Page 14 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

Cairnfell

Pettercairn, Scotland

It was all decidedly intolerable.

A billowing tempest would be more appropriate to her mood—towering thunderheads and torrential rain. A bit of lightning would not go amiss. The present cheerful sunshine felt like an assault on the crown of her head .

Lifting her skirts, Isla continued to trudge up Cairnfell. How many times over the years had she made this journey? Crossing the fields from Dunmore and traversing the old stone bridge before summiting the fell itself?

Like then, her heart pounded a steady drumbeat in the back of her throat. Once, she would have labeled this emotion as excitement or anticipation. Now, she knew it to be dread.

Unlike then, she no longer had a governess to thwart, and Gray felt Isla’s wandering to be safe, as long as she stayed close to Dunmore. Little did His Grace know.

Isla had slept poorly last night, her nerves refusing to settle in anticipation of meeting Captain Balfour. She had to convince him to grant her a divorce, and she wasn’t above employing hysterical tears, if necessary.

It had taken her three years after Tavish’s departure to summon the courage to brave the memories of Cairnfell.

Even now, she longed to summit the cairn and scream her frustration and worry to the wind.

But like everything else, she refused to permit him to dominate her memories of this place.

Even if she did see him peeking out from every hollow and tree as she crested the hill.

Captain Balfour was precisely where she expected him to be, leaning against the side of Cairnfell Castle, arms crossed over his absurdly broad chest, one foot bent at the knee and resting on the stone behind him. His kilt—the blue and yellow of the Balfour tartan—fluttered in the slight breeze.

His head lifted as she stepped into the clearing.

Their first meeting here with Gray, Isla had been too stunned to study him.

During church services, she hadn’t dared.

But now . . . she looked her fill.

Of course, the passage of seven years had only rendered him more handsome, the wretch.

His hair had settled into a polite auburn, while his skin still avoided the ruddiness of most redheads.

As ever, his chin held that alluring deep vertical dent, and his lips—lips she could still easily recall touching her own—were absurdly full .

. . a pair of pillows framing his mouth. Pillow lips, those .

Worse, the scar on his upper right cheek did nothing to detract from his good looks and, instead, made him appear distinguished with a hint of danger. Though he certainly had shaved this morning, his skin already sported night whiskers.

The most striking change, however, was in his height and weight. His chest and shoulders were broader and heavy with muscle. She refused to even contemplate how they would feel wrapped around her. His calves bulged against the garters fastening his woolen stockings just below his knees.

He had to have grown at least an inch or two. Before, Isla hadn’t strained to kiss him. A mere press to her toes would see the job done. But now, she figured she would need to drag his head down to meet hers, even on tiptoe.

He had left a boy.

But this . . . this was a man.

And whywhywhy was she even thinking about kissing and Tavish Balfour in the same breath?

He watched her approach, eyes surely cataloging her differences. The cool poise of her head. The militant erectness of her spine. The prim clasp of her hands, reticule dangling from her wrist.

She stopped well in front of him.

“Captain Balfour.” She curtsied.

“Lady Isla.” He bowed.

A repeat of their meeting just a few days ago.

This time, however, she squarely met his gaze.

Tavish had been a friendly, tender-hearted boy. The sort to wear his proverbial heart on his sleeve. An idealist and a romantic. Attributes she had loved with a mad passion.

But the man before her . . . gaze cold and expression withdrawn. He appeared as hard and unyielding as the granite of the Cairngorms themselves.

It felt as if Tavish—her Tavish—had died long ago. And now this strange man had appeared, wearing Tavish’s face and speaking with his voice, but displaying not an ounce of the open warmth of the boy she had loved. Gone were his easy smiles and clear-eyed happiness.

This man had seen horrors. Likely even committed them .

Had her Tavish reappeared, Isla might have worried that her heart would again succumb to his allure. That she would once more tumble into reckless love with him and, in the process, lose Malton Hill and the woman she was there, abandoning her people to an uncertain fate.

But, no. She had no fear that any ounce of her would pine for this stony-faced soldier.

Captain Balfour . . . not Tavish.

Isla’s only desire was to sever every tie that bound them.

“You wished to speak with me?” she said, forcing herself to work through niceties before demanding answers to her questions.

“Aye.” He motioned for them to walk toward the cairn. “There is much to discuss, I ken.”

