Page 2 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

Isla giggled, the sound dropping out of her like water flowing over the Falls of Fennimore.

He continued to chew—unrepentant, those plush lips of his curling at the corners .

His nonchalance only made Isla laugh harder. She pressed a palm to her mouth to staunch the sound, but the pressure made her snort. Loudly. Like a sow with its piglets.

With anyone else, the noise would have been mortifying, but his presence was a light thing, welcome and accepting.

Isla collapsed into giggles. Hilarity shook her shoulders and filled her blood with bubbles so light she could imagine her heart soaring away on a merry wind.

He swallowed and then joined her in laughing, his baritone voice rumbling.

“Ye be Lady Isla, am I right?” He popped a smaller piece of cake into his mouth.

She liked how he said her name—AYE-la—dragging out the initial A sound. Why there was a silent S in Isla , no one had ever adequately explained to her.

She nodded. “And you’re Mr. Tavish Balfour?”

“There’s an honorable before that, I’ll have you know—The Honorable Mr. Tavish Balfour.” He winked.

Isla laughed again.

Oh! This simply would not do. She had never considered herself to be the sort to giggle and blush over a handsome boy.

And yet . . . here she was.

She was learning all sorts of illuminating things about herself today.

“Ye be alright for a Kinsey,” Mr. Balfour said.

“Pardon?” Isla nibbled at her own slice. Dainty bites , as Miss Farnsworth would admonish.

“We all think ye be a bit too proper, you Kinseys. Ye keep to yourselves there at Dunmore. Avoid mixing with us clan folk and the townspeople.”

Isla had never thought of her family quite like that. She just assumed that . . .

Well, what had she assumed?

It was true that her brothers never attended the local ceilidhs or assembly balls that the maids whispered about. Surely, her family was invited.

They simply . . . didn’t mix with the local clan folk, as he said.

“Life is rather boring at Dunmore,” Isla confessed.

“Aye? ”

“Ayyyye,” she drawled just to see him smile again. He did not disappoint, his lips stretching wide.

There was something arresting about this boy. The way that he looked at her, the angle of his head as he spoke, the quiet earnestness of his gaze combined with the rough masculinity of his frame.

Never before had she been so aware of her own body as female and another’s as male. It shook something awake within her belly. Like standing in the midst of an electrical storm, the current buzzing along her skin.

“We shouldn’t be speaking,” she said.

“Nae, we shouldn’t."

“Why do our families hate each other? I don’t understand.”

“Me, either. All I know is my da’ would whip me if he caught me here.”

“Mine would lock me in my room for a week.”

“Would he now?”

Isla shrugged. “Perhaps. I actually don’t know what he would do as I’ve never . . .”

She left the rest dangling, but she was fairly certain she heard the words timid and compliant whisper on the wind.

Lifting an eyebrow at her, he deliberately took another obscene bite of cake, holding her gaze the entire time.

A challenge, she realized.

Isla stared, unable to look away.

Still chewing, he waggled his eyebrows and then glanced meaningfully at the slice in her hand.

I dare ye , his eyes said.

Isla pursed her lips, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. She had only been in this boy’s company for ten minutes, and she already knew he was incorrigible.

He swallowed and licked his lips.

“Go on, then.” He nudged his chin toward her slice. “The biggest bite ye can manage.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“That is decidedly poor logic. ”

His eyebrows lifted. “Because life is meant to be lived. Not constantly harrowed up by our fathers’ shoulds or shouldn’ts .”

“Mmm. A bit better.”

She glanced down at the cake.

Oh, heavens.

She was going to do this. She was going to take an enormous bite and swallow timid and compliant right down.

On a breath, Isla opened her mouth as wide as she could and sank her teeth into the cake.

It was . . .

Gracious!

The taste of brandy, vanilla, and sugar exploded on her tongue.

How did he chew and breathe at the same time?

It scarcely mattered. The whole experience was divine. Like dunking her head in the frigid waters of the River Southcairn on a hot summer’s day.

“There ye go, lass.” He took another bite. “We’ll unearth your Balfour roots yet.”

Isla managed to swallow.

“Ye have a wee bit of cake . . .” He pointed to the edge of his mouth.

“Where?” Isla brushed her fingers across her face. “Here?”

He stared at her lips for a moment. “Allow me.”

Reaching out, he pressed his thumb to the edge of her mouth. It was the briefest of touches, scarcely more than a whisper, but Isla felt it everywhere—in the gooseflesh that flared down her spine, in the burning heat where his thumb had been, in the rabbit-thump of her heart.

Hand dropping, he popped the remaining bit of cake into his mouth and flashed a smile before gazing out over the cemetery.

As if that brief touch had affected him not at all.

Isla’s lungs reminded her to breathe.

“Thank ye.” He glanced at his mother’s grave behind them. “Thank ye for making today a wee bit more bearable.”

“The first birthday without them is the most difficult. It gets easier after that.”

He nodded .

Voices drifted in . . . people walking up the street.

They both turned toward the sound. His body tensed.

Mr. Balfour clearly had the same thought as Isla—no one could see them here together.

Pivoting back, he leaned toward her. “If I never speak with ye again, know that I consider ye a right bonnie lass.”

Her cheeks burned even as she smiled too wide.

“And—” He leaned even closer. Close enough that she could see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes and feel the warmth of his breath. “Happy birthday, Lady Isla.”

“Happy birthday to ye, as well.”

With another wink, he sprang to his feet and vaulted over the stone fence that encircled the kirkyard, disappearing into the trees beyond.

Isla watched him go.

She likely would never speak with him again. Their families wouldn’t permit it, not even an innocent friendship.

But neither her ducal father nor Miss Farnsworth could control Isla’s daydreams. In her own fantasies, she could be as un-timid and non-compliant as she would like.

And abruptly, Isla knew she would see Tavish Balfour’s face in each one. Every day, she could remember his joyful bite into her cake, envision his laughing eyes, the way his thumb brushed away the crumb on her lip, his voice as his head dipped toward hers with a low, Happy birthday .

Daydreaming about him would be simply that—a dream.

After all, it wasn’t as if she would marry him.