Perhaps, he was going about this all wrong.
“You’re doing quite a bit of thinking over there,” Ewan nudged Kieran with his booted foot. “Planning your attack.”
“Aye. Perhaps my wife needs less of an attack and more of a concerted wooing.” Kieran stared into the flames.
“Ye remember how long it took for her tae develop a tendre for ye the first time around?”
“Forever, it seemed. Months. The distance from Aberdeen to Rio.”
“Well, there ye are, then. Woo her in earnest.”
“I think I shall.” Kieran rubbed his hands together. “Now I simply need tae decide how tae go about it.”
“I would liketae try to jog your memory with another activity,” Kieran said the following morning over breakfast.
Eilidh lifted her head from where she sat across from him.
He had experienced a rather sleepless night, but just after midnight, he had finally formulated a plan to woo his wife. It had required an early morning to procure what he needed—the result of which sat at his feet—but he hoped his efforts would pay off.
Eilidh merely reached for a dish of poached eggs and black pudding, spooning some of both onto her plate.
Mrs. McKay was on duty in the corner of the great hall, knitting a scarf for her grandson. The clack of her needles set a steady rhythm.
“As I have repeatedly stated,” Eilidh said, pouring herself some tea from the pot on the table, “I do not believe I was responsible forThe Minerva’s demise. Therefore, I am not eager to plumb my memories from the trip.”
“Aye. I ken that.” Kieran sat back in his chair.
She looked lovely this morning, dressed in a white gown of the finest muslin. The cut was simple but immaculate, as only the best seamstresses could manage. Her dark hair was piled atop her head in yet another complicated fashion, the whole banded with a strip of orange silk. A similarly bright Paisley shawl with whirling blue-and-orange flowers draped her shoulders.
In short, she looked nothing like his Jamie. She was every inch Miss Eilidh Fyffe, the gently-bred daughter of Captain Charles Fyffe.
And even now, her aching loveliness set his heart to thumping and fanned a burning sensation in his chest.
She lifted her head, pinning him with her silvery eyes. “If you understand that I do not wish to remember, then why are you thinking to convince me otherwise?”
“’Tis a fair question, though as I have said more than once, I adore your lovely neck. I would greatly dislike tae see a noose around it.” Kieran pushed his empty teacup toward her. “Would ye be so kind as to pour me a cup?”
She froze, clearly attempting to parse the prosaic nature of his request with the harsh reality of his words.
Of course, being the clever lass that she was, she didn’t pause for long.
She looked at his teacup and then the teapot by her elbow. Frowning, she reached farther down the table for the silver coffeepot, pouring him a cup. She then added two lumps of sugar to the coffee and pushed it back toward him.
A blissful sort of pain punched Kieran in the sternum. She had bypassed the tea for coffee and then prepared it exactly as he liked.
“Thank ye,” he said.
Something in the worshipful nature of his tone reached her. “You are quite serious about your coffee, are you not?”
He was.
But how did Miss Eilidh Fyffe know that, unless she had remembered it?
“Aye. And ye added sugar, just as I like.” He sipped gently at his cup, not wanting to scald his tongue.
A wee dent appeared between Eilidh’s brows. Her eyes drifted back to the coffeepot, as if it had somehow betrayed her.
Ye be in there somewhere, my lass. Ye will remember me yet.
