“We would all be better off if we saw the world the way you do, lass.”
She grew warm under his admiration and wished to change the subject. Her writing was personal and important to her. She liked his praise, but knew his criticism, if he offered it, would be just as powerful—and detrimental.
“Why are you awake?” she asked, longing to change the subject.
“I thought I heard something, so I came to check.” His smile slowly faded, but his eyes remained warm. “I told you I sleep light.”
“Light enough that you could hear the frantic scribbling of my pen?”
“Aye.” He nodded toward the traveling desk. “What are you writing about?”
She held the ends of her shawl together in one hand and laid the other on the desk in a self-conscious effort to protect her words. “Just things about my daily life.”
“Have you mentioned me in your journal?” His voice danced with something akin to teasing, and she was second-guessing her desire to rekindle their friendship. It was safer for him to keep a wall between them, because when it came down, it was far too easy to be drawn to him again.
A light perspiration gathered on Eleanor’s palms, but she tried hard not to reveal the truth. She would be mortified if he knew how much she had written about him in her journals over the years.
“You have written about me.” The teasing left his voice, and it deepened, almost imperceptibly.
“Well, of course I have.” She wanted to sound matter-of-fact. “I write about everyone I meet.”
“Did you write about Sean Campbell, then?”
Eleanor opened her mouth to respond in the affirmative but realized she had not written about Sean.
“And what of James McIntosh?” he asked, his voice a little lower, his brogue a little deeper. “Did you mention him?”
She swallowed and shook her head.
“And what of Colin Robertson or Angus Ferguson?” He continued to watch her closely, and she knew he was trying to sound as if he teased her—but the answer meant more to him than it should.
“I don’t write about everyone I meet.” She pulled her traveling desk closer to her. “Just those people in my life who are rather—rather important.”
“Am I important in your life?”
“Of course you are.”
“Because we’re friends?”
“Yes. And because—” She’d almost said because she’d been in love with him, but she stopped herself. “Because I’ve known you for a long time.”
The firelight danced in his eyes as he studied her. “So you only write about people once you’ve known them for a long time?”
“Yes.”
“When did you start writing about me?”
The night she’d met Arran, she could not wait to return to the quiet of her room at St. Mary’s Isle. She’d filled several pages about Arran MacLean. There was not an entry from that day on that did not mention him in some way or another—until he’d left Scotland.
But she would never tell him so. Her journal was a sacred place to confide. Sharing it with him would be like baring her heart, which would not be wise.
“It was so long ago,” she said, trying to evade the question.
He was quiet for a moment, though his eyes continued to search hers. He was so handsome and strong, her pulse picked up speed and she licked her lips, which had suddenly gone quite dry. Something had shifted in him.
“What of West?” he asked quietly. “Do you write about him in your journal?”
“William?” She lifted her eyebrows in surprise.
