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permission to use the beach and harbor. But you go ahead with the work." He scowled.
    "I had no choice, sir," Dougal said, surprised by the urge he felt to earn the old man's approval.
    "Well, the lady does not like strangers on Caransay, but if we see her we will tell her you are here." Norrie pointed with his pipe toward the rock in the distance. "To please the lady, find another rock for your light. She wishes to protect the privacy of the island. "
    "And the location is dangerous," Margaret MacNeill said then. "There are wild storms and high waves out there."
    "I know, Miss MacNeill," Dougal answered quietly, looking down at her. "I know that very well."
    Her aqua-blue gaze caught his then, and he saw a flash of awareness there. And anger. Then she hastily looked away.
    Oh aye, he thought. You are the one.
    * * *
    Unable to sleep, Dougal left his barracks hut and walked over the machair in the darkness, the wildflower meadow that stretched across the island near the dunes. Overhead, the sky had finally gone to indigo—Hebridean summer skies could hold a lavender evening light until an hour or so before dawn—and the moon was high and pale, reflected in ripples on the sea.
    He strolled deep in thought, considering a stubborn engineering problem. Rectangular stone blocks, each weighing several tons, had to be precisely trimmed to fit the circular foundation cavity. He had drawn diagrams and devised measurements, yet each block had to be hand shaped in situ to ensure the tightest fit between the stones. His masons were reliable, but the figures he gave them, and his design, must be accurate. A long walk often helped him think it through.
    He paused to gaze out over the sea, his mind restless as the waves—not because he puzzled over granite blocks but because Margaret MacNeill had invaded his dreams, and that was why he had not slept well, why he had woken. In his dream, she had slipped into his arms, her lips comforting, her embrace luscious, turning hot and passionate. She whispered that she forgave him, and asked his forgiveness. My dear, it was not you did the wrong. My dearest girl....
    A most disturbing fantasy. He had woken in warm sweat with a wrench of longing, aroused and quickly furious with himself. And that was why he was walking the machair, trying to shake off the haunting power of the dream.
    Waves poured to the shore as he watched, rolling, plunging, streaming in a seductive rhythm. Moonlight gleamed pale through arches of water, their lacy curls looking much like the proud heads and breasts of white stallions.
    There are the water horses of Sgeir Caran, he thought.
    Seven years ago, washed onto that black rock, he had been drunk, concussed, and nearly drowned when he had imagined seeing those creatures. A man might see anything under such circumstances, even fairies.
    So the girl he had encountered there had been a girl of Caransay, and the pale, proud horses that had saved him had been the waves of the sea. And he had been daft that night, daft and lost and misbehaved.
    He had to find a way to make amends with the girl. She knew him and he knew her, and neither would say. Yet he could not live with himself, knowing what he had done to that lovely innocent. The look in her eyes just hours ago had been accusing, angry—and still hurt.
    Far out, Sgeir Caran was a dark silhouette. Smaller rocks jutted through swirling water, part of the long reef where ships had sunk, lives had forfeited over the centuries.
    His father and mother had been swallowed in a storm along that wicked reef, wrecked along the lethal points. If a lighthouse had been in place on Caran Reef, his parents might still be alive today. The light would have guided their ship through the treacherous archipelago and safely to port.
    He shoved fingers through his hair, sighed. He was determined to fight for a lighthouse on Sgeir Caran. The light would prevent tragedies and save lives, if only the baroness and her lawyers would realize it. For