Suddenly, vividly, she remembered standing on this very rock in another lashing storm. Dougal had appeared in its midst, his presence, his courage, his body shielding her.
Alan directed the crew working furiously on the machinery, ropes, and hoses. “We need more hands on the ropes to help Evan haul that stone away!”
She saw Roderick and Norrie roll up their sleeves to pitch in while the bankers and visitors in black stood observing. Her cousin Fergus held Sean, picking him up to comfort him. Meg ran toward him, but her cousin waved her back, shaking his head to tell her he would keep Sean safe.
She turned to Alan. “Can they move that stone down there? Is it possible?”
“It is not easy,” he said grimly. “It has to be trussed with ropes to lift it. But if it can be shifted just enough to free Dougal’s boot, that is all we need right now.”
“But it weighs tons,” she said.
“Aye, on land. Down there, the weight seems lighter. It can be moved by two men.” He stripped off his coat as he spoke, unbuttoning his vest. “I beg your pardon, Miss MacNeill—LadyStrathlin. I need to go down there to help.” He pulled off his boots and tossed them aside. His ash-blond hair ruffled in the wind, and his linen shirt blew flat against his broad chest and arms.
“But Alan,” she said, “you are needed up here.”
“My friends are in danger. I need to help,” he said. “Dougal is forty feet down, we think.”
“But you have no gear,” Meg said.
“A man can go down that far without gear, just holding his breath. But he canna stay down for long. I’ll do what I can.” He handed the funnel to Meg. “Talk to him. Let him hear your voice. And pray for us, lass. It is a grim thing, this, I will not lie.”
Standing on the cliff edge, beaten by wind and dappled by rain, Alan dove cleanly over the side, cutting through the water.
“Dougal,” she said into the funnel, “Alan is coming down.”
“What the devil!” Dougal replied.
“He can help you push the stone,” she told him. But there was silence. “Dougal?”
“Meg—air…”
“Dougal!”
More silence. Meg caught her breath, then looked down over the side. Bubbles rose where the various hoses and ropes entered the water, and she saw a few shadows moving below the agitated surface of the water.
“Dougal!” she called into the funnel. No answer.
She turned, saw Roderick and the other men busy on the cranks and pulleys and hoses, saw Fergus holding Sean tight, watching from a distance. Her grandfather hurried toward her.
“He’s not answering,” she said. Norrie took the funnel.
“Dougal Stewart!” he called, and repeated the name.
Meg looked down and down into the greenish, slopping surface of the water, roiling with peaks and waves. He had to live—he had to. She could not bear to stand on the rock and wait,listening, watching, hoping, while he was so far below, in danger. She could not endure life without him now.
She wanted to tear off her clothes and dive in, as Alan had done. Dougal had saved Sean and so many others. He had saved her on this rock from the first moment she had met him. He had saved her since, body and soul. Alan said a man could endure forty feet down. So could a woman.
Tearing off her bonnet, she set it aside. The wind took it and skittered it into the ocean. She unbuttoned her cape and bent to unfasten the loops and buttons on her ankle boots.
“What are you doing?” Norrie asked. He lifted the funnel again. “Dougal Stewart! Answer!”
Below, Alan burst out of the water, gasping, treading and rocking in the waves. “The hoses!” he called. “Dougal’s hoses are caught! Toss me a lever!” Someone dropped a long iron rod; it fell into the sea, for Alan missed it in the wind and waves.
Reaching beneath her skirts, Meg undid her petticoat tapes. She wore no crinoline that day, but with four petticoats for fullness, she wished desperately that she had changed into the simple garments common to Isles women before coming out here. She dropped petticoat and skirts.
“What in blazes are you doing?” Roderick called. “Here, stop that, madam!”
She ignored him, standing in linen blouse, chemise, and knickers. “Get this thing off me,” she said to Norrie, yanking at the laces of her stays under her blouse.
