“You are fortunate in your friends, Miss Fyffe,” Mr. Patterson fixed Jamie with a stern stare. “As for how you spend your time . . . well, the best defense, Miss Fyffe, would be to recover your memories and provide the courts with your version of the events that transpired.”
“Jamie is . . . altered,”Andrew said, swirling the finger of whisky in his glass.
Rafe and Ewan nodded their agreement, sipping their own drinks.
“Aye,” Kieran whispered, forcibly not reaching for a glass of whisky himself. Though as he stared at the bottle, there was no denying that a finger or three of whisky would ease the jittery ache in his chest.
But that way lay madness.
He feared if he started drinking now, he wouldn’t stop until he was drunk. He had already taken to the bottle once to deal with his pain over Jamie.
Never again.
Unfortunately, his friends noticed his too-long contemplation of the whisky bottle. Rafe shot Andrew a weighted look.
“Och, youse dinnae have to dance around me like I’m some fragile bit of porcelain,” Kieran snorted. “I willnae crack if things go sideways. I ken that I need tae stay strong for Jamie, so stop your clucking.”
“Are ye sure?” Andrew asked. “Ye were raging there for a wee while after Mr. Patterson left.”
“Aye,” Ewan said. “I believe ye cursed every aspect of Cuthie’s life, from his parentage tae his reproductive habits.”
“O’course, I did. Cuthie is a right bastard, and it needed tae be said. He never liked my wife.”
The four of them—Kieran, Ewan, Rafe, and Andrew—were still seated in the drawing room of Kilmeny Hall, picking at the remains of a late luncheon. Mr. Patterson had departed two hours before.
Alex had taken Jamie aside, requesting a private medical consultation to ascertain her general state of health, both physical and mental. Violet, Lady Kildrum, had accompanied them.
Kieran shifted in his seat. How much would Alex learn? Would he be able to recommend any treatments to help Jamie regain her memories?
“Have ye told her then?” Ewan asked, reaching for the last steak-and-kidney pie from the tray before him. “That you’re handfasted?”
“No,” Kieran said. “Alex is insistent that we need tae let her remember as much as possible on her own.”
“Probably wise of ye, for now.” Rafe stood and splashed another finger of whisky in his glass.
Kieran nodded, but the agitation in his chest continued to churn. He pushed to his feet, pacing in front of the fireplace. His mind raced with possibilities.
“If Jamie cannae remember that we are handfasted, are we even married?” Kieran had to ask it.
“’Tis a fair question,” Rafe nodded. “When we encountered Reverend Gillespie last autumn, he was of the opinion that your marriage was not binding. Handfasting is considered a legal marriage in Scotland. But if a couple handfasts outside of Scotland—even if they both happen tobeScottish—the handfasting is likely not binding by law.”
“Aye, and I fear it’s further compounded by the fact that your handfasting was done in secret with only Ewan as a witness,” Andrew added. “I have to be honest—I don’t think the handfasting would stand in a court of law.”
“We considered ourselves married, though.” Kieran ran a hand through his hair. “It never even occurred tae me to think that we were not.”
“Well, it’s all easy enough tae remedy,” Ewan said, swallowing a mouthful of meat pie. “All ye have tae do is claim one another as husband and wife in front of witnesses here in Scotland. That would be sufficient to cement the legality of it.”
“Even better, convince Jamie to marry ye in front of a vicar,” Rafe said. “Not even an Englishman would gainsay a kirk marriage.”
Kieran snorted, feet still pacing. He could scarcely get his wife tolookat him. She flinched away anytime he got too close.
He had forgotten how little she had trusted him when they first met. His reputation had preceded him then. Only proximity and time had convinced her that most of his supposed ‘wild ways’ were exaggerated and long since passed.
How was he to re-earn her trust? Much less convince her to claim him as her husband?
Granted, Jamie not knowing they were married was of lesser concern at the moment.
One battle at a time . . .
