to his charm, she told herself. She must stay away from Stewart until he left the island.
I never give up, he had told her.
Well, neither would she.
Chapter 7
Birds left the sea rock like ashes on the wind. A flare, a noisy bellow, a plume of smoke, and then debris erupted from the massive rock. Falling rocks churned the water below, the ripples spreading out to bounce a dozen boats.
Cheers and applause rose from those watching inside the fishing boats. Norrie, hollering with the rest, lifted a hand in salute, then grabbed at the oars. Thora, Mother Elga, and Iain, riding with him all clapped and laughed, along with the others.
Meg sat silent in the bobbing bow, unable to enjoy the spectacle as they did. She had spent time and funds trying to prevent this very thing from happening. Sgeir Caran would never be the same. The blasting would forever alter the rock and mar its ancient soul.
Most of all, she was concerned about the wildlife and bird colonies on Sgeir Caran. Watching birds fleethe rock like an upward spiral of dark smoke, she frowned.
Another sky-high eruption was greeted by yelling and clapping from those in the boats scattered over the water. Some of the islanders had watched the construction explosions on the rock for much of the morning. Neglecting lobster pots, nets, and chores, they were thrilled by the gigantic plumes of smoke and fire flaring into the bright sky. A little while earlier, Dougal Stewart had sent men out in a rowboat to ask the spectators to keep their boats well back for reasons of safety. The people had complied, declaring the view still marvelous.
Meg had witnessed pyrotechnics in Edinburgh, London, and Paris, and she understood that the islanders found these explosions to be novel and entertaining. Witnessing this with them, she felt only sadness. For her, the glorious beauty of nature far outstripped fireworks and explosions produced by man. Nothing could compare to the grandeur of the aurora borealis or the awesome sight of storms and lightning.
After a lull came another flare and an enormous plume of smoke, and wild cheers rose from the audience. Watching, Meg wished the rock could stay unchanged forever, a sanctum sanctorum for birds and seals, a monument to ancient traditions and legends. Sgeir Caran was a place of mystery and power, and it had a personal, treasured significance for her privately.
Nothing in life remained the same, and too often wonderful dreams fled with the dawn. She had learned that lesson well.
* * *
Soft, gentle rain fell on his hat and the shoulders of his gray coat as Dougal mounted the slate steps of the entrance to Clachan Mor. He lifted his hand and knocked. As much as he hated wearing a hat, he had donned his bowler out of politeness. He adjusted its brim as he waited. Damn—he had forgotten his gloves, he realized. He shoved one hand in his pocket.
After a few moments the door opened to frame a tall, thin woman wearing a black dress, a white apron, and a lacy cap. She stared down her narrow nose at him with dramatic effect, for she not only stood a step above him, she seemed as tall as he was—and he bested six feet without his boots.
She was a gaunt, harsh harridan, despite the soft silvery beauty of the hair beneath her little cap. Her eyes were steel as she looked him up and down so that he felt like an untidy little boy. All the governesses and dominies he had ever known glared at him through this woman's cold stare.
"Good day. Is Lady Strathlin at home?" he asked.
He expected the formidable creature to shut the door in his face. "Who is calling?" Her intonation was stiff.
"Mr. Dougal Stewart, resident engineer on the Caran lighthouse, come to see Lady Strathlin."
She stared, unforgiving. No doubt she knew all about his dispute with the baroness. Glimpsing movement in the shadowed hall behind her, he looked past her into the entrance hall, where he could see the gleam of polished wood, brass and crystal, the rich tones of Turkish
I never give up, he had told her.
Well, neither would she.
Chapter 7
Birds left the sea rock like ashes on the wind. A flare, a noisy bellow, a plume of smoke, and then debris erupted from the massive rock. Falling rocks churned the water below, the ripples spreading out to bounce a dozen boats.
Cheers and applause rose from those watching inside the fishing boats. Norrie, hollering with the rest, lifted a hand in salute, then grabbed at the oars. Thora, Mother Elga, and Iain, riding with him all clapped and laughed, along with the others.
Meg sat silent in the bobbing bow, unable to enjoy the spectacle as they did. She had spent time and funds trying to prevent this very thing from happening. Sgeir Caran would never be the same. The blasting would forever alter the rock and mar its ancient soul.
Most of all, she was concerned about the wildlife and bird colonies on Sgeir Caran. Watching birds fleethe rock like an upward spiral of dark smoke, she frowned.
Another sky-high eruption was greeted by yelling and clapping from those in the boats scattered over the water. Some of the islanders had watched the construction explosions on the rock for much of the morning. Neglecting lobster pots, nets, and chores, they were thrilled by the gigantic plumes of smoke and fire flaring into the bright sky. A little while earlier, Dougal Stewart had sent men out in a rowboat to ask the spectators to keep their boats well back for reasons of safety. The people had complied, declaring the view still marvelous.
Meg had witnessed pyrotechnics in Edinburgh, London, and Paris, and she understood that the islanders found these explosions to be novel and entertaining. Witnessing this with them, she felt only sadness. For her, the glorious beauty of nature far outstripped fireworks and explosions produced by man. Nothing could compare to the grandeur of the aurora borealis or the awesome sight of storms and lightning.
After a lull came another flare and an enormous plume of smoke, and wild cheers rose from the audience. Watching, Meg wished the rock could stay unchanged forever, a sanctum sanctorum for birds and seals, a monument to ancient traditions and legends. Sgeir Caran was a place of mystery and power, and it had a personal, treasured significance for her privately.
Nothing in life remained the same, and too often wonderful dreams fled with the dawn. She had learned that lesson well.
* * *
Soft, gentle rain fell on his hat and the shoulders of his gray coat as Dougal mounted the slate steps of the entrance to Clachan Mor. He lifted his hand and knocked. As much as he hated wearing a hat, he had donned his bowler out of politeness. He adjusted its brim as he waited. Damn—he had forgotten his gloves, he realized. He shoved one hand in his pocket.
After a few moments the door opened to frame a tall, thin woman wearing a black dress, a white apron, and a lacy cap. She stared down her narrow nose at him with dramatic effect, for she not only stood a step above him, she seemed as tall as he was—and he bested six feet without his boots.
She was a gaunt, harsh harridan, despite the soft silvery beauty of the hair beneath her little cap. Her eyes were steel as she looked him up and down so that he felt like an untidy little boy. All the governesses and dominies he had ever known glared at him through this woman's cold stare.
"Good day. Is Lady Strathlin at home?" he asked.
He expected the formidable creature to shut the door in his face. "Who is calling?" Her intonation was stiff.
"Mr. Dougal Stewart, resident engineer on the Caran lighthouse, come to see Lady Strathlin."
She stared, unforgiving. No doubt she knew all about his dispute with the baroness. Glimpsing movement in the shadowed hall behind her, he looked past her into the entrance hall, where he could see the gleam of polished wood, brass and crystal, the rich tones of Turkish
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