“After all, she inherited only a few years ago, when she was just twenty-one, from what I have heard. The fortune came to her through her grandfather. Surely you have heard of the Matheson Bank heiress.”
“I pay little attention to the doings of society.”
“True, you avoid parties and gossip, commendable in its way,” Mary said. “And you are often out on some rock or another.”
“One does not hear much gossip under the ocean,” Dougal said with a rueful laugh.
“Well, her inheritance created quite a stir, from what I heard then. She was originally from a simple Highland family, I believe, perhaps the Isles, so when her grandfather left her the greatest fortune in Scotland, she had much to learn about society and city life.”
“Ah,” Dougal said. He remembered that Meg had mentioned a grandfather on the mainland who had left her his library. Quite a library, he thought. “When did this happen?”
“We were newly married,” Mary said, glancing at her husband. “Six years ago. It is rather like a fairy tale,” she went on. “The inheritance was something like two million pounds. The grandfather’s two sons had died without issue, and his onlydaughter had died years before, leaving a daughter who had visited her grandfather as a child. He designated her his heir, to her surprise. She even needed tutoring to train her to the responsibilities of her new position.”
“She was born in the Isles,” Dougal said. “I heard on Caransay that Lady Strathlin purchased the lease to protect the inhabitants.” But Meg never mentioned that she was Lady Strathlin.
“And thus began your difficulties on Caransay,” Connor said.
“So it would seem.”
“She learned quickly,” Mary continued. “She had the formidable task of overseeing a bank, and she has done so admirably. She is also known for her generosity, particularly toward Highlanders and Islanders.”
“Closer to home,” Connor said, “she has lately founded a home for unmarried mothers. It is apparently a beloved cause of hers, helping young mothers in poor straits without husbands.”
“She is not married herself,” Mary said, “yet she is a prize of real consequence.”
“I’m sure her bankers and lawyers will have a say in her marriage,” Connor said.
“No doubt,” Dougal said. Roderick Matheson would certainly have their approval, he thought.
All this only added to the blow of her betrayal. If it was true that she intended to marry Sir Roderick, then she was nothing like the woman he believed he loved. She was neither the passionate creature he had met on the sea rock, nor the winsome, earnest girl he loved deeply.
Who was she? What did she truly want—what was her scheme?
Then a still, quiet voice inside his mind added to the puzzle. Could he love her no matter who she was? Could he forgive and understand why she had kept so much from him? Would he trustthat she cared about him? And if he loved her, did anything else truly matter?
He blew out a breath at those unanswerable questions. And the carriage came to a halt.
Chapter Nineteen
Afairy-like visionof beauty waited in the drawing room, a girl spun of aqua silk and netted clouds, sparkling with silver and pearls, filled with the warm glow of welcome. As a steady stream of guests poured past Lady Strathlin, each one receiving her bright smile, a few words, the touch of her gloved hand, Dougal walked behind Connor and Mary, his gaze fixed on Meg.
After a while, he glanced around the large drawing room at elegant furnishings, broad pattered carpets in green and gold, crystal chandeliers shining with gaslight. The walls held oil paintings, windy landscapes and blowsy portraits, and the tables held marble busts and elegant bronzes. In a far corner, musicians played violins and flutes. Through open doors, he saw a long table draped in snowy linens, gleaming with silver and crystal, an array of rich foods illumined by candlelight.
Everywhere he saw the stamp of luxury, privilege, and graciousness. He saw no hint of the girl from the Isles who preferred simplicity—yet she stood at the center of it all, impossibly beautiful in that airy, tranquil, sparkling, priceless gown.
He wanted to seethe in fury, wanted to walk away, told himself he should not be here. And yet as soon as he drew near her, he knew why he had come.
He loved her. The strength of it, the certainty and substance of it, flowed through him like whisky and honey and dreams. He loved her, he burned for her, and he wanted the truth.
Edging closer, he saw that her gown was the color of her eyes, the delicate blue-green of sunlight through water, the white veiling like the froth of a wave. She stopped his breath, stilled his heart, whirled him on the axis of his soul.
“Dr. and Mrs. Connor MacBain,” the butler announced. “Mr. Dougal Robertson Stewart.”
Meg looked up quickly, eyes startled wide as she met Dougal’s gaze. As she focused on Connor and Mary, she gave them a melting smile. They moved on, and Dougal stepped toward her.
She tilted her head with a tremulous smile. Her eyes were beseeching. When she offered a hand, he took it, glove to glove, cool and cordial, bowing over her hand. For a long moment, he met her gaze in silence. He knew the sweetness of those lips, the softness of her skin, her silky hair. He did not know this young beauty draped in lace and silk and sprinkled with pearls and stars. Then he noticed the simple black cord encircling her throat, holding the aquamarine-and-gold pendant he had found at the bottom of the sea. Its gold was a spark of warmth in the cool, serene perfection of her ensemble. He frowned. The pendant had little value; surely she owned prettier jewels, although the stone matched her gown and her eyes. Only they knew its significance. He had found it at the base of their rock and had given it to her. Hope soared, pushed through anger for a moment. Did she feel it too, this bond, the dream of their island paradise, all but dashed now?
“Mr. Stewart,” she said, “how good to see you again.”
