Again, Eilidh supposed she could see the appeal—Master MacTavish was a handsome man. There was no doubt she found him attractive.
But . . .
She felt no peace in his presence.
No serenity. No repose.
Instead, he evoked tumultuous emotions that tossed her to and fro.
At times, she wished to beat her palms against his chest and shriek her anger.
While at others, she fought back tears and longed to seek shelter in his arms.
And then just as quickly—and, quite frankly, against all logical thought—she yearned to fist her hands into his hair and drag his lips down to hers.
But mostly, she longed to ruffle his composure, to cause him to behave as unsettled and angry and confused as she felt.
None of these impulses denoted love, it seemed.
A sort of crazed madness, certainly.
But not love.
And knowing this, why would she wish to remembermoreabout the man?
Give him a chance,Mr. Campbell had pleaded.
Oof.
She didn’t want to give him a chance.
She might have married Kieran MacTavish, as Mr. Campbell witnessed, but surely she had done so out of some pressing necessity.
She had been alone, orphaned, and on the opposite end of the world. Kieran MacTavish had offered her the protection of his name. And she had accepted it.
She valued safety, after all.
Worse, if shedideventually remember their marriage, what then? Would love for him magically accompany her memories?
Or, if she remembered their union had been driven by desperation on her part (as she suspected), was she then obligated to acknowledge their handfasting? Even if she didn’t love him? Even if she had plighted her troth under personal duress?
The thought set her stomach to churning.
If she didnotremember, she was safe in her affections for Simon. Tucked securely into the harbor of his calm love and caring heart. Protected within her numbness.
As for the accusation that she had blown up the ship . . .
She continued to refuse to give it any credence. She might have lost her memories, but she certainly hadn’t changed so much that she would have killed 127 innocent men. The thought was as nauseating as it was absurd.
Despite the Brotherhood’s insistence that Cuthie would accuse her of the crime no matter the truth, she was not so sure. When Cuthie had thought her dead, he had no problem naming her as the guilty party because who would gainsay him? The man had taken one last vicious jab at the Brotherhood and their affection for her.
But now that she was here, the landscape had changed.
Swearing false testimony under oath was a serious offense. Based on what she had heard so far, Cuthie appeared eager to avoid His Majesty’s court system. Was he willing to risk gaol himself in an attempt to spite her?
The more she had touched on her few brief memories of Cuthie, she recalled a man who was vindictive, yes, but also self-serving in the extreme.
In short, Cuthie was a survivor. He would do what he must to live another day. If naming her the guilty party did not serve that purpose, he would not do so.
