Whenever her father returned home from a voyage, they all heard tale of Master MacTavish’s exploits. Oh, the lad was a hard worker and a sharp seaman and made grand promises to repay Captain Fyffe’s kindnesses one day. But MacTavish liked whisky and he liked the lasses. He had run amok through more than one port.
Because of this, Eilidh had never been properly introduced to MacTavish. She only had a handful of memories of seeing him from afar—enough to recognize the man but no more.
That said, she clearly remembered the months leading up to Captain Fyffe’s death. The pleading letters her father sent, begging for Master MacTavish’s assistance in their hour of need—to fulfill his promise to repay her father’s years of care and friendship.
Master MacTavish’s silence had been as deafening as it was cruel.
She stared at the man now, so at ease before her.
Her eyes darted to the breakfast laid on the table and then slid back to him.
Loyalty to her father trumped her present need for food and security.
“I do not understand this situation. Why areyouhere?” She scanned the room, ascertaining that they were, indeed, alone. “Are there no others? Where is the Gillespie’s cousin?” She looked back at him. “Or is this Mrs. Campbell, like the purpose of my trip here, merely a convenient fiction?”
“There is a Mrs. Campbell, though ye are correct, she is no relation to the Gillespies.” His smooth baritone rumbled through the room. “But be comforted. Ye are among friends.”
“Friends?” Her tone held a note of scorn. “Youhave not been a friend to myself. More to the point . . . I don’t like you.” Shehadto say it. To voice the emotions banding her chest.
They felt too huge to be anything other than dislike—fear, anger, remorse, and the strangest urge to . . . toweep.
Her throat ached with it.
If she thought he would react to her statement, she was mistaken.
He didn’t so much as blink.
He appeared as immovable as the medieval oak table beside him—formidable and rooted in place.
He nodded his head. “I cannae say I return the sentiment.”
Eilidh paused, a frown denting her forehead.
What didthatmean?
“Ye are an honored guest of Violet Campbell, Countess of Kildrum,” he continued. “Her ladyship occasionally goes by Mrs. Campbell when circumstances require it.”
His accent thrummed with the singsong lilt of the Firth of Clyde, west of Glasgow.
He sounded like home.
She didn’t trust it for a second.
“The honored guest of a countess?!” Eilidh huffed a laugh, pulling her shawl tighter. “Now I know you are spouting falsehoods. I’ve never met this countess.”
But she paused at that.
Hadshe met this countess? Eilidh had been born a lady; her extended family perhaps had such connections. Was meeting this countess one more thing she could not recollect?
“You’re correct. Ye havenae met her ladyship. Please. Come.” He beckoned with his hand. “Sit. Eat. Ye must be hungry. Allow me tae explain to ye.”
Warily, she inched toward the table, her shawl still clasped tightly in her fists, as if the wool could stand as a barrier between them.
He watched her with those intense eyes, waiting for her to sit before retaking his own seat.
Eilidh averted her gaze and studiously piled food on her plate.
Shediddislike him.
