She disliked the handsome angle of his jawline. The leashed power in the breadth of his shoulders. The faint lines beside his eyes, as if he had spent too many years laughing, perhaps some of them at her family’s expense.
She disliked that he appeared well-off, dressed in an expensively tailored coat and blue satin waistcoat with silver buttons. Where had that money been when she and her family were in need?
She disliked that after everything she knew—and many things she suspected but did not remember—she felt a tug of attraction toward the man.
That would not do.
She reached again for the blank numbness, sinking deeper into it.
Nothing this man would do or say could hurt her.
She refused to care.
She had Simon and Yorkshire. She had a plan and a future waiting for her.
She simply needed food in her stomach and a way home.
“Actually, I have changed my mind,” she said between bites of smoky bacon. “I cannot imagine anything you have to tell me about this castle or its inhabitants applies to myself. The Gillespies have finally washed their hands of me, that much is obvious.” Her voice hitched at the sting of that betrayal.Just ask for money and return to Yorkshire.“I have no intention of imposing on your hospitality, or this Mrs. Campbell . . . ehr, Lady Kildrum . . . whomever. If you would be willing to lend me enough money for the stagecoach back to Yorkshire, I will be off as soon as I am finished eating. If you give me your direction, I will repay the loan as soon as I am able, upon my honor.”
He sighed, clasping his hands on the table.
“Jamie . . .” he began.
Those two syllables slammed into her chest, a battering ram against the numbness that protected her, that held the blind panic at bay.
Her fingers spasmed around her fork.
“Jamie is dead,” she managed to whisper past the aching lump in her throat. “My brother is dead.”
“Aye, but ye took his place, lass.Youare Jamie now—”
“No!” She slapped her fork down, her head snapping upright.
“I ken that ye dinnae remember—”
“I am Eilidh.” She dragged out her name—AYYY-leeee—extending the long-A and landing hard on the long-E and sounding as censorious as Reverend Gillespie in the process. “Miss Eilidh Fyffe. James was my younger brother. He died—” She swallowed, taking in a deep breath, allowing the sludge of feeling to flow in and then out again. “—he died in July of 1815.”
“Aye. It’s coming up on seven years since your brother’s and father’s deaths.”
“If you know all this, then where were you in 1815 when we sorely needed you?”
Master MacTavish sat back in his chair. “Jamie—”
“Miss Fyffe,if you please.” The riot of her emotions punched a hole in her numbness, bitter questions tumbling out. “Where were you then? Where were you when Jamie died? And then my father not even a day later?”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, shook his head, and then pinned her again with his pale eyes.
His gaze stirred something in her chest . . . some faint memory.
He had eyes like the horizon on an icy winter’s day—the lightest shade of blue—chilly and cold and entirely unnerving.
His knee bounced as he sat in the chair, evidence that he was not perhaps as composed as he appeared.
She looked away, picking her fork up. She had no intention of allowing good food to go to waste. Who knew when her next meal would be?
She certainly wouldnotbe remaining in this castle with this man.
“I failed ye. I did.” He nodded, knee still bouncing. “I didnae know your father was so ill. He didnae confide in me, initially. And then I was out of reach of his letters. I would have been there, had I known. I am here for ye now.”
