“That doctor was a drunken fool.”
“And that spring, as I recall hearing,” he went on, his voice smooth and his grip tight, “a little boy was born and welcomed into the MacNeill family. The child’s parentage is somewhat obscure, from what my sources say. I have asked around. I sent someone here a while ago to ask about Lady Strathlin and the family—most would not talk. But some did.”
Some did. Her heart pounded.
“They say you were married to a sailor, but he drowned. They say no one knew him, so it was a mysterious wedding. If it existed,” he added. “They know, of course, that you are Lady Strathlin, and they say you return often to Caransay and spend a great deal of time with one child in particular, your child from that—supposed marriage.” He glanced again at Sean, his smile benign, yet flat.
She wanted to slap him, shake him until the evil in him showed. But he only smiled, smug and unbending. And she saw what he wanted—his advantage. Marriage, and his silence.
“He looks like you. So blond, with that charming smile. But I think his eyes are not yours, his chin is not yours. Those camefrom his…father.” He glanced down at her. “This news would be of great interest in certain circles in the city, don’t you agree, Margaret?”
“You would not tell—” Oh, God, she had admitted it. “Nor would I care.”
“I would not tell. A man never betrays his wife. Her secrets are his.”
“Wife,” she repeated dully.
“Now, he may wish to betray a friend, a cousin, a woman who falsely represents herself as having good moral character and has inherited a position of some merit. It might be a service to others if her story were known to the public. A moral lesson. Something humbling. Though I wonder if investments might fail. The board members would be so disappointed. And that poor boy, growing up knowing he was born out of wedlock. A bastard. Could he even inherit, hmm?”
“What do you want, Roderick?” She yanked back, and this time, he let her hand go.
He bowed his head. “Autumn weddings are so lovely. Kiss me, Margaret.” He leaned down.
Meg tipped her face up, but as he lowered to set his mouth to hers, she turned her cheek.
“How can you deny me, sweet Margaret,” he murmured against her cheek, “when my heart beats only for you?” He took her hard by the shoulders and kissed her soundly on the mouth. His lips were sticky, pressing too hard, bone to bone instead of cushioning. Meg broke free. “I need time to think.”
“Of course. Until the soiree, then, in Edinburgh. You will be back by then.” He caressed her cheek with a gloved finger. “That night, we will make our announcement.”
Leaning away from his touch, she whirled, leaving him standing, proper and out of place, in the sand. He did not follow,and she hoped he would leave soon, smug in his cruel victory. But she would not let it be his victory. She could not.
Yet she trembled, feeling as if her whole world rocked beneath her feet, about to collapse.
She glanced back to see Dougal Stewart standing with his men. He looked in her direction. Had he watched the exchange, wondered what it was? She turned away, walking quickly back toward Sean, away from Roderick, away from Dougal.
Yet she felt Dougal’s gaze on her, felt an awareness of him all through her, steady as sunshine on her shoulder, and sharp as a crack of lightning.
Chapter Eleven
“Good to seeyou here, Mr. Stewart,” Fergus said, just above the sound of Norrie MacNeill’s fiddle. “The ceilidh is in honor of wee Sean’s rescue and your brave deed in the waves.”
Dougal smiled, nodded as the fiddle music drew to a rousing finale amid wild clapping and shouts for more. “Thank you, Fergus. And thank you for the supply of fish. Our cook is making fine meals for the workmen this week.” Fergus had brought buckets of fish to the barracks after Sean’s rescue to express his personal thanks.
“There’s more from my catch for you and your crew anytime.” Called by an acquaintance, Fergus excused himself, leaving Dougal content to stand in the midst of the crowded main room of Norrie MacNeill’s house.
Anywhere he turned, he was shoulder to shoulder with the inhabitants of Caransay as well as his work crew. Standing by the hearth, Norrie guided the bow over the fiddle, filling the room with music. The songs varied from happy rhythms that set dancers spinning to evocative, poignant songs that had some wiping away tears. captured the emotions and raised more than a few tears.
Norrie was accompanied by a few kin and neighbors playing drums and even a piper, and Fergus stood up to sing a tune or two. Dougal remembered that Meg had remarked fondly that Fergus reminded her of her deceased father.
As the hour grew later and the whisky flowed freely, Dougal was surprised to see Evan Mackenzie stand to sing a tune as well, his voice so rich and sure that the room grew quiet, and applause and cheers rang out when he finished. The crowd had sung a familiar refrain with him, and Meg joined them. Silent, Dougal closed his eyes to listen to the sweet magic of her voice.
The walls and floors fairly shook with dancing and stomping feet, and the modest house glowed with music, chatter, laughter and happiness. Content to listen and watch much of the time, Dougal leaned a shoulder to the wall as Meg swirled past him in Alan’s arms, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling.
Remembering the gentleman who had walked with her on the beach the other day, he frowned. He had asked Norrie about the man and learned he was Sir Roderick Matheson, a banker and owner of the nearby Isle of Guga, who had come out for the day to visit Meg MacNeill. A cousin on the girl’s mother’s side, and fair smitten by the lass; with that, Norrie had sent Dougal a sideways glance and said no more of it.
Dougal had noticed how they had strolled arm in arm on the beach, and he had certainly seen her allow Matheson to kiss her. That sight felt hard as a blow. Yet he sensed resistance and displeasure in her posture and the way she stomped away, leaving the fellow alone and looking as out of place as a penguin.
Just as well, Dougal thought, that he had not met the man himself. Best he kept distant.
