“Some, at first. I realize I might have been wrong.”
“Well. Done is done.” He bowed his head, aching inside. His train would leave soon and he must hurry. Yet something held him back, a desire, a need he resisted. “Farewell, Lady Strathlin.”
Her eyes brimmed with quick tears. “Just farewell? I thought—we would talk today.”
“Now that I am here again, I wonder what more there is to say.” A few remaining doubts suddenly overtook the hopes that had bloomed. “Your life has no room for such as me. I am aware of that. You have many obligations, and many with expectations of a woman of your means. So, aye, perhaps farewell is justified.” He turned for the door, even as his heart fell to his feet and an inner voice urged him to stay.
“No,” she said firmly.
He stopped, did not look back. “I also have obligations, and those work against what you may want. And I have a train to catch, frankly.”
“Tickets can be changed. But what will change this?” Her voice broke. “What do you need?”
He drew a sharp breath. “Meg MacNeill,” he said softly. “I need her.”
She was quiet for a moment. “And you have no use for Lady Strathlin?”
“I expect that the baroness has no use for a lighthouse engineer.” He could not look at her, though in his peripheral vision the grand library reminded him of her astonishing wealth.
“Pride?” Her voice quivered.
Hurt,he wanted to say. He did not turn, for if he saw her, he would only want to pull her hard into his arms and keep her there. All his pride, all his resistance, would vanish. And he still felt something unresolved, held back, and did not know if it came from him, or from her. It was just there, in the room, in the space between them, immovable and invisible.
“I can apologize for my wealth, but I cannot change it.”
“The wealth—it is not that important,” he said. “What matters here is who I am, who you are. Whoweare. And that I cannot answer.”
“I am just me, as I am. And perhaps we—we care, yet we are both so proud.”
“Pride, aye,” he agreed. “And we both need freedom, each in our way. I have a wanderlust, lady, and I like risk too well. I would always choose freedom over the lock that wealth and status can put on a man. Even if it means giving up what I most—cherish.”
“What is that?”
“You know what that is.” He reached for the door handle.
Something struck him hard between the shoulder blades. He looked down.
A narrow leather boot lay on the floor, its side buttons loosened. Before he could look up, another boot hit his arm. He whirled.
Chapter Twenty-One
Meg sat ina chair, having worked off her boots to fling them at him. Now she rolled her stockings down—he glimpsed lace-edged knickers and undone garters before her skirt slid down. Balling up her hose, she tossed those to float and pool on the carpet.
“What the devil are you doing?” he asked.
Without reply, she stood, rucked up the voluminous hem of her dress, and tore at the tapes of her crinoline. As the cage dropped to her feet, she stepped out of its circle, hands under her skirt struggling with hidden drawstrings. A white flounced petticoat puddled on the floor, followed by another of linen, a third of red flannel.
“Meg, what are you doing?”
“You wanted Meg MacNeill,” she muttered, ripping at her white half sleeves, tossing them away. One flapped over his face. He batted it away. “I am finding her again.”
Dougal huffed, bewildered, as she tugged at the black net that bound her hair and flung it away, hairpins scattering with it. As she whipped her head side to side, her hair rippled out in a wild golden cloud.
“There!” She lifted the drooping hem of her skirt to reveal bare feet, small toes curling in the plush carpet. “Meg MacNeill.”
He stared at her, heart pounding, head reeling with surprise and a new, fragile hope.
“I like my freedom, too,” she said, breathless, stepping out of the chaos of her underthings. “I have all but lost it. I want it back.” In her voice, he heard a faint trace of a Gaelic rhythm, as if she had tossed her perfect English aside with her fancy clothing.
