“I want to give you something in return, to remember me by.” She pulled a cloth-wrapped packet from her skirt pocket. “Do not open it out here in the wet and the wind. Wait until later.”
He crammed the sturdy packet inside his coat, and tipped his hat. “Thank you. But—to remember you? Are you planning to leave?”
“Soon, aye.”
“I must leave for Edinburgh soon to tend to some business. I hope to see you when I return.” He would not be gone long, but he was unsure if she would be on the island when he came back. Why did this feel suddenly and dreadfully like goodbye?
“Perhaps. I must return, ah, home soon. I no longer live on the island.” She clasped her hands, rain slicking down her curls, wind billowing her skirt.
“Mull, I think?” When she did not answer, just stared at him, he was overwhelmed with a renewed urge to pull her to him and claim her stubborn little heart, tell her all that was in his mind and his heart now. He sucked in a breath. “Meg, whatever troubles you, we can solve it.”
She shook her head. “Not this. I do not know how to solve this. Wanting—what cannot be.” She whirled and ran.
“Devil take it,” he muttered, and went after her. Just a few steps and he reached out, cupping her shoulder in the rain, turning her, taking her in his arms, shielding her from the rain as he kissed her soundly. She gave a little cry and pushed her fingers through his damp hair, knocking his hat somewhere, rain falling on both their heads as she kissed him, he kissed her, not knowing where it began, where it would lead, how it might end as the rain beat on their heads and shoulders and mud collected around their feet. In the distance, thunder rumbled.
She broke away, breathless. “When you kiss me like that, I cannot think.”
“Do you need to just now? There is something between us, so strong, do you not feel it?”
“I feel it—and I must think,” she burst out, nearly a cry, and pushed at him.
He let go as she spun away. “Meg—”
But she was running again, splashing through rain and mud, and did not stop. This time, he could not chase her; she needed the chance to think, feel, sort this through. At first, he had been muddled too, but time with her, and kisses, had clarified his feelings. Now he had to trust that her thoughts and her heart would favor him.
“Everlasting hell,” he muttered, snatching up his hat and stomping off to make his way up and over the machair toward the clustered huts where sensible men were inside, dry and warm.
Entering his small hut, he removed his wet outer things, lit the lamp, and then extracted the package from inside his vest. Unwrapping the paper that sealed it, he found a leather-covered book tied with a red ribbon. It was one of her journals.
Taking a seat at the wobbly table, he turned the pages carefully. Filled with pencil and ink studies, some washed with pale color, the pages were crammed with images of flowers, plants, shells, stones, birds, and wildlife. She had added notations in lovely handwriting, a brief commentary for most of the drawings.
Fetching a drink of whisky against the chill and the rain, and to fortify his sorry heart, rejected again—yet hopeful now, for this was a tender and meaningful gift. He pored over the pages with care, then sat back, resting his hand on the book. Something was tapping at his awareness, something he had seen before, recently. Perhaps her other journal—not that, he thought. Something else familiar.
Outside, the rain was a heavy downpour, noisy on the thin roof and walls. Taking out the letters Norrie had brought, he read them by lamplight; one contained more news from Dundas and Grant, none of it promising.
The wind shook the thin walls of the hut, and he could hear the waves crashing relentlessly onshore, reminding him of another fierce storm on the night his life changed irrevocably.
Shoving a hand through his hair, he was struck by a powerful depth of loneliness for one person. But he must give her distance to discover how she felt about this between them. Then he would take her in his arms again—or walk away.
With a sigh, he turned his attention to the latest salvo from the lady’s insufferable lawyers. And he had letters to write; the Lighthouse Commission needed to be informed of delays and developments. He could trust Norrie to get the letters out as quickly as possible.
First, the island would need to outlast this storm.
*
20 August 1857
To the Northern Lighthouse Commission
George Street, Edinburgh
Dear Sirs,
Recently we endured a storm of considerable force on Caransay, two days of high winds, heavy rain, and breakers taller than any man. We emerged from confinement in our quarters to find a world littered with damage and debris.
On Sgeir Caran, the lighthouse worksite lost one work shed, while the smithy, once riveted to the rock, now lists to one side. Various tools are missing, as well as a workbench, all blown into the sea.
Most astonishing of all, two stone blocks, weighing one ton each, were shifted off the rock by wind and wave, and now lie at the bottom of the sea. We will need to fetch the stones and other items with the help of cranes and divers in gear.
