His gaze drilled her in place, frozen within the door frame.
She had been in her room forhours. And yet, he appeared to have remained precisely where she had last seen him.
Moreover, his pale eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed.
Had he . . .
Had he been . . .weeping?
She shook the thought away.
A man such as Master MacTavish did not weep.
Or if he did, why would he weep over her? Why would he care?
He slowly pushed to his feet, shoulders against the wall, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Master MacTavish, this is absurd.” She raked him from head to foot. “Why are you still here?”
His shoulders deflated, and he tilted his head back, meeting the wall behind with a soft thump. His pale gaze glittered in the low light of the narrow hallway.
“I will always be here for ye, lass,” he said, voice raspy and gravel-edged.
“No—” She held out a staying hand. “This is more than mere politeness. As I have said repeatedly, I absolve you of any debt to myself. Done. Vanished. You can leave me be now.”
He shook his head, those red-rimmed eyes watching her with that same unnerving intensity. “I’m not going to leave ye.”
The sheer weariness of his tone tugged and pulled at her, until some part of her heart ached to sit and weep with him.
It was the height of absurdity.
“Actually, I don’t wish to know why you are still here,” she said. “I simply want our private association to stop. I am going to see Lady Kildrum and request a chaperone. It is beyond appalling that I reside here with yourself and no other company. How could her ladyship, of all people, think it wise to house us both together? I cannot continue to betray Simon’s trust in this way.”
Thatshot a bolt of life through MacTavish. He lurched fully upright.
“Simon.” He all but spat the name.
“Aye,Simon.”
“Ye cannae marry Simon.”
“Of course, I can marry Simon.” She moved to pass by Master MacTavish, intent on the stairs. “If you will excuse me—”
“A moment.” He placed a hand on her arm. As usual, the casual touch burned.
She flinched away, her knees bending and her left forearm instinctively coming up to defend herself, her right hand fisting around the ribbons of her bonnet.
A fighter’s stance, she realized with horror. Her breathing went tight.
Master MacTavish held up his palms, a universal sign for parley.
“Please,” he continued. “Just a moment.”
Bewildered and terrified that her body had reacted so precisely to a perceived threat, Eilidh instantly straightened. She pressed her back against the doorjamb to her bedchamber, putting as much space as possible between her and Master MacTavish in the narrow hallway.
He sighed and, once more, leaned back against the wall opposite her, as if he needed the strength of the stone to buoy him up.
She clasped her hands in front of her, bonnet ribbons looped around her trembling fingers.
