And now he was married. To a countess, no less! With a daughter!
Oh!
She had missed so much!
She pushed through the crowd to him.
“Ewan.” She grabbed the upper fabric of his kilt. “Where is Kieran?”
Ewan looked down from his great height.
“Where is Kieran?” she repeated, shaking his mammoth arm and moving it not an inch.
“Ah, lass. I thought he told ye.” He grimaced. “He’s a bit wrecked over everything—”
“I understand that, but Imustspeak with him.” She all but ground her teeth. “Now, Ewan.”
Something in her tone stopped him. He peered at her more closely. His eyes flared and then a wide grin split his face.
“Jamie?” he rumbled.
“Aye?”
Ewan grinned even wider. “Try the library.”
“Thank ye—”
“Eilidh! Miss Fyffe!”
Eilidh turned to see Simon bearing down on them, brows drawn down.
“Go, lass,” Ewan murmured to her. “I’ll explain things tae Mr. Fitzpatrick and send him on his way.”
“Tell him I’ll write a letter. Bless ye, Ewan Campbell.”
Eilidh raced across the lawn, her thoughts as tangled as her poor embroidery threads.
How dare he?!
Lady Aster had asked if she had ever killed a man.
Eilidh wasn’t entirely sure.
But if she hadn’t, she might start with Kieran MacTavish.
34
Kieran stared out at the dusky sky through the wide library windows.
The clock on the mantel chimed midnight. But because it was the solstice, twilight still lingered outside, just light enough to render the sky a deep blue and prevent the stars from appearing.
He lounged in a leather chair facing the fireplace.
Cuthie’s words from earlier still rang in his ears—
Jamie is lost to ye.
She was. She was lost to him. In every sense.
