She took in a slow breath, her head turning back toward the fire. She pulled the shawl tighter about her.
“Am I happy?” she asked, voice low. “Ye keep talking about Jamie, about this mythical woman I once was. Was I happier then? Neither of us can say with any certainty.” She shrugged. “But are ye so sure that the ‘Jamie’ version of myself is the true me? Why are ye so confident that who I am right now is not my truer self?”
That took Kieran up short.
How to respond?
“That is a possibility,” he agreed. “But I sense a lot of fear in ye.”
“How could I not be afraid, given my current predicament?” she snapped.
“But that fearcontrolsye,” he countered. “Being afraid isnae the problem. It’s what that fear propels ye to do. In your case, I watch ye hide and cower and shiver in pain. Do ye want to live your life like this?”
“It’s this constant pressure to remember that is causing my terror to resurface.” She all but glared at him. “How can you not see this? I long for safety. I ache forpeace. Simon—”
“Simon!” Kieran spat.
“Aye,Simon. He offers me this peace. He understands that I want a quiet life. He respects that. He does not pester and poke and dredge up the monsters lurking in—”
“Och, Simon offers ye a life of avoidance and complacency, lass, not peace.”
“Sometimes the only solution to a problem is to simply . . . leave it behind.” She made a fluttering motion with her fingers. “Sometimes, avoidance is the only way to achieve serenity.”
“And just how do you picture serenity, lass? Sitting in a cushioned chair gazing out a window over a pasture of sheep and trying for the thousandth time to wrangle your embroidery threads into submission?Blech. ‘Tis hardly a life, if ye ask me.” Kieran leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. “You’re a lass who has known fierce wind in your face—wind so relentless, ye might have lifted your arms and flown clean away. And ye wouldnae have feared it, either—ye would have soared.”
Eilidh licked her lips, as if his words meant little, but the white knuckles clenching her shawl told a different story. “There is nothing wrong with numbness, with windows, or . . . orsheep.”
“Except that you’re only watching, lass! To fully live, ye must be open to a full range of feeling. Something keeps threatening to surface. Alex has said that often the best way to tame overwhelming feelings is to talk about them, to relive the memory that caused them, and by so doing, gain a measure of control over—”
“Enough! In order to ‘tame’ feelings, I need memories. I don’thavememories,” she said, voice sharp. “Ididsuffer a head injury. Headaches plagued me for nearly two years afterward. It’s just as likely that my memories have been erased, never to be retrieved.”
He swallowed, sitting back in his chair, foot tapping out the jittery tension constricting his chest.
“We go in circles, you and I, and I weary of it,” she continued, the weight of her silvery eyes boring through him. “This is my life. These are my choices. If I continue to attempt to remember, I wish to do it on my own terms. Not yours or Lord Lockheade’s or anyone else’s.”
Kieran tossed his head back, rocking it from side to side along the top of the chair. He wanted to argue with her. He wanted to rant and shout and help her understand that her choices affected him.
But . . .
She was not wrong.
To remember or not was, in the end,herchoice alone.
So even though a voice in his head howled in protest—she was his wife! she needed to remember him!—he would respect her wishes.
“Very well,” he nodded.
“I also ask you to refrain from touching me,” she continued.
That was easier for him to understand, given her earlier reaction.
“Absolutely.” He let sincerity shine in his gaze. “I willnae touch ye unless ye invite me to. As I keep saying, I will do whatever I must to re-earn your trust.”
Silence hung for the space of a heartbeat.
She nodded, as if the deal were done.
He would not touch her unless invited.
