He had to make that night up to her somehow. This time, he wanted to woo and win her, if she would allow it. The feeling rang inside him like a deep bell. He knew, suddenly and surely, what he wanted. Gazing at Meg MacNeill, he knew that in some hidden place in his heart, he had loved this girl for years, even when he was uncertain if she were real or imagined.
And she was very real, and very attractive, and he very much owed her. An intense craving quaked through him, a mingling of remorse and guilt and a powerful desire to make this right.
He had hurt her before—he realized that now. And his lighthouse threatened what she cherished. He knew that, too. His behavior years ago was inexcusable, and was an obligation of marriage. She had mentioned a husband whom she had lost early on. If she was free to marry, Dougal had a chance to offer her the security she deserved for herself and her son. If she agreed to accept Dougal after so long, he would be glad to take in another man’s son.
Then he shook his head in surprise. He had always avoided marriage, vastly preferring the freedom and danger of his demanding work over settling into domestic quietude.
“Mr. Stewart,” she said then, bringing him around. “My grandfather asked about the birds.”
“Ah, the birds,” he said, coming back from his thoughts. He explained that he would ensure that the birds could still lay claim to more than half the great rock.
As Norrie and Meg MacNeill walked ahead of him to look at another section of the rock, Dougal followed. He had work to do, but he did not want them to leave yet. He did not wantherto leave.
Watching her, he had a sudden memory, a strong feeling, that years ago he had married this girl in one sense. A pledge, a promise—and a little threaded ring. He had kept it safe. Did she still have hers? Had any of that truly happened?
As he stood beside her in the damp, salty air, with the seabirds reeling and calling overhead and the blue-diamond glint of the ocean sparkling bright on the water, he knew, fiercely, keenly, that he wanted to marry Margaret MacNeill. The desire and the need had been there all along, yet he suddenly became aware of it. Perhaps that was why he had never pursued marriage to another.
Despite a calm wind and a soft-rippled sea, he felt as if a gale had knocked him to his knees.
*
Sitting on aledge of stone on the far side of the rock, Meg sketched in her leather journal and waited for Norrie. Her grandfather was so fascinated by the work of building the lighthouse as well as the diving equipment, that he continued to stroll the site asking questions of the laborers, many of whom were local men who knew the reef and understood the moods of the sea and the weather here. Dougal Stewart had gone to supervise some task, and though she was ready to return to the island, Meg was content to wait. She was glad of a little time alone, a respite of peace watching the changeable clouds, listening to the shush of the sea and the creel and call of birds.
She sketched quickly as a pair of gannets returned to a nest perched on a ledge on the tall stack rock that thrust out of the water near Sgeir Caran. Turning the page, she began another sketch, but paused as she noticed a deep crevice beyond a cluster of rocks. The little cave she and Dougal had shared was just there.
A shiver went through her, then an ache of longing so fierce that she sank her face into her hand and shook her head a little. If only she had known who he was—if only he had stayed, life would have been so different. So good, dare she imagine it.
“Miss MacNeill?” He was there beside her suddenly, though she had not heard him approach. “Meg—are you well? Is the sun too strong here?”
She looked up. “I am fine,” she said tersely. “Is my grandfather ready to go?”
“Not yet. He is having a fine time. But if you want to leave, I am sure you could convince him.”
“Soon. He really is interested and enjoying the visit.”
“And you?” He tipped his head.
“Very interesting,” she said. “I did not expect some of it. The monster from the deep, for one thing.”
He chuckled softly, nodded. She wondered if he caught the reference to their own meeting. “Well then. I see you found more birds to draw in your journal. They have not all left.”
“Not yet,” she said, closing the journal and getting to her feet. Dougal offered his hand in assistance. Hesitating, she accepted it, feeling again that thrill of comfort in his touch. Suddenly, she withdrew her hand and quickly stood. She’d made a decision.
“Mr. Stewart, let me show you something. This way.”
Runnels of water over ages had worn an inclined pathway in the stone, and Meg took the slope upward, Dougal following, both stepping carefully on the damp rock.
To one side was the entrance of their little cave. She saw him glance there, then at her. She ignored that and turned to face the sea, pointing outward.
“Look there.” On innumerable ledges and protrusions in the rock, hundreds of birds clustered, most of them white with black markings. “Gannets. They come here every year to nest. Thousands of them, raising their young where they can find shelter—”From storms,she nearly said, too aware of how close they stood to the cave that had sheltered them.
“Shelter from storms, aye,” he said quietly.
She drew a breath and went on. “Shearwaters nest on the rock too, and others. Over there, under that outcrop—do you see the little dark bird on its nest?” Its feathering gleamed in the sunlight. “A shy little petrel. They are pretty little birds that skim close to the water.”
“They make their nests beneath overhanging rocks where they cannot be seen,” he said.
He all but quoted from Lady Strathlin’s indignant letter about the birds. “Puffins nest here too,” she went on quickly. “They prefer the other end of the rock, where there is moreconsistent sunlight. And seals gather to sun themselves there”—she pointed downward—“where there is a stretch of pebbly sand.”
