The rest of the setting came at her in pieces.
An enormous fireplace to the right stretched from floor to ceiling, flames licking upward in the hearth. The large table sat before it, blackened with the heft of hundreds of years of wear.
To the left, a trio of modern, arched windows cut through the thick stone blocks. Swords, claymores, shields, and spears covered the walls, as if the centuries of Scotland’s wars with England had disgorged themselves into the room.
The man faced the door, his chair placed between the fireplace and table. His posture was relaxed, one arm resting on the tabletop, his feet stretched out and crossed at the ankle.
She knew this man.
Or, perhaps more accurately, she knewofhim.
A knowledge that sent her heart thumping and her hands shaking. A tight knot of emotion built in her chest.
Knave of Spades, indeed.
“Ye are finally awake,” he smiled, pushing to his feet and greeting her with a short bow. “Please. Have a seat.”
He waved a hand toward the chair opposite him on the table.
She finally noted the repast that had been laid there—soft-boiled eggs, thick slices of black pudding, and bacon. A plate of potato scones sat nearby. A teapot steamed beside a dainty teacup and saucer.
More to the point, there were no other people present.
She pulled her shawl tighter, her eyes returning to him.
Though he had stood to greet her, he hadn’t introduced himself as propriety would demand. But then, this man had never been much of a gentleman.
“I know you,” she said.
“Aye, lass. That ye do.” So calm. Confident.
“You are Master Kieran MacTavish.”
“Aye.” He nodded again. His eyes never left her face. “I am.”
“You were my father’s—Captain Charles Fyffe’s—protégé. He trusted you.” She had seen Master MacTavish once or twice from afar, speaking with her father.
“He did.”
“My father was a fool to do so.” Eilidh breathed in a slow breath. “You showed your true colors in the end.”
If her words stung, Master MacTavish didn’t show it.
A log settled in the enormous hearth, sending flames up the chimney.
He clasped his hands behind his back, weight shifting to his right leg, all of him appearing at ease. But his pale eyes held a nearly feverish light, drilling into her with unnerving intensity.
Why washehere, of all people? What did he want with her?
She had seen him only once—that she remembered—in nearly a decade. Master MacTavish had visited Yorkshire in December last, appearing outside the house Reverend Gillespie had let. They had spoken for only a minute before the roil of anxiety he evoked got the better of her and she had run away.
Master MacTavish had done wrong by her father—a slight Eilidh found hard to forgive.
From what she knew, Kieran MacTavish had been orphaned as a boy. Her father, Captain Charles Fyffe, had taken the child under his wing, hiring him as a cabin boy before Eilidh was out of leading strings.
However, her father had always kept the lad separate from his family, leaving him aboard ship when they returned to Dumbarton. MacTavish was of a lower social class and, to quote her father, ‘a wee bit feral.’ Not the sort of person her father wanted associating with his gently-born wife and daughter.
And true to his nature, MacTavish had grown up to be a Don Juan like that of Lord Byron’s namesake poem.
