His voice was familiar, too, and yet . . . everything about him remained tantalizingly out of reach, like grasping at fog.
Eilidh shook her head, hands fisting tighter, eyes darting again to her ladyship’s pregnant belly.
Most of her longed to run—out the gilded drawing room door, down the marble steps, and onto the gorse-lined lane, her feet racing away from here.
She didn’t want whatever memories these men might conjure. She had forgotten for a reason, had she not?
Frightful things happened to her aboardThe Minerva. Her racing heart and damp palms testified to it.
“Heaven knows what you were subjected to aboard that ship,”Reverend Gillespie would rant. “Those men should pay for the hideousness of their crimes, crimes they forced you to participate in, Miss Fyffe. Such transgressions should be brought to justice before God and man.”
And yet . . .
Her eyes dipped to where Mr. Campbell’s hand rested around his wife’s waist.
His was the mien of a man who valued women, who would go to great lengths to protect those he loved.
Her heart continued to pound in her chest, the vibrations threatening to set her hands to shaking.
She took in a deep breath and coaxed the numbness to flood her mind. Anything to stem the maelstrom of emotion that swirled beneath her breastbone.
No matter her personal feelings, the stark truth remained—if she wished to return to Yorkshire and Simon, she needed to endure this meeting.
“Let me introduce ye, then.” Master MacTavish touched her arm again, as if to lead her farther into the room.
Eilidh shied away once more.
His touch was a battering ram against her indifference.
It wasn’t revulsion, precisely.
But his touch . . . hurt. It caused an upwelling of confusing sentiments that she disliked feeling, and so she shrank from the emotion as much as the weight of his warm fingers.
Master MacTavish took in a deep breath, his chest heaving, eyes meeting hers.
“Please, Miss Fyffe,” he murmured. “No one here means you any harm. I wish there were a way to help ye understand that.”
“Perhaps ye should have given me a choice in the matter.” The snippy words tumbled out, along with the Scottish lilt of her upbringing. “Perhaps ye should have asked whatIwished.”
So much for acting like a lady.
“Aye, we likely should have,” Dr. Whitaker said, drawing near with outstretched palms, as if she were a skittish fawn he feared would bolt.
It was not an inaccurate assumption.
The doctor shot a weighted look at Master MacTavish over her head. For his part, MacTavish grimaced and turned away, walking over to gaze out the window.
Eilidh followed him with her eyes, pulse clamoring in her ears.
“Come, Miss Fyffe,” Dr. Whitaker said, drawing her attention. “Allow me to make the introductions.” He offered her his arm.
After a pause, Eilidh nodded and threaded her hand through his elbow. Touching the doctor unearthed no sentiment, oddly enough.
Why was that? He was part of the same horrific time of her life. Why did Master MacTavish provoke a tidal wave of harrowing emotion? But Dr. Whitaker only kindled warmth and affection?
The doctor made the introductions.
The sandy-haired man before the fireplace was Andrew Langston, Lord Hadley.
