As the dancers changed partners, Meg whirled through some complex steps with Sean, their effort so comical that Dougal laughed in delight. Meg looked up and smiled at him. A flood of affection tinged with longing rushed through him.
The other day, kissing her within the little cave, he felt sure she was attracted to him, that she cared. Yet Matheson might be a suitor; Dougal had not asked, and she had not said. He couldhardly expect her to wait seven years, knowing naught about him. He sighed, smile fading.
As Norrie began a slow, poignant fiddle piece, Meg tapped Dougal on his shoulder.
“Grandfather Norrie asked to see you before you leave tonight.”
“I will not sing a tune, unless you want to hear caterwauling,” he drawled. Then he noticed Sean peeking up at him. “Laddie! Having a fine time?”
“Oh, aye! I know all the dances.”
“I saw you dancing with Meg MacNeill,” Dougal answered. “Very fine indeed.” He smiled at her and saw a burst of pink in her cheeks.
His smile went rueful. Just standing near her, speaking with her, felt good. He only wanted to enjoy her company, but the memory of another man kissing her dropped a shadow over the ceilidh’s celebration.
“It’s late,” she told Sean. “You should be going to bed. Where is Fergus MacNeill? He was to take you home.” She turned.
“He’s gone off with friends,” Sean said. “Even small Anna is still awake, over there with Grandma Thora. I want to stay up late with everyone else.”
“This is the lad’s celebration,” Dougal said in his defense.
“It is,” Sean agreed.
Meg shook her head. “You will be exhausted tomorrow when it’s time for lessons.”
“Lessons?” Dougal asked.
“Berry is teaching me English and reading and math at the Great House,” Sean said. “I’m doing very well, she says.”
“The baroness is teaching him?” Dougal asked Meg, confused.
“Mrs. Berry,” she said, though he felt bewildered. “Look, my grandfather is about to speak,” she added. Seeing Norrie beckonto him, Dougal stepped forward hesitantly as the old man set down his fiddle and took up a glass of whisky. Then he began to speak in Gaelic.
Not sure what was being said, Dougal was grateful when Meg leaned close to explain. She translated, but soon Norrie switched to English for the benefit of Dougal and his crew.
“When Mr. Stewart came to Caransay,” Norrie said, “we were not pleased with his idea of a lighthouse. Some of us have not changed our minds about that.
“But we have seen that Mr. Stewart is a good and brave man,” Norrie continued. “He plucked our wee Sean safe from the sea and drove off a shark, even if it was a basker,” he added. “I am thinking he is the equal of the great hero Fhionn MacCumhaill himself. And on Caransay, he is as great as any kelpie or selkie, a man of courage and magical feats!” He grinned. “To Mr. Stewart—the Great Toast!” Norrie stepped up on a stool and raised his glass.
Everyone who held a glass or cup lifted it, then lowered it, held their drink out and pulled it in, all the while chanting in unison, first in Gaelic, then in English.
Up with it, up with it,
Down with it, down with it,
Over to you, and over to you,
Over to me, and over to me.
May all your days be good, my friend!
Drink it up!
“Drink it up!” They shouted in unison, walls ringing, lifting their glasses. Norrie drained and smashed his glass on the hearthstone to rousing cheers. Dougal, accepting handshakes and claps on the back, hoisted Sean to his shoulders. The little boy raised his hands toward the roof beams, yelling happily.
“Aye, my wee friend. Celebrate! All this is for you!” Dougal grinned. As he held Sean’s legs, he saw Meg’s sparkling smile. But he sensed an undercurrent of sadness in her eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
