She inwardly cringed, setting the heels of her hands to her closed eyes and pressing until a kaleidoscope spiraled in her vision.
This wasn’t who she was.
Or, rather, it wasn’t who she wished to be.
Her mother had not raised her to behave in such a manner.
Ye weren’t forced tae be a whore.
Master MacTavish’s words were a battering ram, pummeling the walls of her sense of self—who she was, what she valued and treasured.
The man was wrong, completely and utterly wrong.
She opened her eyes, throwing her hands down to her sides.
How could she havechosento share a man’s bed? Whenever she thought of the man who had impregnated her—because clearly therehadbeen one—he was always a faceless, nameless brute. Someone she did not wish toeverremember—
Oh! Did the other members of the Brotherhood know?
She cringed at the thought of asking Dr. Whitaker—ehr, Lord Lockheade—or Mr. Campbell about her pregnancy.
But . . . what if theydidn’tknow? Then, just the question alone would reveal too much. It was too humiliating to contemplate.
She pressed her fingers to her eyes once more.
No. She was not that sort of woman, no matter her missing memories. Surely there was some other explanation, one in which she hadn’twillinglyallowed herself to become with child, that she had somehow been coerced.
And yet . . .
Unbidden the memory rose of those grief-stricken days after Jamie and her father’s back-to-back deaths. The terrible bleakness of the future abruptly facing her. The realization that being raised in gentility did not keep one from penury and homelessness. The terror of being a lone woman thrust into the world with little more than the clothing on her back.
But had those emotions alone changed her? Forced her to become such a different version of herself? The woman who had taken on Jamie’s name, donned his clothing, and left for foreign lands aboard a merchant ship? And, if Master MacTavish were to be believed, she hadwelcomedit all.
He likely knew who the father of her child was.
Just thinking upon it tightened her breathing and left her hands shaking. She never wanted to associate a name with those forgotten acts.
Yes, Master MacTavish needed to leave her be. To understand, once and for all, that she absolved him of any lingering debt to her family.
She simply wanted his equilibrium-disturbing presence out of her life.
Or, at the very least, a chaperone for herself here at the castle.
Be a lady, even if the way is not easy.
She might be a fallen woman, but she still saw herself as a lady. Mrs. Gillespie had been insistent in that, bless her. That if Eilidh had not chosen to lie with a man willingly—but had instead been assaulted against her will—the sin was not on her head. But, of course, she knew that not everyone was so generous in their thoughts. Most would condemn her, regardless of her actual wishes.
Her stomach growled, reminding her that she had only had a sparse breakfast earlier in the day.
Eilidh sat up in bed with a grimace. She had to leave this room sometime, she supposed.
She placed Simon’s letter in her pocket, donned her pelisse, and picked up her bonnet.
She would walk up to Kilmeny Hall and see if she could speak with Lady Kildrum about arranging a chaperone. Her ladyship had been kind the day before. Perhaps if Eilidh explained the situation, her ladyship would assist her in making other arrangements.
She opened her bedroom door.
Master MacTavish sat on the floor opposite—shoulders slumped, wrists dangling over his knees, hair askew.
