Taming the Heiress (13 page)

Alan Clarke, the foreman, stood waiting for them on the quay. He caught the rope that Meg tossed, looping it through an iron ring in the stone before turning to assist her out of the boat. His grip was strong and sure, and he was built like a golden bull, his eyes vivid blue beneath a shock of thick blond hair. She recalled how pleasant he was whenever she exchanged greetings with him on Caransay. Glancing up, she did not see Dougal Stewart among the men standing near the edge of the rock.

"Hello, Miss MacNeill, and welcome," Alan Clarke said lightly. "And Mr. MacNeill! Mr. Stewart said you might come out to see our progress." He led them toward the steps. "After the explosions, it's a bit of a mess on the roof, I'm afraid. Step carefully." Walking on the outer side of the rough steps, he ushered them carefully upward.

Attaining the high, flat plateau, Meg glanced around in dismay. The remote, isolated sea rock was a scene of chaos. A huge crater dominated the center area, and broken rock and dressed stones were stacked around its edges. Clusters of men worked with tools and clunky pieces of equipment. Workbenches, tarpaulins, ropes, kegs, wooden crates, and slabs of stone seemed scattered or leaning wherever she looked. Two smiths had set up a forge to one side, hammering iron rods over bright orange flames. Crane arms attached to a steam engine projected over the outermost edge of the sea rock, and ropes and platforms dangled down into the water.

A few men turned the cranks of two enormous spools, reeling heavy ropes and hoses down to the men working on the cliff below, while others operated what looked like gigantic bellows. Nearby, a few men peered over the side and called back orders.

The combined noise of shouts, hammering, and machinery was loud and incessant, while the steady shushing of waves and the delicate cries of the birds added a peaceful, familiar background tapestry to the harsher modern sounds.

Meg turned slowly, overwhelmed. The wind whipped at her skirts, and she drew her plaid shawl more snugly around her shoulders. Despite the warm, sunny weather, the breeze on top of the rock cut as chilly as it always had.

"We made a quay so that we could bring barges and tenders as close as possible," Alan Clarke said, explaining the features of the work site. "We're constantly loading and unloading equipment and materials, and now that we have the foundation pit for the lighthouse ready, we've been transporting the dressed stones that were quarried on Guga."

She nodded, watching masons work with sledges and chisels, their strokes refining the huge stones so that they would fit together to form the base of the tower. Several stones had been lowered into place and packed with mortar. The pit dug into the plateau was huge—eighty feet around at least and almost two feet deep, Alan explained.

"The cranes are used to haul the stones and other materials up to this level," Clarke said, pointing to some of the machinery. "Most of the stones weigh several tons apiece. We cannot bring horses and oxen out here, of course, though we use them on the island to transport the stones from the quarry, so we have to rely on cranes, pulleys, and roller bars. It took a week just to get all the equipment and supplies moved up here and secured in place. See there? We've built a wee shelter to house our things."

The "wee shelter" was a tall structure set at the far end of Sgeir Caran, where the rock rose upward in a natural tower. It resembled a giant spider, its metal walls and roof set high on riveted pylons drilled into stone. "Mr. Stewart was concerned about waves and wind destroying our work, so we built it to survive the weather. We store materials in it, and there's room for hammocks and a cookstove, so men can stay the night if the weather turns bad."

"Ach,"
Norrie said. "A good storm will sweep your house away like matchsticks."

"I hope not. Those spikes are driven deep into the rock."

"Where is Mr. Stewart?" Meg asked.

Clarke turned to look toward the edge, where the men cranked the arm of the huge spool. "He'll be up in a moment."

Hearing shouts and hammering from somewhere out of sight, Meg assumed that Dougal was working there. She knew from his letters to the baroness that he never hesitated to roll up his sleeves and work alongside his men. While that increased her grudging respect for him and his dedication to his project, she still wished the lighthouse could be built elsewhere.

Looking around, she sighed. Even if the work crews were to leave tomorrow, Sgeir Caran would never be the same. At the far end of the rock, the high, natural stack-rock tower was unchanged, providing a dramatic background for the future lighthouse and a lee against the winds. Beyond it, hidden in the crevices on the north face of the rock, lay the shallow cave where she and Dougal had once found shelter and solace.