Isla nodded. Nothing in his demeanor tipped his hand as to his thoughts.

He proffered her his arm. No matter what had befallen him, his manners did not falter.

She shook her head.

Touching Captain Balfour in any capacity would be ill-advised. And given the faint flicker of relief in his eyes, he felt the same.

Yet, as they walked the uneven ground, the heat of his large body pulled at her senses. As if just his simple presence agitated something deep within. A tug. A whisper of the girl she had been, throwing herself over and over into his arms.

Her body still remembered the animal attraction of him. She grimaced at the thought.

Instead of climbing the cairn itself, he led her around the base to the back side.

Unlike the eastern face of Cairnfell with its gradual rise, the western edge plunged down great black-slabbed cliffs to the plain below.

A small bench fashioned out of logs rested at the base of the cairn.

A place to sit and admire the expansive view.

Isla sat, and Captain Balfour took a seat beside her, leaving a decided two feet of space between their bodies.

She felt the thrum of him anyway. He had never worn fragrance before, but now he smelled of sandalwood and other exotic spices. Scents to lure women who were not her.

How many had there been? It was a terrible thought, but one that had occupied more than one sleepless night over the years.

Surely, he had kissed and wooed and perhaps even bedded other women.

His loyalty to her had undoubtedly been short-lived.

The thought turned acidic in her throat if she pondered it overlong.

It wasn’t as if she had completely honored their marital vows herself.

She had permitted the occasional London swain to claim a kiss during her Seasons in Town.

Colonel Archer had been the most recent at just two months past—a very pleasant kiss stolen under a bower in the back garden of his parents’ townhouse.

The tense silence between her and Captain Balfour stretched and pulled, a thread of black treacle dangling from a spoon and waiting for the slightest wobble to snap.

What are your intentions? she longed to shout. Anything to release the nervous pressure in her chest.

He spoke first.

“I have always appreciated the view from here,” he said, voice calm as if this were a social call. “On a clear day like today, ye can even make out the rise of Ben Tirran.” He pointed in the direction of the peak.

“Yes. It is lovely,” she managed to choke.

And it was. The wild landscape of the Angus glens extended before them, lush forest and shrubs, the Falls of Fennimore glittering in the distance.

For Isla, the view had always been a summary of their families.

Beyond the waterfall, the shores of Loch Cairnbeg shimmered.

The River Cairnbeg rushed out from it, tumbling down the Falls of Fennimore.

From there, the river rambled along Glen Cairnbeg until it crashed into the rising might of Cairnfell.

There below, the river dashed itself against the fell’s granite base, splitting in two: Northcairn and Southcairn.

Running wild around the mass of Cairnfell, the rivers took very different paths to the ocean—the River Northcairn meandered toward Aberdeenshire in the north, while the River Southcairn angled toward Angus and found its way to the ocean near St. Cyrus Beach.

Two rivers, once one, but now divided and forging separate paths. Just as their families had done. Just as she and Tavish—hopefully, prayerfully—would soon, too .

Isla rallied her nerves, swallowing down her agitation. Enough vacillation. Malton Hill hung in the balance, and she would fight for her future.

“Come, Captain.” She lifted her chin. “Let us discuss that which must be discussed.”

She dared a glance at him.

A pained smile tugged at his mouth.

“Still direct, I see.”

“Pardon?”

“Your manner. Ye were never one to ease gently into a difficult conversation. Ye jump in with both feet.”

Isla stared. Was that true? She considered her younger self the sort to avoid confrontation and discord. But, perhaps, he was correct. With him, she had been more forthright.

“I choose to take that as a compliment,” she said.

“Good. It was meant as one.”

They looked at each other for a moment. Isla hated it . . . the lack of her Tavish in his eyes. They were blank and polite and utterly unreadable.

Where did you go? she wondered. Or were you never truly real?

It scarcely mattered now, she supposed.

“Ye be referring to our marriage?” he asked.

“Yes.” Isla’s heart pounded. She resisted the urge to lick her lips. “I wish for the knot of our handfasting to be untied.”

“Do ye?”

She nodded just once, a crisp up-down motion. It was all she could manage through the anxiety pulsing at her fingertips.

“Well.” A long pause. “I suppose that would be for the best.”

Isla’s shoulders nearly collapsed, relief flooding her veins.

God be thanked!