Page 13 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

Eight Years Earlier

Pettercairn, Scotland

I sla raced up the steep path leading to the top of Cairnfell.

Please, be there!

She was late to meet Tavish, but Gray had been in such a temper today—it had been impossible to slip away unnoticed before now.

Rain drizzled from the sky, making the path slippery under Isla’s boots. She staggered sideways before righting her footing.

Almost there.

She and Tavish had been trading notes via her parents’ tomb for months now.

Clandestine meetings on Cairnfell, usually discussing nothing of import and, yet, everything of importance to them both—her opinion of current skirt lengths, his views on Napoleon and the war on the Continent, the likelihood of Widow James marrying for a seventh time.

It felt like no topic was too small, esoteric, or scandalous to discuss.

Unlike her brothers, Tavish treated her as an equal, not a child to be coddled.

But today, Isla needed answers.

Did Tavish know what had happened? Could he fill in the silences that punctuated Gray and Matt’s conversations whenever Isla wandered into the room?

Something had occurred in London. Something dreadful.

Something that involved Tavish’s family—his older sister, Lady Mariah, in particular.

Gray had brawled with Lord Cairnfell over it, and Tavish’s older brother had badly broken Gray’s nose.

The physician had set it, but they all knew that Gray would now have a bump in his previously patrician feature.

Finally, Isla crested the hill and strode into the clearing of Cairnfell Castle, lungs heaving with her exertion.

And there he was. Tavish. Her friend.

Her best friend, if she were honest with herself.

His clothing appeared dashed together—a loose coat and wrinkled waistcoat over a pleated kilt, neckcloth carelessly tied. As if Tavish had been in a rush to reach her and hadn’t cared to fuss about with his attire.

Though Gray always tossed off his coat and neckcloth as soon as he returned home, her ducal brother wouldn’t dream of appearing in public without being properly starched and pressed within an inch of his valet’s life.

Matt . . . well, he never left Dunmore, and he still dressed immaculately every day.

Tavish, however, seemed more . . . oh, how could Isla explain it? More comfortable in his skin, perhaps? A man would have to be to wear a kilt with such insouciance.

For Gray, close-cut superfine coats and embroidered waistcoats were akin to armor—a layer of protection between himself and the world.

He might despise the feel of them on his body—too tight and uncomfortable, he had once told her—but he would never forsake them in public.

In a certain sense, the clothing wore him, not the other way around.

Or, maybe, better expressed—without his expensive tailoring, who would the Duke of Grayburn be?

It was as much a part of his ducal persona as impeccable manners and stern orders.

But Tavish . . . his clothing seemed almost an afterthought.

Not that he wasn’t well-dressed as befitted an earl’s son.

No, it was more that you would notice a hundred things about him before caring what he was wearing.

The wide brilliance of his smile and the warm openness of his gaze.

The soft timbre of his voice and rolling hum of his Scottish brogue.

The quick leap of his thoughts and kindness in his manner.

If anything, his coat served the purpose of highlighting the breadth of his shoulders while the blue of his waistcoat brought out the silver flecks in his eyes.

At sixteen, Isla was rapidly realizing that members of the opposite sex found her attractive.

She had initially attributed that attraction to her status as Lady Isla Kinsey, sister to the wealthy and powerful Duke of Grayburn.

But she was observant enough to recognize that such attention might have another source.

Boys, and even some men, stammered when introduced, blushing and staring before bowing over her hand with reverence.

They handled her with hushed tones and deferential care as if she were made of Venetian glass.

But never Tavish. He never saw her as anything other than Isla.

Waving, he jogged across the clearing to her, kilt snapping behind him.

“There ye be, lass.” He took her hands in his. “I was beginning to be right worrit .”

“I am . . . well . . .” she gasped, trying to catch her breath.

“I’ve lit us a wee fire. As large as I dare without anyone seeing the smoke. Come.”

Glancing around to ensure no one was about, he tugged her through the large door of the tower house and up a short spiral staircase to the ancient great hall.

She had only been inside a handful of times, finding the place dark and unwelcoming.

But today, a fire popped in the hearth. The hall was rudimentary at best—stone damp with small panes of glass in the three windows, one for each wall but the fireplace.

