“Of course, I had not realized.” Eilidh pursed her lips. “But I simplycannotremain with Master MacTavish alone, the impropriety of it . . .”
“A chaperone could be arranged,” Lord Hadley said.
“Aye.” Mr. Campbell gave Eilidh a warm smile. “But for now, come up to the house. Violet likes a late afternoon snack before her dinner. And I’m sure the twins would like tae meet ye.”
Eilidh nodded and waited as Mr. Campbell stowed his paints and washed his brushes, setting them out to dry. The other members of the Brotherhood filed out, but Eilidh waited for Mr. Campbell. Though the man was a giant—and Eilidh was so short, the top of her head barely reached his sternum—he radiated calm and comfort.
He motioned for her to go through the door.
“Kieran is worthy of ye, lass,” Mr. Campbell said as she passed by, earnestness in his words.
Eilidh turned to him.
Mr. Campbell fixed her with his hazel eyes. “Ye can trust him.”
“Can I?”
“Aye. I ken ye have a lot going on in here.” He tapped his temple. “But dinnae neglect your own heart. It remembers. At least attempt tae reclaim what ye once had.”
She swallowed and looked away. “Sometimes, remembering comes at too high a price. The more I learn, the more I think I forgot for a reason.”
A long pause.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But I can promise ye this—Kieran MacTavish isnae the reason ye forgot. And if ye can find it in your heart to trust me, even just a wee bit, then know this: I dinnae think ye will ever regret recovering the memories ye have of him. Give him a chance, lass.”
Eilidh found she couldn’t answer. The words stuck in her throat.
So instead, she nodded and walked through the door.
Kieran found Eilidhhours later sitting in the grass, staring out over the ocean.
She looked so tiny and alone, framed against the vastness of the sea, it nearly broke something inside him.
He knew she had taken the long route along the cliffs to Kilmeny Hall before returning back the way she had come.
But she had not returned to the castle.
Instead, she had continued to walk the path that snaked along the clifftop. He had watched her from one of the castle’s upper towers, wending her way through the yellow gorse in bloom, the wind whipping the blue of her pelisse and tugging at her bonnet.
When she had disappeared from sight, he finally went after her—round and round the corkscrew castle stairs, down the main staircase, out through the forecourt, and onto the path.
He couldn’t bear it. To know she suffered with no one beside her.
She merely looked up as he neared, her expression lifeless and controlled, as if all the fire of her had been banked.
He sat beside her, not a word passing between them.
His wife felt like a stranger. As if another had taken on Jamie’s form but had neglected to include the spark that made her so uniquely . . .her.
The North Sea stretched before them, a rippling mass of shadow and light. The ocean currents and the near-constant wind conspired to create a crosshatch pattern on the water. In Scotland, the water itself bore the stamp of a tartan.
But as a sailor, Kieran understood only too well the danger of a crosshatch sea. It spoke of strong, competing currents that could easily drag a man down to his death.
Was that what he and Jamie faced now? A swirling tartan sea that would spell the doom of their love?
“We used to sit like this, you and myself,” he finally said.
“Did we?” Her voice was monotone.
