Wind stirred the delicate golden strands of her hair and blew her plain dark skirt back against her lithe form. The sky had grown much darker in the time Dougal had been in the house, and the wind was cold and fast, bringing rain.
“Dirty weather indeed,” Norrie said. “It will blow hard tonight. Best get home, sir.”
“Good night, then.” Dougal nodded toward the others, then looked at Meg. She watched him, eyes wide-eyed and haunted somehow. He could not look away.
Beyond them, the fire crackled in the hearth, the elders sat quietly, the little black terrier asleep at Norrie’s feet. The shadowed room was warm, cozy, and welcoming. In the amber glow of the lamplight, Meg’s golden hair and creamy skin were heavenly.
He was reluctant to leave, but not because of the storm. The lure that held him was the golden girl in the shadows, as well as the hominess of the place, the goodness of these people. This humble croft felt as much a home to him as his aunt’s grand manse in Strathclyde, though he dearly loved that place and the kinfolk there who took him and his siblings in after theylost their parents. Yet he felt just as comfortable among these veritable strangers.
But he did not want Meg to be a stranger in his life. He would not give up on that.
“Good night, Mr. Stewart,” she said, a hand on the door. Wind and rain whipped outside.
“Miss MacNeill, good night.” He reached into his pocket. “I nearly forgot. I wanted to give you this.” He handed her a small paper packet.
Looking at him in surprise, she peeled away the paper—he had wrapped it in a page torn from a notebook—and gasped to see the small aquamarine pendant, polished and glittering. Dougal had cleaned it and strung it on a black cord, with no other suitable chain.
“It’s lovely! Where did you—why—”
“I found it in the sea, at the base of Sgeir Caran,” he said. “Evan Mackenzie and I went down in the deep the other day, and this was caught in a crevice in the rock. We found coins, too, Spanish doubloons. They must have been caught in there after some old shipwreck. The pendant was encrusted with coral, so it has been down there a long time. It is a bonny wee thing, and I…well, I thought of you. I apologize for the black thread. I had nothing else for it.”
“It’s beautiful. I shall treasure it.” She glanced up at him. “The woman who owned this may have lost her life out there on the reef.”
“A very long time ago. It looks to be very old, an old-fashioned thing. I thought you would appreciate its beauty and its value.” He shrugged, though the dazzle of happiness in her eyes meant everything to him just then.
“Thank you, Dougal,” she whispered. “I will always think of you when I wear this.”
That hurt, but he did not react, setting his hand on the door close to hers. “Show it to Lady Strathlin,” he said. “Remind her how many lives have been lost on the reef. Perhaps she would better understand the importance of that lighthouse.”
Her eyes went wide and anxious, though she did not answer, but reached up to tie the black cord behind her neck, suspending the pendant at her throat, over the simple neckline of her blouse. A small golden oval hung there, too, just below the pulse in her throat.
“You already wear a necklace.” He had noticed it the night they had loved on the beach.
“I often wear this,” she said, her slim fingers graceful as they popped the tiny catch. Framed in the two halves, he saw a miniature portrait of a child with golden curls—and though she closed the locket quickly, he glimpsed what was caught under glass in the other oval: a braided circlet of red thread and looped hairs, golden and brown. The sight struck him to the core.
He carried its twin tucked in the hidden compartment of his pocket watch. Instinctively, he touched the watch pocket in his vest, tempted to show her that he had kept his braided ring too. But he would not be a maudlin fool desperate for her love. Enough to know she had kept her ring, too.
“Well,” he said, stepping back with a cool smile, “I am glad you like the jewel. Good night.”
Thora came toward the door. “Best stay here, Mr. Stooar. This storm could blow up so fast that you might not be able to stand up on your way back.”
“I will be fine. Good night.” Dougal tapped his bowler on his head and stepped out into the battering force of the wind. Holding the brim of his hat, he fought his way across the wet sand of the yard toward the slope leading to the machair.
“Mr. Stewart!” Meg cried out. “Dougal, wait!”
He turned to see her running out of the house. He waited, while the wind pushed at him, nearly whipped the hat from his head, though he held it on. Rain slanted over his shoulders.
“Stop! Come back to the house and wait this out!” She came closer. The reedy grass blew all around them, and the surf pounded loudly on the beach. “Norrie says this is looking more fierce than he thought, and you should come back. A man could get washed out to sea just going home.”
“Go back inside. You’ll be soaked.”
Her gown was already damp, but she shook her head. “You as well. You are so obstinate.”
“As are you, lass,” he said. The next gust of wind beat at her skirts and blew her hair over her eyes. She brushed all of it back and held his gaze.
“I came out to thank you for the gift.”
“You thanked me inside.” He wanted to pull her into his arms for wild kisses in the rain. Instead, he stood with water drizzling from the brim of his hat, heart twisting for love of her, his hands flexing as if to release the feeling.
