And knowing all this—her wish tonotremember her marriage to Master MacTavish, the certainty of her own character and the uncertainty around Cuthie’s behavior—was it even necessary to plumb her memories?
Eilidh spent the morning with Mrs. McKay in the great hall. The older woman cheerfully knitted away, telling Eilidh all about her dear departed husband, Robert, who had been a solicitor in Aberdeen.
For her part, Eilidh wrote another letter to Simon—still choosing not to burden him with her current predicament. Then she worked on her embroidery and ignored needling thoughts of Kieran MacTavish.
Of course, the man himself joined them after luncheon.
“I spent the morning mapping out a plan for attempting to recover your memories.” He sat down opposite her at the large table and nodded a greeting to Mrs. McKay.
“Good afternoon to yourself, too,” Eilidh replied dryly, tugging to free a tangled embroidery thread.
If she thought to irk him by pointing out his bad manners, she was disappointed.
He gave her a smile before rising from his seat again.
“My apologies, Miss Fyffe.” He bowed extravagantly, presenting her with one leg and sweeping a hand down it, as if he were a courtier from centuries past. “Allow me tae say, ye look as lovely as a picture today.”
Eilidh rolled her eyes, still trying to untangle her threads. No matter how many samplers she stitched, her embroidery simply did not improve.
But for Simon’s sake, she continued to try.
Mrs. McKay chuckled. “When I spoke with ye yesterday, Master MacTavish, I didn’t realize ye were a charmer.”
Master MacTavish, the wretch, fixed Mrs. McKay with a positively melting smile. The sort of smile that dimpled his cheeks and set Eilidh’s heart to pounding.
“Mrs. McKay, with such beauty before me—” He spread his arms wide. “—it’s nearly impossible for a man tae behave any other way.”
Mrs. McKay giggled.
Shegiggled.
Master MacTavish had reduced this grandmotherly, respectable matron to a puddle of giggling goo in less than two minutes.
Eilidh was torn between feeling appalled or impressed.
And to think . . . she hadmarriedthis man?!
Honestly, the more she learned, the more Eilidh doubted the sanity of her past self.
What had that girl been thinking?
Past Eilidh had made some decidedly questionable choices.
Had she been so lonely and afraid that she had latched onto Master MacTavish like a lifeboat? Or had she, too, fallen under the spell of his easy charm, silver tongue, and rakish good looks?
How could she have so thoroughly disregarded her father’s warnings?
Eilidh pinched her lips, frowning as her clumsy fingers struggled with her tangled embroidery threads. The wretched man tied her very fingers into knots.
Her mood had been so lovely before Master MacTavish arrived.
No turbulent feelings.
No hum of awareness in her blood.
No tingling of her skin or flare of gooseflesh.
Just . . . the simple calm she craved.
