It had not.
In short, this entire situation would be more tolerable ifhewere not involved.
Yes, she could admit the obvious—Kieran MacTavish was an alarmingly attractive man. That had never been in doubt.Of courseshe would find it difficult to stop staring at him.
It was how he behaved with those good looks that was the problem. The way his chin had dipped in the stairwell, eyes gazing up at her, broody and stark and searching. The way his hand sometimes lifted as they walked together, as if, almost, to press into the small of her back.
The very thought of such things trembled and quivered, and the logical part of her had no idea why.
After washing and dressing and waiting for the chipper maid who insisted on styling her hair—“Ye have to have lovely hair tae match all your fine, new clothes, miss. Ye simply must!”—Eilidh arrived in the great hall for breakfast.
Like the morning two days ago, Master MacTavish was already seated at the large table, his back to the fireplace. He didn’t notice her at first, his attention on a newspaper and the breakfast placed before him.
He had not donned a kilt today. Instead, he appeared the perfect gentleman. His shoulders filled out the breadth of a green tailcoat, the superfine wool neatly tailored to his lean frame. His dark hair flopped across his forehead and over his ears, giving him a boyish appearance.
Why had God granted such a reprehensible man so large a portion of beauty?
“If sin were ugly, we would not be drawn to it,”Reverend Gillespie was fond of saying.“Usually, the more attractive something appears, the more damaging it is to our souls. Do not allow your foolish eyes to lead you again astray, Miss Fyffe.”
If attractiveness were a measure of wickedness, then Master MacTavish would be the devil incarnate.
At the table, MacTavish froze, as if her presence stirred something in the air. He lifted his head and met her eyes.
He set down the paper and shot to his feet, his expression the very definition of delight.
“Jamie!” His smile spread wide, creasing his cheeks and lighting sparks in his pale eyes. “I trust ye had a good night’s rest?”
It was too much. Eilidh’s jaw instantly tensed.
“Miss Fyffe, if you please. I have a name of my own, Master MacTavish. I am more than my brother’s impostor.” She gritted her teeth as she sat at the table, disliking how her tongue instantly leaped to incivility with this man.
The smile on Master MacTavish’s face remained, but the warmth in his eyes faded.
Be a lady, Eilidh.
She swallowed, took a deep breath, and tried again.
“Master MacTavish—” She clasped her hands primly in her lap. “—I would appreciate being referred to as Miss Fyffe.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Fyffe.” He bowed, polite and formal, before retaking his seat and folding the newspaper. “I will attempt tae remember, but as I knew ye as Jamie, it’s a difficult habit to break.”
Eilidh nodded, but a trickle of unease chased her spine as she spooned coddled eggs and slices of black pudding onto her plate . . . the thought that perhaps she had spoken too harshly, judged him too quickly.
They ate in silence for a few moments. She tore open a still-warm bap and reached for the butter. He drank his coffee and polished off the last bite of his bacon.
The far-off call of servants and the clatter of a wagon in the forecourt filtered through the room.
Finally, he pushed his plate back and reached for the coffee pot, pouring himself another cup. “I fear you and myself have gotten off on the wrong foot. Let’s start again. I am here tae help ye remember what ye can about the sinking of the ship.”
“Yes, but I don’twantto remember.” Eilidh swallowed back the churn of emotion that swelled at the very thought.
No. She would make no attempts to remember. None.
Master MacTavish set the coffeepot down with more force than was strictly necessary.
“Yehavetae remember, lass,” he said, his tone irritatingly agreeable. “I willnae watch ye hang simply because you’re being stubborn.”
Eilidh wanted to rub her forehead. It seemed like she had been in this place just two days ago.