Her heartbeat quickened. Though she had come to Sgeir Caran many times since then to sketch the wildlife, she felt a secret thrill—and an undercurrent of regret—each time she saw the cave where her life had changed so irrevocably. Now she dreaded the moment when she would face Dougal Stewart here.

Alan Clarke went to the cliff edge, where an iron railing had been installed and where the men worked noisy cranks and pumps to guide the stout ropes and hoses that snaked over the edge. He picked up a hose fitted with a funnel end, shouted into it, listened to a reply, and called something to the men on the machinery. They worked furiously to reel the ropes and hoses onto the spools.

He beckoned Meg and Norrie toward the iron railing. "Careful now, Miss MacNeill. Mr. Stewart will be cross with me if his bonny visitor falls into the water."

She saw with surprise that the ropes and hoses dropped far down into the sea. As the men steadily winched the ropes and hoses, the water began to bubble.

"Ah, here he comes," Clarke said, as a platform surged out of the sea, swaying on ropes.

A monstrous creature rode the planks, pale, saturated, and swollen. Its head was a sphere, its paws and feet enormous. Water gushed from the beast and poured off the platform as the ropes drew it toward the roof of the rock. Beside Meg, Norrie exclaimed in astonishment.

Meg had seen divers in engraved illustrations, but never in actuality. "Is that Mr. Stewart?" she asked.

"Oh, aye," Alan Clarke said. "He went doon the deep to look at the base of the rock."

"Huh," Norrie said. "Mother was right. There's your kelpie."

Meg blinked at her grandfather, who grinned and turned back to watch the diver.

As the platform rose higher, Meg glimpsed Dougal Stewart's face behind the small porthole windows set in the brass-and-copper helmet at front and sides. Three valves, attached to the hoses, snaked toward the bellows that she now realized pumped air into the helmet. The third hose ended in the funnel that Alan had used as a speaking tube.

Diving was common, she knew, in salvage and bridge and dock construction. Matheson Bank had financed such ventures on Scotland's east coast, but she had never thought that divers might also be necessary for a lighthouse project.

The platform drew level with the cliff, and men grabbed the ropes to swing it inward to safety. Some held it steady while others took Dougal by the arms and supported him as he walked. His steps were slow and cumbersome, and Meg realized that the diving suit, helmet, boots, and weighted belt were an enormous burden. He lowered to sit on a stone bench, and his assistants unscrewed the helmet while another man stooped to unbuckle his watertight gauntlets.

With helmet and gauntlets lifted away, Dougal reached up a bare hand to tousle his hair and rub his face. He coughed, accepted a drink of water from an offered ladle, and glanced up.

"Miss MacNeill," he murmured, "welcome to Sgeir Caran."

Meg felt her cheeks burn as she looked into his piercing green eyes. Seven years ago, he had also risen out of the sea. Heart pounding, she wondered crazily if Mother Elga had been right after all. "Mr. Stewart," she said calmly, "we decided to accept your invitation to see the progress on the lighthouse."

"Good. Hello, Mr. MacNeill. When I get free of this gear, Mr. Clarke and I will show you both around." He turned to Alan Clarke. "Evan?"

Clarke gestured toward the rim. "They've got him now."

Meg saw that the men had hoisted another platform down to bring up a second diver, who now emerged over the edge. His suit and gear were identical to Dougal's, and an array of tools lay beside his lead-covered feet. Men ran to his aid, supporting him while he stomped forward, dripping water, to sit near Dougal.

"Look there. Two kelpies," Norrie said. "Thora and my mother will want to hear about this! They worried that the construction would keep away the kelpies of Sgeir Caran. Now we can tell them that the creatures are still here." His eyes twinkled.

While the men laughed at Norrie's jest, Meg frowned.

