He loved her. But he did not love feeling fooled or diminished. It came down to an elemental test of character and courage. But he knew what his answer was, deep inside.
He glanced up at soaring, creamy walls and the graceful curve of a staircase that disappeared beyond the upper floor. Far above, the leaded glass of a roundel window in the high ceiling shed sunlight down the stairs to the foyer. In the large parlor down the hall, polished wood-and-brocade furnishings were arranged on an expanse of patterned carpet, and a march of stately portraits lined the walls. Sunlight flowed through glass doors, setting the room aglow.
He admired elegance and simplicity, and saw it throughout here, albeit in expensive materials. And he realized he might never be able to give Meg MacNeill the sort of home to which she was accustomed. His engineer’s salary would never support a place like this, nor would the respectable nest egg that he had inherited at a young age, which included his own manse. He did not visit his family home, Kinnaird House, often enough due to his wandering, hectic life, and had left its primary upkeep to his elder sister, Ellen, and her husband, Patrick Graham.
He shifted from one foot to the other, waiting, wondering at the delay. Would she refuse to see him, having had time to think it over too? Perhaps, he thought, he should leave quietly, walk down the hill and over to Prince Street. He had to catch a train in a little while, and did not have a great deal of time. He could just leave the journal—write to her—
“Mr. Stewart?”
He looked up as a lovely young woman came down the stairs, a pale blonde, her blue eyes vivid. A high-necked black gown drained her delicate summery coloring, but when she smiled, roses bloomed prettily in her cheeks. He remembered meeting her at the soiree.
“Mrs. Shaw,” he said. “How nice to see you again.”
She glided toward him and extended a hand. “Angela Shaw, sir, Lady Strathlin’s companion. May I be of service? The butler said you had a message for her. She is just now in the middle of a discussion with her secretary, Mr. Hamilton. I did not want to disturb them, but if it is important, I certainly will.”
Ah, that was an answer too.“Of course not. I only came to deliver this.” He pulled the book from his pocket. “If you could give this to her, I will be on my way.”
She did not take it. “It seems more than a message, sir. Then do wait. She would want that.”
All he wanted, all he feared, ran through his mind at once. He had come here hoping for the whole truth, but he was not sure how she ultimately felt. In the garden the other night, he felt strongly that she kept something else from him. Did she still not trust him enough? He knew she had good reason to be cautious, considering their initial meeting. Had she indeed forgiven him?
And could he forgive this latest revelation, despite wanting to? He needed to know.
“Thank you, Mrs. Shaw. I have a little time before my train departs. I can wait a bit.”
“Good.” In her eyes, he saw sympathy, curiosity. “Would you like to wait in the parlor?”
He shook his head, endured an awkward silence as she smiled. Then he heard the rustle of skirts and saw Meg hurrying down the stairs, skirts sweeping. He looked up, captivated, then steeled himself. Forgiveness and caution went best together.
“Mr. Stewart,” she said as she reached the foyer. Her full skirt swung, a plaid satin in blue and green with a prim white collar and white undersleeves. The effect was elegant and demure, even to her golden hair, its curls tamed and gently pulled back into a black net. She tipped her head and regarded him calmly. “I am glad you came.”
“Lady Strathlin,” he said. “I wanted to return something to you.”
“Oh?” She tucked a brow as if puzzled, then lifted her skirt to move down the hall. “We can visit in the library.”
“Would you like tea? I will inform the housekeeper,” Angela Shaw said.
“Not yet. I will ring for it,” Meg said, as her friend nodded and departed.
Meg ushered Dougal toward the library just off the parlor, and closed the door. Dougal glanced around at tall mesh-fronted bookshelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling. The room was bright and warm as sunshine streamed through windows draped in gold brocade. The floors were covered in thick, multicolored Oriental rugs. Over the fireplace mantel, a large seascape, a stormy night, added a dramatic note in the serene room.
“Sgeir Caran?” he asked.
“Not precisely. But it reminds me. I—I did not want to forget,” she said.
“I see. You said your grandfather left you his library. I hardly imagined the rest of this.”
“If I had been more accurate about the library, you might never have spoken to me again.”
“I am still speaking to you,” he pointed out. He held out the journal. “I brought this.”
She took the book, frowning. “You did not need to return it. I wanted you to have it.”
“There is an envelope inside.”
She found it, extracted the page, read it. “What is this? A note…and a cheque?”
He had been uncertain how she might react to his decision to approach a publisher, or how she might regard the modest sum. “I am acquainted with Mr. Samuel Logan at Chambers Street Publishers, so I took the liberty of showing him your journal. He was very impressed, found it remarkable and unique. He’d like to publish it, and your other works, if you are agreeable. He’d like to call itA Hebridean Journal,by—”
