Emily paused her knitting. “I believe we are safe, Elize.”
“How can ye be so sure?”
She did not have a response, because how could she explain that she trusted the Laird, a man she had only known for less than a week? She believed he would do everything to ensure their safety, even though he had no obligation to them. She was only his fake fiancée. She could easily be replaced with another woman.
And yet her resolve held.
It had to be his eyes, so like those hazel orbs that had pulled her from the depths of the freezing loch many years ago. It was the only explanation. Every time she looked at him, she felt a pull, a strong sense of safety.
Elize did not share her memories. Having been only eight at the time of the accident, her recollections were hazy, bordering on nonexistent. If she had caught a glimpse of their savior, she would not remember.
But Emily had, and she knew she couldn’t be mistaken. Elize did not feel the warm appeal of the eyes that had thawed their freezing bodies and given them a second chance at life, so she did not understand what Emily felt. She couldn’t.
But Emily knew her sister trusted her. They could bicker, Elize could contest her orders, but she always did what Emily felt was right for her.
“I just ken it,” Emily replied sincerely.
“Why are ye knitting that?” Elize eyed the stocking in her lap that had fully taken shape.
Emily had yet to start on its twin, but she intended to finish it before daybreak.
She held the stocking high, her brow furrowing. She had absentmindedly knitted an image of the pendant she had given to Hilda. “I daenae ken. I didnae mean to.”
She studied it, trying to decide if it was ruined. It wasn’t exactly out of place, but it also wasn’t what she had intended.
Would her gift be well received?
Nevertheless, she continued knitting until Elize dragged herself up from the floor and left for her room, until strips of sunlight broke through the morning clouds. Only when it was complete did she crawl into bed and drift off to sleep.
The next morning, Elize came into her room and stopped at the center, her eyes narrowing.
“Ye have dark circles under yer eyes. Did ye stay up?”
Emily instinctively glanced at the newly knitted stockings, rolled and bound, placed presentably atop her vanity. She stepped sideways, hiding them from view.
“We should have tea,” she suggested, pointing grandly to the freshly brewed pot Mrs. Donnelly had brought in earlier.
Elize turned to it, and Emily deftly swiped the stockings into a drawer. She then moved toward the Pembroke table, where the tea tray sat.
She was somewhat excited. At the orphanage, they did not enjoy privileges like rising at noon or post-nap tea. Yes, tea was a privilege orphans were not afforded, and oversleeping, as it was constantly instituted to be, was harshly punished.
She touched the pot and found it warm.
“How many sugars would ye like in yer tea?” She flipped the cups and set them apart.
Never in her life had she held such dainty, fine crockery. The tableware at the orphanage was usually chipped and coarse, or made of tin and wood, and one did not drink tea out of a quaich.
She lifted one curious brow, the pot hovering over the cup. But Elize did not move, no longer remotely interested.
“Did ye stay up again?” Her tone was filled with worry but also slight disparagement.
Emily’s hand dropped. She wished her sister could share in her excitement for their new life. It was temporary, but it was theirs to enjoy for… a month.
She averted her gaze, which was answer enough.
Elize hissed out a breath. With clipped steps, she marched over to the vanity, took the stockings out of the drawer, placed them opposite Emily beside the tray, and then plopped down into the chintz chair.
“I daenae understand what ye find so fascinating about knitting that ye prioritize it over sleep.” She took the pot from Emily’s hand.
