He rubbed his hand through his hair instead.
“Will ye claim me as your wife?” she asked.
He frowned. “What kind of question is that?”
“An intelligent one,” she shot back. “If ye are determined to claim me as your wife, then it won’t matter what future I wish to have. No one will marry me—not Simon, not anyone—if there is a risk that I might legally be married elsewhere.”
“Eilidh, I willnae force ye tae be my wife. I will not claim ye unless you wish it.”
Silence.
“Give me a chance,” he repeated. “Open your heart to the possibility. Ye say I do give ye some comfort. Lean into that. See if that comfort and safety can be turned into true healing.”
Another long pause.
Emotions flitted across her face too fast for him to identify them.
“Very well,” she finally said. “After last night, I see the curative benefits of allowing myself to be more accepting of yourself, despite my reservations. But I require a reciprocal promise from yourself.”
“Anything.”
“In the end . . . if I decide to go with Simon—” She paused, eyes drilling into him. “—I need ye to love me enough to let me go.”
28
The next two weeks passed in a blink of rushing lethargy.
Kieran recognized the paradoxical ridiculousness of the thought, and yet, it was true.
Time with Eilidh whirred passed, days blending quickly one into the other. And yet, he felt as if their relationship was mired in toffee, unable to make any forward progress.
True to her promise, she was more open, taking tentative steps to truly get to know him. He regaled her with stories about his life aboard ship, and she told him about her years with the Gillespies.
However, the threat of Cuthie’s impending testimony loomed large.
I need ye to love me enough to let me go.
Her words gutted him.
Because he knew the answer.
Yes.
Yes, he did love her enough to let her go.
Even though the thought made his soul howl and his heart pace restlessly, a caged beast pressing against bars.
He loved her and he wanted her happiness more than his own.
But with every passing day—their shared laughter over the antics of a stable cat, the way her head tilted as he told a story of fighting a gale off the coast of Nova Scotia—he hoped.
He hoped that she might return to him in earnest.
Yet . . . she had gone no further in her affections than a general sort of friendship.
Similarly, she had given up any attempts at remembering. A few more snippets of their trip had surfaced, but nothing more.
Though her recalcitrance frustrated him, Kieran understood her apprehension. If she had been responsible for blowing up the ship, perhaps not rememberingwasthe better choice.
