Page 12 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)
She became a favorite with Dr. and Mrs. Sumsion and always praised his Sunday sermons.
She took Mrs. White’s advice on how to improve the health of the damask roses in the back garden and Sir Arthur’s recommendations on excellent sheep breeds for the home farm.
She hosted an annual fete each October and awarded prize ribbons for foot races and laughed when Mr. Johnshaven told her the same tired joke for the twelfth time.
She wept with Lady Wintrose when word came that her son had been killed at the Battle of Vauchamps.
She held Mrs. Peterson’s hand as she drew her last breath after a catastrophic apoplexy.
In short, Isla became one of them, a trusted pillar of the community.
She shed her old life—Tavish Balfour and their crazed “love”—and grew vibrant wings, launching into the sunshine of her future.
Timid and compliant stopped nipping at her heels.
She embodied stronger words— brave, intrepid, resolute .
Malton Hill became the bedrock of her existence.
Isla would do whatever it took to retain ownership of the estate, and by extension, the new person she had become there.
Anything to ensure she didn’t lose her community or the woman she was at Malton Hill.
She would beg Tavish for a divorce. She would dance to Gray’s tune and marry where he dictated.
Anything, really, to secure her dowry in full.
Because giving up Malton Hill was the one thing Isla refused to contemplate.
Reverend Stronach ended his sermon with a loud Amen .
Gray shifted beside Isla as they sang a hymn in closing, his bass voice steady.
Services finished, Isla stood. Gray murmured something about needing a word with a local squire before adding, “I will meet you in the carriage momentarily. I shan’t keep you waiting long.” He walked off, his gait smooth. At least seeing the Balfours in church hadn’t overset him.
Matt, of course, had not come to church.
Years ago, he had refused to attend, claiming that someone had to keep their Grandmama company while Gray and Isla were away.
Their English grandmother had held rather inflexible opinions about the Church of Scotland and preferred to attend “regular” church (as she called the Church of England) when they were in London.
But after Grandmama had passed on, Matt hadn’t resumed his attendance.
Gray no longer at her side, Isla pivoted and scanned the gathered villagers and parishioners.
The Balfours easily stood out. Not only were Lord Cairnfell and Tavish some of the tallest men in the congregation, but their good looks and charming manners always elicited smiles and shy blushes.
Certain facts would never change.
Some might consider it surprising that two families, sworn to bitter enmity, would attend the same parish church.
However, the joint attendance was rather by design.
When King Charles II elevated the Balfour brothers to the titles of Northcairn and Southcairn, he ordered them to worship in the same space, thereby forcing the families to maintain a veil of civility.
Upping the ante, the King’s charter also decreed that they each contribute to the cost of the church, as well as the minister’s salary.
From Gray’s lengthy diatribes on the subject, Isla gathered that Northcairn hadn’t paid his portion in more than a decade.
Just one more black mark in the never-ending quarrel between their families.
The knowledge didn’t quell Isla’s urge to stare and stare at Captain Balfour across the church nave, to catalog every minute change that had taken him from her Tavish to this towering man. But to do so would generate curiosity from their neighbors and censure if Gray learned of it .
So instead, as Isla made her way toward the door, she flitted a brief gaze over the assembled Balfours.
Captain Balfour boldly met her eyes. As if he, too, were unable to ignore her presence.
He slid his eyes subtly to the right.
Oh, gracious.
She had nearly forgotten about that. Their signal. The way that they communicated with each other when around others.
I left you a note, his look said.
She blinked once, slowly, and then glanced away. I will collect it.
Exiting the church, Isla greeted a few acquaintances and then casually made her way around the building to her parents’ impressive grave monument—two carved granite tomb boxes arranged side-by-side.
Gray had added a marble canopy over the whole, complete with gothic arches and finials.
It was all rather fussy and ostentatious.
Isla placed a hand on the granite, as if communing with the dead.
Leaning forward, she braced a gloved hand against the stone and pressed a kiss to her mother’s name engraved on the side of her tomb.
The motion allowed Isla to palm the scrap of foolscap slid into a small gap between sculpted decorations.
She waited until she reached the safety of her bedchamber before unfolding the paper with trembling fingers.
EQQV EQ YV VPQ OCOYW . . .
It was written in the cipher she and Tavish had memorized years before. How appalling that after seven years, she easily substituted the letters, words jumping out at her.
Meet me at the usual place and time, if you can. There is much to discuss.
Nothing more.
Isla swallowed. Why were her hands shaking and her heart thumping? Why, after everything, did Tavish Balfour have any sway on her emotions?
Also . . . how arrogant of him to simply assume that she would remember their “usual place and time.” She did, of course, but still —
This had to cease.
Much to discuss , he said.
Yes, there was. Namely, how quickly she could rid herself of him as husband.
She would meet him, insist on a divorce, and finally— finally! —put the follies of her youth behind her.
Malton Hill awaited.
Often, Isla wondered if her love for the estate rivaled that of a mother for her children—the willingness to fight tooth and nail to nurture and protect.
In this, Isla perhaps found an unexpected kinship with the returned Captain Balfour. They were both soldiers, battle-hardened and prepared to defend their people.