What would you want then?
She could accept Simon’s offer of marriage and leave for Yorkshire immediately after.
But did shewantthat?
She walked among the booths at the festival, Simon at her side, a smile plastered onto her face. All the while, the weight of Kieran’s ring pressed against her breast.
Oh, it was more of a metaphorical weight than a literal one, to be sure, but it hung there nonetheless. A nearly constant reminder of the differing futures facing her.
Did she look as maniacal as she felt? Did she sport the deranged expression of a woman who found herself one bad decision away from utter despair?
But her smile didn’t falter.
Not as Simon and Mrs. Fitzpatrick talked with Andrew and Alex.
Not as Simon bought Eilidh and his mother crispy sausage rolls from the baker and cups of mulled wine from the innkeep for dinner.
Not as everyone gathered on the enormous south lawn after dining for a traditional Scottish ceilidh, dancing and laughing as the sun sank toward the horizon.
Eilidh expected Kieran to be there, swinging the pretty village lasses through a reel.
But as she scanned the crowd—still outwardly smiling while unraveling inside—he was nowhere to be seen.
Kieran stared outthe window of the dining room of The Hart Inn near Kilmeny Hall, watching the sun contemplate descending toward the horizon. Even though the time was well past dinner, sunset was still hours away.
A barely-touched bowl of cullen skink, a thick wedge of bannock, and an unopened bottle of whisky sat before him on the table. The smoked haddock in the skink had been palatable, but the oaty bannock had stuck on the way down, even after he dipped it in the creamy broth first.
As for the whisky . . .
Kieran had thought to down the whole bottle. To drink himself into a stupor before the festivities Ewan had planned for the evening.
But looking at the whisky now . . .
A jittery pain clutched his chest.
The same feeling he experienced after finding Jamie had lived.
The same torment that had driven him to the bottle.
If he downed even one drop of whisky tonight, would he be able to stop tomorrow? Or would he return again to the bottle, seeking anything to banish the suffocating agony in his chest?
He wasn’t sure.
And so he stared at the uncorked bottle.
The dining room was empty, but even so, Kieran sat tucked away in a dark corner wedged between the bar and the cold fireplace. The dim, chilly location suited his mood.
A solitary potman had been left behind to man the inn and see to the occasional guest. A group of travelers had just arrived in a pair of carriages, drawing the potman away to help. Kieran could hear them all speaking with the ostler in the stableyard, horse tackle jangling.
Of course, nothing drowned out the sounds of merriment from Kilmeny Hall drifting through the open windows—shrieks of laughter, traditional music, and the occasional whistle or call. His wife—his Jamie—would have loved the events Ewan planned for tonight. Would Eilidh, Kieran wondered?
None of it eased his suffering.
His heart was an angry crosshatch sea, a tumult and crash of disordered waves that he feared would never calm.
He had told Eilidh he would let her go, but saying the words and then actuallyenactingthem were proving two very different tasks.
Kieran had loved her as Jamie.
