“It was truly lovely.” His voice went hoarse. “Ye looked an angel, lass. I couldnae believe I had convinced ye tae marry me.”
“And yet, you didn’t value me enough as a wife to seal our vows with a wedding ring,” she said, tone flat and challenging.
“A ring wasn’t possible. The boy, James Fyffe, could not appear on deck with a gold wedding ring on his left hand without raising difficult questions—”
“Perhaps not,” she replied, “but I could certainly have worn a ring on a chain around my neck.Somethingphysical to denote our supposed connection—”
“And I wanted to, lass. But ye were concerned about someone seeing it. Instead, ye made me promise to buy ye a ring once we returned tae Scotland.”
She rolled her eyes, making a scoffing noise before turning her face to the sea once more.
“I kept my promise.” Kieran reached a finger past his neckcloth and tugged on the chain around his neck, pulling it over his head.
Jamie sat back in alarm, one hand braced on the ground as if poised to flee.
He held the chain between them. A gold ring dangled from it, winking in the sunlight.
“As soon as I returned to Scotland, I bought ye the ring I promised.”
“But you thought me dead.”
“Aye,” he nodded. “I did. But not even death could quell my devotion tae yourself.” He extended the ring on its chain toward her. “It is yours now.”
She stared at the ring as it spun in a slow circle.
“I do not wish to be your wife.” She shook her head, going back to studying the ocean. “You are a stranger to me.”
Her words were a knife to his senses, hurting all the more for their dull delivery.
“Then get tae know me, lass. Give me a chance tae prove myself.” He tucked the chain and ring into his fist. “To earn the right tae place this ring on your finger.”
Silence.
She continued to sit unnervingly still, her profile to him.
He had once understood her so well. Every move, every glance . . .
But now?
He had not a clue.
“I must be honest, Master MacTavish—”
“Kieran. Please, lass. Call me Kieran.”
Her eyes snapped to his.
Ah.
There was turbulence there, as if her fiery self battered the walls of her self-control. Perhaps some bits ofhisJamie remained.
“I cannot countenance such familiarity.” She shook her head. “You will remain Master MacTavish to me. I would prefer to be called Miss Fyffe—”
“Despite your present feelings, ye are mywife. I cannae call ye Miss Fyffe, as if we never meant whole worlds to one another.”
Her shoulders slumped, the smallest of reactions to his words.
More silence.
