Her decision to open herself up to the possibility of Kieran’s love.
The wondrous euphoria that had been their kiss.
But then, the quick repercussion for her carelessness. The horrific crash of her damning memories—the horror of Mr. Chen’s death, her fear and scrambling to pack the explosives.
And then, the finalcoup de grâce—Simon’s arrival.
She had thought that perhaps she would feel differently when she saw Simon again. That the revelations of the last few weeks and her growing relationship with Kieran would alter her perception of him.
But . . . that had not been the case.
Just the sight of Simon had caused a lift in her chest, a soothing balm on the painful realizations of the day. A sense that comfort had come. A safe place where she could rest from the frightening memories and worrisome truths that Kieran MacTavish unearthed.
Emotions Simon’s presence had always evoked.
This is a sign from God, Miss Fyffe,she could practically hear Reverend Gillespie say.Peace is often an excellent indicator of God’s will. A clear symbol of the path you should choose.
And shedidfeel peace with Simon.
Even now, her hand was threaded through Simon’s elbow, a casual intimacy that proclaimed the closeness of their relationship.
She had yet to take Kieran’s arm, for example.
But why was that, she now wondered? Why had she eschewed touching Kieran? There was nothing untoward in taking a gentleman’s arm when on a walk.
Was it loyalty to Simon?
Perhaps.
Though if you are loyal to Simon, you have a poor way of showing it.
She hadn’t taken Kieran’s arm, but she had slept at his side and exchanged decidedly passionate kisses.
And what had been the result of that?
Feelings.
Feelings that required action from her.
Feelings that called up memories she had no wish to ever relive.
However, touching Simon evoked . . . nothing. No rush of confusing emotion. No hum of electricity along her skin. No conflict between love and terror.
No obligations or debts.
Just a quiet sense of safety, of refuge. A hush in her mind like a gentle breeze over meadow grass. A life where words were pleasant and events calm and controlled.
How can ye contemplate marrying a man if ye havenae kissed him?
Kieran’s words from earlier rose up.
As did the memory of his kiss.
That dratted kiss . . .
It had been . . . awakening. Rousing.
Shaking her soul from slumber.