When the second diver's brass helmet was lifted away, he sucked in breaths, rubbing his face as Dougal had done. His hair was black and curling, his eyes singularly beautiful—clear hazel framed in inky lashes under straight brows. He murmured to his assistants, exchanged nods with Dougal, and acknowledged Norrie and Meg with a polite inclination of his head. His gaze was calm and curious. "Madam," he murmured, "I am Evan Mackenzie. So pleased to meet you."

"Evan Mackenzie of Glencarron," Dougal said. "Allow me to introduce our visitors—Miss Margaret MacNeill and her grandfather, Norman MacNeill of Camus nan Fraoch on Caransay."

"Mr. Mackenzie," Meg replied. He looked familiar, though she could not place him. As his quick smile transformed his serious countenance, he looked so astutely at Meg that she wondered if he knew her as Lady Strathlin.

Both divers were divested of their wide brass collars, weighted belts, and leaden boots, and then Dougal and Mackenzie stood to extend their arms in their dripping, oversized suits. Men worked around them like valets assisting knights in armor, opening buckles and hooks and then peeling away the upper part of the suits to their waists. They wore several layers of thick woolen underclothing beneath the suits, but even through those layers Meg could see their strong torsos contoured with muscle. Evan Mackenzie was even taller than Dougal, and he was an equally beautiful man. Meg caught her breath to see both of them.

Looking at Dougal, she felt a deep ripple, something indefinable and exhilarating, some secret chemistry that she could not deny to herself, though she could pretend she felt nothing whatsoever for him. She remembered, unwillingly, how he had first appeared to her on the rock years ago, when he had sat shivering and nude and she had given him her plaid.

"Forgive me," Dougal said, bowing to her, "for being improperly dressed."

Flustered—sometimes he seemed to know her thoughts unfailingly—she shook her head. "It's hardly improper here, where it's part of this world."

He smiled, his eyes crinkling. "Being 'doon the deep,' as Alan calls it, does create unusual circumstances."

Norrie lifted a sleeve of the diving suit to examine it. "That's a hot and heavy thing to wear, isn't it? Needs a strong man to stand up in that gear. What keeps out the water when you're in the sea?"

"The suit is rubber sandwiched between layers of treated canvas," Dougal explained. "And very heavy. With lead boots and belt and the helmet and breast piece, it's a sorry thing to carry about on land. Underwater it's not so bad, given the natural buoyancy of the water. The weight helps sink us and keep us down. Otherwise we'd float back to the surface too quickly, and suffer for it."

"When a man goes doon the deep, he must come up slowly or he could die," Alan Clarke explained.

"It sounds quite dangerous," Meg said.

Dougal shrugged. "Somewhat."

Alan snorted. "'Tis a very dangerous thing, miss. 'Tis why Dougal Stewart likes it so well—he's known for recklessness, though when he's diving, even he must go slow and careful. So this dangerous work keeps the lad in line. He canna misbehave as he might do elsewhere." He grinned at Dougal.

"Reckless, are you, sir?" Norrie asked.

"No more than some," Dougal answered. His gaze went directly to Meg, a flash of green fire. She returned it boldly.

"How deep can you go in that gear?" Norrie asked.

"A hundred and eighty feet without difficulty. I've been down nearly two hundred, though it's not generally done."

"A man shouldna go deeper than that and expect to live," Alan Clarke said.

Meg looked at him. "Do you dive, too, Mr. Clarke?"

"I leave that to the likes of Mr. Stewart and Mr. Mackenzie, who enjoy a bit of risk."

She glanced at Mackenzie. "You like it as well, then?"

He paused toweling his hair and smiled. "I suppose I do."

"Mackenzie has been doon the deep and has climbed mountains as high as he can go, too," Alan said. "He claims to prefer the heights."

"It's drier," Mackenzie admitted. Dougal laughed.

Norrie looked closely at the helmet, with its sealed window-glass openings and valves. "The air comes in here?"

"Aye. Pumped through the hoses," Dougal said. "Clean air flows in here, and foul air escapes here." He pointed to the valves. "The third valve is attached to a speaking tube, so we can communicate with the men on the surface."

"It takes a team for one man to go doon safely," Alan said.

"And the men on the pumps are the most important of all," Dougal said. "Our lives are quite literally in their hands."