Keenan’s lips press together. He finally nods. “Aye. It is.” He smiles at me. “Your husband is a good man, Aileen. I hope when your memory comes back to you, you remember that.”
I swallow. I’m not going to lie. “I hope so, too.”
I don’t believe any of them right now. I don’t know who they are or how they’ve treated me. I hate that I don’t have any recollection, any foresight at all into how I should act with them.
“Leave us,” Cormac says to the room. “I want a word alone with my wife.”
So patience isn’t his strong suit.
Maeve takes her leave, as does everyone else.
“I’d like to see your mother later?” Even though I don’t remember her, I know I have an ally in her.
“Aye,” Cormac says. “You will.”
When we’re alone, I turn to face my pillow. I’m honestly scared. I don’t know him at all. What if he isn’t a good man, as his brother says? Would my instincts know? All I can tell right now is that he’s definitely someone who commands authority, and he’s capable of doing dangerous things. He’s here with me... and by the look on his face, he looks as if he’s been here a while. Does that mean he cares about me, then? How would I know?
“Aileen, look at me.” Cormac sits beside me.
I look at him. I’m suddenly filled with a strong, irrational sense of longing, to be held by him. I’m scared. You don’t know how your memory brings you comfort until you lose it. It’s terrifying not knowing who I am or how I got here. Even though I don’t know him, and didn’t want him to touch me, he looks strong. I bet it would be nice to be held by him. I bet it would feel comforting.
“Why don’t we start by answering your questions.”
“It isn’t possible,” I whisper. Tears well in my eyes. I swipe them away, angry at how emotional I’ve become. “I’ve too many questions to ask you.”
“Aye,” he says. “I imagine you do. But why don’t you try?”
“Okay,” I agree with a nod. “You look as if you haven’t slept in days,” I say to him. “Why is that?”
His eyes quickly widen before he schools his features. I don’t think he expected that question.
“I’m your husband,” he says. “ And it’s my duty to care for you. You’ve been unconscious for a number of days. I couldn’t leave your side. I’ve been worried, so no. I haven’t really slept. But I’m fine.”
I feel my jaw drop. I don’t speak at first, processing this. I’ve been unconscious for days?
“Why?” I whisper. “Why was I unconscious? Why did this happen to me?”
“I don’t quite know why,” he says, and if I’m not mistaken, the flash in his eyes indicates temper. Did something I say anger him? “I’m not sure who attacked us, but you, my mother, and Caitlin were attacked a few days ago.”
“Attacked? How?”
“Someone ambushed our guard and set fire to the greenhouse you were in.”
I gasp. “Did everyone escape?”
“Aye,” he says. “Only before you and I did, the ceiling collapsed and you suffered serious head trauma.”
“My God,” I whisper. “Did you get injured as well?”
His jaw firms. “I did, but I’m larger. I sustained the injuries more easily. Concussion. We were afraid you experienced brain damage.”
I feel as if I’m going to throw up. “Did I?”
“You’ve suffered amnesia. Just means you’ve forgotten a few things. But Sebastian says they’ll come back.”
I let the words settle as I process them. “How? How will they come back?”
He reaches for my hand, and this time I let him take it. “I’ll help you remember. I have to talk to Sebastian, the doctor. The man who just left. We weren’t entirely sure how you’d respond when you eventually woke, so we aren’t totally prepared.”
I nod. “So with… time and… whatever it is that Sebastian tells you to do… will my memory come back?”
“Aye,” he says with confidence. “Absolutely. I’m sure of it. This is only temporary. And you’re a strong lass. You’ll weather this, I know it.”
“Am I?” I ask. “A strong lass?” I don’t feel very strong right now. I’m lying in bed, grasping fruitlessly at memories.
He runs his thumb along the top of my hand. “Aye. One of the bravest.” His hand feels warm and rough holding mine, and my need to be held, to be comforted, grows.
I look about the room. I’m in a massive bed, so large I’m dwarfed by it, like a child playing house. There’s a bathroom to my left and to the right, a doorway that leads to another room. I see the door to a closet, and a few pieces of well-made, sturdy furniture. It’s neat and clean in here.
“I’m not in a hospital.”
“No, this is our bedroom. We’re in our wing in the family mansion that overlooks the Irish Sea in Ballyhock. Home of the McCarthy Clan, of which you’re a member.”