There was nothingundercurrent-ishabout herself and Kieran. They were more a tidal wave of incoming mayhem and turmoil and endless yearning.
But Kieranwasa factor in her refusal of Simon. What had Kieran said earlier?
You dinnae even trust Simon enough to tell him the entire truth of us.
She flattened her palm against her chest, feeling the wedding ring there, tucked into her bodice.
The memory of their kiss flooded her senses—the jolt of his lips touching hers, the hitch in his breathing when her body had pressed into his, the possessive pull of his fingers on her hips—
Eilidh took in another slow, bracing breath. She touched a pink flower of the rhododendron beside them.
“My relationship with Kieran MacTavish is complicated, Simon,” she said, looking back to him. “I’m sorry I have kept some truths from you. But Kieran . . . he and I . . . we were handfasted while in Sydney, Australia.”
“Pardon?!” Simon reared back.
“Kieran MacTavish and I are handfasted,” she repeated.
The meaning of the words hit her with brutal force.
Handfasted. Committed. Married.
The idea felt . . . good.
As if, by finally openly accepting the facts of their handfasting, she gave her heart permission to genuinely open to Kieran.
“I have no memory of the event,” she continued telling Simon, “and without that, any sort of union between him and myself is not binding. However—”
“You are married?” His expression crumpled. “How could you not tell me?” He looked her up and down, as if truly seeing her for the first time.
Eilidh stiffened her spine. “Well, I only learned of it a few weeks ago myself, and you can imagine, it has been a lot to take in. Yet you are right; I should have told you straightaway. But . . . but I didn’t know if I wished a relationship with Kieran MacTavish, and as such, I felt like the point was somewhat moot.”
“Moot?!” Simon laughed, an outragedwhooshof sound. “Being married is never a moot point, Eilidh. Our marrying would have been a disaster. Do you wish a relationship with Master MacTavish now?”
“I think . . .” Eilidh paused, her fingers once more finding Kieran’s ring and pressing it against her sternum. “I think that perhaps I do—”
Fwheeeet!!
A loud whistle snared their attention.
Eilidh and Simon both turned toward the sound.
Ewan stepped up on a small platform, his great kilt ruffling in the slight breeze. He was wearing her tartan, Eilidh noted.
He held out his hands until the crowd quieted.
Simon reached out a hand to her, as if to continue their conversation, but Eilidh shook her head and stepped out of the shadow of the rhododendron bush, focusing on Ewan.
She needed a moment.
Time to accommodate the growing knowledge in her chest.
ShewantedKieran MacTavish.
But . . . what did that mean? How was she to navigate caring for him and, yet somehow, manage the horror of the memories that would likely return as she spent time with him?
Granted, if Kieran were there to help her through it . . .
“Thank youse all for coming this evening.” Ewan spread his palms wide. “My wife and I are honored. It is always a pleasure to see so many treasured friends in one place. I know word has spread that I have a wee surprise this evening. That is true.”
