Ask Ewan. He witnessed the ceremony himself.
Mr. Campbell claimed to be a friend, but could she depend on him to tell her the truth?
Her footsteps turned toward the building, and she soon discovered a well-worn path through the grass, as if Mr. Campbell traipsed between his glasshouse studio and the ocean with some regularity.
The glasshouse was a modern wonder of architecture—the entire front wall a bank of glass, interspersed at regular intervals by supporting arches of stone.
As Eilidh approached, she could see Mr. Campbell dressed in a great kilt, standing with his back to the glass, a palette in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. Lord Hadley lounged on a stool to one side, Sir Rafe in a chair to the other. Lord Lockheade leaned against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles.
Eilidh paused, her courage failing her. Emotions churned through her so quickly—fear, anger, panic, worry—it was hard to grasp just one.
She couldn’t interrupt the men. Such a gathering could easily turn more confrontational than she wished—
Lord Lockheade spotted her standing before the glasshouse, hesitating like a nitwit.
He beckoned to her and pushed open the door.
“Miss Fyffe!” Lord Lockheade smiled, holding the door wide for her to step inside.
All four men turned her way, Sir Rafe and Lord Hadley instantly coming to their feet to greet her. As if she were a lady come calling. As if they respected her.
Something hard and aching lodged in her throat, but she managed a wan smile as she walked past Lord Lockheade into the room.
However, her expression was not convincing. Or, perhaps, these men did indeed know her better than she remembered.
Their welcoming smiles quickly turned to concern.
“Och, what did Kieran do, lass?” Lord Lockheade shook his head.
“Aye.” Mr. Campbell nodded. “He promised he would be patient with ye, but I’m wondering now.”
“Ye look ready tae pound something into a pulp,” Lord Hadley agreed.
Oof!That was unnervingly accurate. Shedidwant to hit something. To beat her fists and shriek her fury and vent her churning feelings like steam from a kettle.
Be a lady.
She settled for swallowing and clenching her fingers tightly.
But their kindness and concern gave her the courage to say her piece.
“Am I married?” She was proud of how she asked the question, no quaver to her voice, no anger or shouting. “Did I marry Kieran MacTavish?”
To a man, they sighed. A collective heaving, in and out.
Had Eilidh been in a more cheerful frame of mind, their reaction would have been humorous.
But as it was . . .
“I take that as ayes,” she said.
“Kieran wanted to tell ye immediately,” Lord Lockheade said, “but I told him to wait. That ye weren’t yet ready—”
“As much as it pains me to admit, Master MacTavish had the right of it,” she snapped, agitation finally slipping out of her mouth. “I should have been told such vital information immediately.”
“We were all hoping ye would remember on your own,” Lord Hadley said, bracing his hands behind his head. “That if ye just spent time with Kieran, ye would gradually remember.”
“Sothat’swhy I have been relegated to the castle with him without a chaperone? Because he is my husband?”
