“Just thinking—thank you, Mr. Stewart,” she said quietly.
“You are very welcome, my dear Miss MacNeill,” he answered magnanimously, realizing that the whisky and the merriment had loosened his tongue a bit and had even set his restrained spirit free for the moment. Her answering smile was all in her eyes now, and he felt as if the room all but disappeared.
Norrie spoke again in Gaelic, and the crowd cheered loudly, clinking glasses in salute.
“What did he say?” he asked Meg.
Meg blushed. “Oh, they’re drinking a toast to me now.”
“‘And here’s to our Margaret,’” Fergus translated, standing nearby, “‘the finest lady with the kindest heart in all the Western Isles. May she have all the happiness she deserves!’”
“Quite a compliment,” Dougal remarked.
“Grandfather has half a keg of whisky in him by now,” Meg said. Her cheeks were fiery. “When his fiddle playing goes wild and beautiful and he calls for the Great Toast, the drink has opened his soul. They say the more whisky in the fiddler, the better the fiddling.”
Dougal laughed. “Whisky or not, I agree with Norrie. Our Meg MacNeill is a fine lady.” He leaned toward her. “If Mackenzie had let you jump into the water, I have no doubt you would have saved the lad yourself, and kicked that shark away, as well.”
Instead of laughing, her eyes were somber, so beautiful with it that he ached. “I would never let the sea have my son,” she said fiercely.
“Sean should learn how to swim. I’ve offered to teach him. He’s like me, I think. He’s drawn to the sea. It’s in his blood.”
“In my blood!” Sean said giddily from his high perch on Dougal’s shoulders. He stretched his arms high and laughed as Dougal turned around with him.
Meg stared, still serious. Then she whirled and shouldered through the crowd. Hands resting on Sean’s knees, Dougal watched her go. Then he slid the boy to the ground to go enjoy a cup of the fruit brose that Thora had prepared with cream, oats, and wild strawberries.
As Meg left the room, Dougal wondered what the devil he had done to upset her.
*
Meg stood nearAlan Clarke, listening as Norrie ended another song and an off-tune string gave a narrow whine. She wondered when she could leave, take Sean with her, and flee to Clachan Mor.
“Miss MacNeill,” Alan said. “I am curious. Is that Lady Strathlin over there?” He indicated the woman who now chatted with Thora and some of the fishermen’s wives as they served food and drinks.
Seeing Mrs. Berry, Meg hesitated. She had dreaded this question ever since her grandmothers had let Dougal believe that Mrs. Berry was the baroness.
“I—ah—oh,” she said, as Dougal Stewart joined them.
“I am curious too,” he said, having heard the conversation.
“That lady? She is Mrs…. ah, Berry, Lady Strathlin’s… companion.”
“I have seen her,” Dougal said, “but we have not met.” He frowned, and Meg could see that he was working out the puzzle of who Berry was, which would lead him to wonder who Lady Strathlin might be.
“Everyone is here tonight but Lady Strathlin,” Alan said. “Even such a high-and-mighty shrew as that one should be moved by Sean’s rescue.”
“I am sure she was quite moved,” Meg snapped.
“I hope she is not as shrewish as she seems through her lawyers,” Dougal said. He was still staring thoughtfully at Mrs. Berry. “I could swear that Mrs. Berry was Lady Strathlin.”
“You were simply mistaken,” Meg said.
“Apparently. And once again I have not found her even on her own island.” Dougal watched her steadily. “Though they say she is here.”
“Somewhere. She keeps her distance.” She met his gaze.I am your shrewish baroness, Mr. Stewart,she thought.And I need you very much just now, and cannot let you know.
He narrowed his eyes, and she looked away. The risk was too great now that she wanted to reveal all to him, but feared to take that chance.
“She might be here in this room, disguised as a fishwife,” Alan chuckled.
