Oh, dear.
She had fallen asleep on the sofa.
Well, she had fallen asleep onKieran, to be more precise.
He had taken over readingIvanhoealoud and then . . .
. . . nothing.
She had slumped against his shoulder.
And he had simply sat, letting her sleep on him.
And she had felt . . . safe. Comforted.
Mmmm.
Safe. Comfort.
Those were two words she did not associate with Kieran MacTavish.
And yet . . . the emotions lingered.
He slept still, his head lolled on the back of the sofa.
No surprise there. He’s a sound sleeper, after all.
The thought flitted in and out.
Eilidh swallowed, unnerved that any part of her understood Kieran MacTavish’s sleep habits.
Yet she remained beside him, unable to look away from his face.
He was always in motion. Quick with a smile or a quip. His expression never slack.
But now . . . she could catalog the unique pieces of him.
The ray of lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, the result of too many years squinting into the sun.
Two vertical grooves dented the space between his brows, as if even in sleep he pondered heavy things.
Whiskers stubbled his chin. Her palm itched with the sensation of them, as if the memory of caressing his stubble-laced cheeks was burned into her flesh.
His cocky attitude and over-the-top flirtatiousness aside, he was undeniably attractive.
And you supposedly married him.
Had she truly loved him as the Brotherhood all claimed?
The sensation of safety, of comfort, lingered. And it lent her courage.
For the first time, she mentally reached for memories of him.
Anything.
Any hint that affection for him had once ruled her heart.
Perhaps he was right.
