The room was much larger than hers, likely the principal chamber of past lairds of the castle. An enormous tester bed took up most of the space to the left. The shutters had not been closed; weak moonlight spilled from a window beyond the bed. A pair of wingback chairs sat before a fire smoldering in the hearth.
The candlelight flickered from the tremble in her hand. She looked at the bed and the Kieran-shaped lump slumbering there. He hadn’t moved. It took more than the weight of her gaze to disturb him.
She blew out the candle, set it on a small table, and quietly moved toward the closest chair, sitting soundlessly. She pulled her knees up to her chest and curled into a ball, trying to feel the comfort of him from across the room.
But she continued to shake, violent palpitations that hitched her breathing and left her hands clammy and cold.
“Jamie?” Kieran’s voice rumbled through the quiet.
Oh.
Perhaps she had not been as silent as she had thought.
She looked toward the bed. He was sitting up—a man-shaped shadow of broad shoulders, a nightshirt, and sleep-mussed hair.
“Eilidh,” she whispered, as if needing to remind them both that Jamie no longer existed.
“What’s happened, lass? Are ye poorly?”
His instant concern caused her eyes to sting.
She bit her quivering lip.
“I can’t be alone tonight and ye s-said—” she hiccupped. “Ye s-said I would be safe with ye. That ye would be my h-haven.”
“Och, ye begreiting, sweetling. Why ye be over there?” He threw back the bedcovers beside him. “I cannae bear tae see ye suffer so. Allow me tae comfort ye.”
Eilidh hesitated.
But she was so cold. The kind of chill that came from deep within. She feared she would do anything at the moment to stem the panic threatening to overwhelm her.
Perhaps that was what emboldened her.
Or perhaps part of her knew that she had once slept at his side.
She stood and crossed to the bed.
“This is j-just for a m-moment. I haven’t remembered ye.” Words spilled from her. “But ye p-promised and—”
“Hush, lass. I willnae do anything untoward. I promise.”
She slid under the counterpane.
He reached for her, touching her finger. “Your hands are proper ice. Come here.” He tugged on her wrist.
She closed the distance between them, desperate for the warmth of him. Anything to banish the chill freezing her heart.
He pulled her into his chest. The smell of comfort and sleepy masculinity assuaged her, warming her senses like a finger of bolted whisky.
She burrowed into him.
He said nothing more.
His strong arms banded around her, holding her tight.
Her own shaking continued, however, dreadful tremors that spasmed through her muscles and made her want to crawl out of her skin.
Eilidh clung to him, a life-raft in a storm. As if somehow, she could transfer the cyclone battering her onto him.
