partly why we do not want a lighthouse so close by.”
“Lady Strathlin agrees with you. No doubt she would love your wildlife journals.”