The furnishings weren’t much better—an aging table in one corner and a pair of wooden chairs set before the fire.

There was a second room through a door to the left of the fireplace that appeared to house a bed with a moldering straw mattress .

Isla sat in one of the chairs, pulling off her gloves and stretching her chilled fingers toward the flames.

“You must tell me the news,” she said without preamble. “Something dreadful has happened, has it not?”

“How do ye know?”

“Please! I can practically feel the tension radiating from your shoulders.”

It was the truth. He sat stiffly in his chair, spine straight. But even without seeing him, she would have heard the bleakness in his voice.

“Am I that easily understood?”

“By me, you are.”

He narrowed his eyes at her.

“Also, my brother sports a broken nose that I overheard a footman blame on your brother.” Isla rolled a hand. “Please, talk to me.”

Tavish’s expression turned desolate, like a chill wind stealing one’s breath. He pressed his palms into his eyes, rubbing. “I can scarcely countenance what has happened.”

“Then tell me!”

He stared into the fire for a moment. Trying to decide how much to tell her, Isla was sure. Sometimes, reading his thoughts was as easy as understanding her own.

“Tell me all,” she urged.

“I’m sure ye recall that Mariah became betrothed to Lord Stafford in August.”

“Of course. You are all eager for the match. Lord Stafford is a decent-enough fellow. He is one of Gray’s old school friends and has visited Dunmore once or twice.”

“Aye. He met Mariah during his last visit to Grayburn at Dunmore and was quite taken with her. Stafford was eager to court Mariah once she arrived in London.”

“I can imagine. Your sister is lovely.”

A gentleman would have to be blind to miss Lady Mariah’s striking beauty—dark hair and eyes the color of summer sky.

Isla had always envied the glittering joy that Tavish’s sister trailed wherever she went.

Heaven knew, Isla had caught even Gray looking Lady Mariah’s way more than once.

Every gentleman swiveled to stare when she passed, such was the power of her loveliness.

“Has there been a hiccup in the wedding plans?” Isla asked. “The marriage contracts are already set, correct?”

“Aye. Set in stone.”

“Then what has occurred?” As far as Isla understood things, once the marriage contracts were signed and in place, the marriage was as good as done. To break a marriage contract at this stage would result in a heavy lawsuit.

Tavish took in a stuttering breath, as if the weight of what had occurred was nearly drowning him.

“Apparently, your brother . . .” He drifted off.

“Gray?”

“Aye. When Grayburn learned of Stafford’s impending nuptials to my sister, His Grace was displeased, to put it mildly.

He didn’t approve of his friend’s decision to marry into the Balfour family.

So much so that Callum claims your brother began a systematic campaign to convince Stafford to break off the betrothal. ”

Isla gasped. “Gray? Truly? What did he say?”

“Callum didn’t elaborate. However, I can guess Grayburn gave a blistering litany of all the defects of my family and Mariah, in particular.”

“Truly? But . . . Gray would never . . .” Isla drifted off, words of denial freezing on her tongue.

Given how Gray’s behavior toward herself had cooled over the past year, she could hardly protest that her brother would never do such a dastardly thing.

The Piers she had known would never willfully destroy a lady’s reputation, even a Balfour.

But Gray as he was now? So hateful toward Northcairn and his family?

Isla wasn’t sure what Gray would do if he deemed it necessary.

“Please tell me Gray was unsuccessful,” she whispered instead.

But she already knew the answer. Tavish’s stricken expression said it all.

“Stafford reneged and has refused to marry Mariah.”

“Oh, Tavish!” Nausea churned in Isla’s stomach. “Poor Lady Mariah!”

No wonder Cairnfell had broken Gray’s nose .

“Callum challenged Stafford to a duel over the whole affair, but Stafford refused, saying Callum wasn’t enough of a gentleman to tempt him to duel.”

Isla gasped. Such a slight was nearly beyond the pale.

“Your brother is determined to ensure that no one in my family is ever received again. And as he is a duke, he will succeed.” Tavish sat back, arms folded, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“But what of Lady Mariah?”

Here, Tavish pinched the bridge of his nose. “She . . .” He swallowed. “She allowed Stafford to convince her to anticipate their marriage vows.”

