She rolled her eyes. “Need I remind ye that ye have one month to convince me to stay wed to ye? That choice is mine. I’ll nae choose to stay if ye daenae talk to me, will ye?”
“Need I remindyethat that is the marriage we decided upon! Ours was to be a marriage of convenience. That was the plan.”
Skye pursed her lips, frowning. “I cannae understand how I agreed to that. I always thought I wanted a love marriage.”
He shrugged. “Maybe ye decided that there were worse fates than a marriage of convenience which benefited yer clan. But I willnae speak for ye; I daenae pretend to ken the reasons of yer heart.”
She said nothing to that.
When he glanced over his shoulder at her, her face was set, her eyes pensive. She was thinking over something, probably racking her brains for a memory. He wished she would stop. It was more likely that the memories would come by themselves if she didn’t force them.
But then, can ye imagine how it feels to remember nothing from a whole year of yer life? It must be unbearable.
At that moment, a woman stepped out from between two stalls. Short, plump, and round-faced, she looked like any other young woman, swathed in a gray wool with no tartan to be seen. Glancing up from fiddling with her basket, her gaze fell on Skye. Her eyes lit up.
“Why, it’s ye!” she cried, darting toward them.
Skye and Evander paused. He glanced down at Skye, who stared at the woman in confusion.
The woman’s smile didn’t falter. She trotted through the crowd, beaming, hand outstretched to take Skye’s.
“What a pleasant surprise to see ye here,” she twittered, her smile never wavering. “How are ye doing this fine morning, Lady Moira?”
Lady Moira?
“I… I think ye have m-me mistaken for someone else,” Skye stuttered.
The woman blinked, hurt inching into her eyes. “Do ye really nae remember me, Lady Moira? It’s me! It’s Annabelle!”
“I am nae Lady Moira.”
“Is it possible ye have the wrong woman?” Evander interjected smoothly.
The woman—Annabelle—was beginning to look dejected. “Nay, I wouldnae forget her. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever tended to.”
Evander inspected Annabelle’s face. Her smile was gone, and she drooped a little, but there was no flash of malice in her eyes, no sense that she was lying.
“Ye are a healer?” he prompted. “Is… Is that how ye kent this Lady Moira?”
“Sheis Lady Moira,” Annabelle insisted, pointing at Skye. “I visited her in her home when she was sick. Her husband brought me.”
The hairs on the nape of Evander’s neck stood up. He stared at Annabelle, trying to control the pounding of his heart.
“And do ye see her husband around here now?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice even.
Annabelle blinked up at him, faintly baffled. “Nay, sir. As far as I can see, it’s only the two of ye.”
“And this… this husband of hers, ye would recognize him if ye saw him again? Would ye be able to lead us to the place he took ye?”
Annabelle eyed him warily for a long moment, then inched closer to Skye. “Lady Moira, is this man with ye? He’s a wee bit strange. If ye are uncomfortable?—”
“Me husband apparently gave ye a false name,” Skye interrupted. She gave a taut, uncertain smile. “Me name is Skye.”
“Oh.” Annabelle wilted a little. “I thought we got on well, ye and I. I hadnae attended to a proper lady before.”
“It’s all right, Annabelle. I’ve nae… been meself lately. I’m sure ye took very good care of me.”
An uncertain smile tugged at Annabelle’s lips. “That’s kind of ye to say.”
