She pulled further away.
“I still don’t remember ye,” she whispered. “I didn’t come here to resume . . .” She trailed off, ending on a hard swallow.
“I understand that, lass,” he said, eyes still unnervingly steady. “But I find it encouraging that in your hour of distress, your feet brought ye tae me. I think part of ye remembers.”
She stared at him, heart galloping once more in her chest.
She hated him right then.
Hated that he was likely correct.
Hated that she still had no real memories of him, not as Jamie.
Hated that her missing memories lurked beneath the surface, threatening to upend everything she planned for her future.
She felt like a new lamb, tottering around on shaky legs, trying to decide if Kieran was a helpful shepherd or a fearsome wolf in disguise.
“Ye dinnae have to find your way in the dark, lass,” he continued, once again easily reading her thoughts. “Part of ye knows that I will always be your safe harbor.”
Safe.
That word again.
Washe safe? Particularly when his version of safety came with so many requirements attached?
No matter how safe and comforted she felt in his presence, he would never stop pushing her. He would never cease encouraging her to be more, do more, remember more.
Unlike Simon Fitzpatrick, Kieran MacTavish would never let her simply . . .be.
She felt infinitely tired even contemplating it.
“I must go.” She turned away from him, pushing off the bed. “I cannot be found here.”
She pulled her dressing gown tight around her chest as she crossed the room. But she paused with her hand on the door handle.
“Thank you.” She half-turned back to him. “Thank you for lending me comfort when I needed it.”
He nodded, sitting up in bed. “Always,mo chridhe. Always.”
She turned away, but the image of him in that mussed bed—leaning on one hand, rumple-haired, shirt open and revealing half his chest—burned behind her eyelids.
It was afternoonbefore Eilidh trusted herself to see Kieran again.
They lived in the same castle. It was not as if she could avoid him permanently.
But she did try.
She needed a little distance. To ponder the events of the past twenty-four hours. To decide how she wished to proceed.
She took breakfast and then luncheon in her rooms, trying to come to terms with her instinctive actions the night before.
Part of ye knows that I will always be your safe harbor.
And yet . . . Kieran MacTavish was decidedlynota protected cove.
He was a storm-tossed sea—wild and terrifying and breathtakingly beautiful.
Wee memories pummeled her.