Isla pressed a hand to her mouth. She knew such things happened, but for Lord Stafford to lay with Lady Mariah and then refuse to marry her . . .

“What is to be done? Lord Stafford must marry her before news of her disgrace is broadcast.”

“That horse has already bolted from the barn, so to speak,” Tavish laughed, harsh and bitter. “No one can be forced to the altar, unfortunately. Stafford has refused, publicly claiming that he didn’t know she was a lady of poor reputation before proposing to her.”

“Balderdash!”

“Aye, but as Stafford has Grayburn’s support, he is unlikely to suffer a loss of his own reputation over this, the bastard. Regardless, Mariah has filed a lawsuit of five thousand pounds against Stafford for breach of promise.”

“Good! That miscreant should pay for his actions and cowardly betrayal! Such a sum would go far to helping Mariah establish herself.”

“Aye, it would. But the trial won’t begin for months yet, and because the sordid details were published in the lawsuit filing, all of London now knows that Mariah is a fallen woman.”

An icy chill chased Isla’s spine. She knew the outcome before Tavish said it.

“My poor sister is utterly ruined. Not a rumored or hearsay sort of ruination. But thoroughly destroyed. Mariah has no reputation to speak of. She will no longer be received nor ever marry.”

Isla pressed a hand to her stomach. The shock of it. The horror .

And Gray had played a central role.

No gentleman would do such a thing to a lady, no matter how provoked. It was the rankest behavior on Lord Stafford’s part . . . and Gray’s, too. Without her brother spewing vicious lies, Isla doubted Lord Stafford would have reneged.

Emotions bucked and roiled in her chest—betrayal, disappointment, helplessness. How could Gray have done this?

She closed her eyes, trying to keep herself from screaming.

“Ye should let it out.”

Isla snapped her gaze to Tavish’s.

“All that ye be feeling.” His gaze burned into hers. “As I’ve said before, ye should let it out.”

She gave a harsh laugh. “How? Slash Gray with a dagger while he sleeps?”

He cocked his head, as if examining the thought before casting it aside with a quick shake. “Nae. Something less bloody that won’t see ye hanged.”

He stood and offered her his hand.

Isla took it without hesitation.

Tavish led her out the door and into the forest beyond.

Within minutes, they reached the cairn itself.

It towered overhead, slate stones darkened with rain.

The downpour had tempered to a light sprinkle, but the wind lashed the ends of Isla’s pelisse and snapped Tavish’s kilt and bent the Scots pine.

“Come on. We have to go to the top.”

Their hands clasped for balance, they scrambled up the slippery stones—feet sliding with every other step, wind chafing Isla’s cheeks. It took several minutes before they reached the summit.

“Now.” Tavish dropped her hand. “We bellow our rage.”

Bending at the waist, he drew in a long breath and then roared into the wind. The sound whipped around Isla, racing down the hill and blending with the clamor of the tree branches. The sound was primal and angry and felt so very vital.

Mouth opening wide, Tavish bellowed one more time, a guttural shout of fury. The wind clapped back with blasts of arctic air .

He turned to her, gray eyes wide, red hair plastered to his head and dripping water into his eyes. He appeared elemental. A handsome kelpie determined to lure her to her doom.

“Your turn,” he said, a wild grin on his lips.

Isla surveyed the landscape, the tops of the pines disappearing into the rising mist and cutting off any further views of Dunmore to the south or Castle Balfour to the north.

“Scream, lass! Pull the air deep into your gut and then let it fly . . . all your rage and frustration at the damnable injustices of life.”

As ever, Isla thrilled at his swearing. Tavish never saw her as something to be coddled. In his eyes, she was a fledgling eagle, ready to take flight.

And so she bent forward, sucked in all the air her body could hold, and roared into the wind. The sound scoured her lungs and scraped her throat and sent sharp prickles of energy along her skin.

“Brilliant!” Tavish shouted. “Again!”

Isla screamed, dragging the fury and helplessness and heartache from her lungs and flinging it into the tempest—all the emotions that wanted to flatten her, to snuff out her will to resist.

Yet as the rain beat down and the sky flashed silver and the very elements raged, You are nothing! . . .

Never had Isla felt so alive.