“It does little good, nearly seven years on.” Eilidh snorted and then instantly regretted the inelegance of it. She was a lady; she would behave as one. “You promised my father. You promised you would watch after myself and Jamie once he was gone.”
“And I did. I did care for ye—”
“How dare you!” Eilidh’s temper snapped. Her fork clattered onto her plate. “How dare you say you cared! Jamie died and then my father died and I was left alone. I had nothing! I was all but turned out into the street by my father’s creditors. I faced a choice of the workhouse or . . . orworse—”
Eilidh broke off, looking away and pinching her lips shut . . . terrified by all she couldnotremember. Fearing that she had actually chosen the ‘worse’ option. That in her youth and desperation and stupidity, she had compromised every moral, ladylike stricture under which she had been raised.
For not the first time in the past six years, she was glad her family was dead and gone. That her parents would never suffer the shame of her dishonor. That she, herself, did not remember the specifics of it all.
“Aye. You faced terrible choices, lass. Ye did. But what happened next? After your father and Jamie died, when ye faced the prospect of penury, what did ye do?” Master MacTavish’s eyes glowed with an intense light. As if her answer were of consummate importance. As if he were eager for her to admit her foolishness.
Eilidh faltered.
She could not answer his question, not truthfully at least. She suspected she knew the answer. Surely, it was embedded deep in the murky recesses of her mind.
But suspecting was not the same asknowing.
Worse, Master MacTavish seemed to know exactly what happened to her.
She didn’t want to know.
Sheneverwanted to know.
The anger and indignation that had fueled her words evaporated, draining off like sea water through a scupper.
Heart-pounding fear and confusion washed in behind.
She wanted safety. She wanted to go home. To hear Simon’s soothing baritone reading to her fromThe Timesover tea. To walk in the warm light of English sun in a place where dark memories remained buried and gone.
Where she could leave the past . . . truly in the past.
Had she not already suffered enough for her sins? For the reckless behavior that had shattered her life? Why must she revisit it now, seven years on?
Master MacTavish continued to regard her.
“What happened then?” he repeated, softer now, coaxing, encouraging. “What did ye do?”
“Why are you forcing me to say this?” Eilidh resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. “So you can deride me? Judge my choices once again?”
“I will never judge ye, lass.” His tone was low and earnest. “I didnae then, and I willnae start now. I’m here tae help.”
Eilidh snorted again. Five minutes in this reprobate’s company and her manners were already in shambles.
She said nothing for a long moment. Instead, she dragged the tines of her fork across her plate, studying the zigzagging lines it created.
Finally, she said the only thing she could:
“I don’t know what happened after that, not for sure.” She lifted her eyes to his. “I don’t remember. With very few exceptions, the entire year after my father and Jamie’s death is a black void.”
2
Kieran stared at Miss Eilidh Fyffe . . . at this beautiful woman who did not remember that she was his wife.
His wife!
Seeing her like this—after assuming her dead for six years—was a hellish sort of pain. His interaction with her in December had been so impossibly brief.
And now . . . after plotting and planning for months to bring her back to him . . . to have her here . . .
