Page 20 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

T avish descended the stairs for dinner, his mood as sour as the wine Ross had once made out of grapes from an abandoned vineyard outside Cadiz.

Fletch had been there, too, come to think of it.

Damn and blast.

Seeing Isla standing in the entrance hall, Gray thunderous at her side . . .

The saber that flayed his upper cheek had been somehow less jarring.

But, as of yet, Lord and Lady Milmouth had not asked Tavish to leave, though his effects had been discreetly relocated to another bedroom two floors up from where he had been. The footman who saw to the move flushed when Tavish asked him why.

“I b-believe her ladyship wished for more s-space between yourself and His Grace,” the man had stammered.

Of course. Tavish could hardly fault Lady Milmouth for moving him as far as possible from Grayburn. Heaven forbid the duke encounter Tavish at random. His Grace’s tranquility was not to be disturbed .

Regardless, Tavish dressed for dinner and left his room, muscles tense, waiting for the guillotine blade to fall. He was halfway down the second flight of stairs when Ross hailed him from behind.

“Ho there, Balfour!”

Tavish paused, waiting for his friend to join him.

Like himself, Captain George Ross was the son of a Scottish gentleman.

Unlike Tavish, Ross’s father owned the lucrative Bracklamore whisky distillery, and Ross himself had a pretty property in Moray with tenants and a thousand acres of decent farmland.

Tavish and Ross had served side-by-side from the first day Tavish arrived in the 95th Rifles.

The 95th was different from other rank-and-file regiments.

They were the crack elite troops charged with slipping ahead of advancing forces and removing enemy officers before they took the battlefield.

To aid in this, Rifles worked in pairs—one shooting his Baker rifle while his partner reloaded.

Until the point of their rank advancement, Ross had been Tavish’s partner. To say that Tavish had no better friend would be a gross understatement. He would trust Ross with his life and had on more occasions than he could count.

“Ye looked about ready to cast up your accounts seeing Grayburn and his sister here.” Ross said the words easily, but Tavish registered the concern in his friend’s eyes. “Is all well?”

“As well as could be, I ken.” Tavish shrugged.

“I cannot believe that Fletch forgot about your family rivalry with the Dukes of Grayburn.”

Rivalry? Tavish would have gone with vitriolic hatred himself.

“We both know Fletch has no head for these sorts of things,” Tavish said. “Though Lady Milmouth should have been more aware of who she was inviting.”

Ross twisted his mouth and glanced about the stairwell, checking no one else was near.

“This is the same duke who instigated the ruination of your sister, correct?” he murmured.

“Aye. The very same.”

“Bloody hell. Will ye stay the week then? ”

Och , that was the question, was it not? Haring off felt too much like ceding the field to enemy forces, something Tavish had never done with ease.

But staying and having to make polite with Grayburn, all while pretending Isla was a stranger to him . . .

“It would be a shame if ye left,” Ross continued. “We’ve much to discuss with Fletch.”

“Agreed.”

That was also the truth. Fletch was the third partner in their whisky endeavor.

He brought needed capital while Ross contributed knowledge, and Tavish brute labor, some capital, and an intense desire to succeed.

This was to have been their week to hammer out the fine details of their plan.

Grayburn and Isla would be a hindrance to that.

“I am sure Grayburn will avoid us as surely as we avoid him,” Tavish said.

“Aye. If nothing else, the young ladies will have him dancing a merry jig.”

“True. The ladies did seem decidedly eager for His Grace’s arrival.” The thought cheered Tavish immensely.

He rather liked the picture of His Lofty Dukeship dodging impertinent questions and incessant flirtation.

From what Tavish had already deduced from the Misses Forsyth and Miss Crowley, they would no doubt pester Grayburn nigh to death.

Prudence and restraint were two characteristics he had yet to see the young women embody.

As Tavish and Ross crossed the landing toward the final run of stairs, Fletch came striding from the family wing, a hand lifted in greeting.

Tavish couldn’t recall when Colonel Edward Archer had become Fletch . It was some sliding progression from Archer to Arrow to Fletcher to Fletch in the eccentric way that nicknames developed. The moniker had stuck for years now.

As usual, his friend sported a wide grin. The sort Tavish couldn’t help but mirror.

“Gentlemen.” Fletch stopped before Tavish and Ross. “I see you have yourselves sorted.” He nodded toward their evening attire.

Tavish had long resisted dipping into the nest egg of funds he had from the sale of his commission, but he had realized that a few elegant pieces of clothing would be a necessity for civilian life.

His dark green superfine coat, striped waistcoat, and tight-cut breeches spoke to that this evening.

After all, a gentleman did not continue in regimentals after selling out of the military.

“Is all well?” Fletch continued, meeting Tavish’s gaze.

Tavish understood his friend’s unspoken question—are you content to spend a week under the same roof as the Duke of Grayburn?

“Of course,” Tavish lied smoothly. “As long as other guests are comfortable with my presence.”

It was the correct answer, as Fletch’s shoulders relaxed and his smile broadened. “Yes. The other guests are content.”

Tavish highly doubted that.

“I am glad.” Fletch clasped Tavish’s shoulder. “The week would be dreary without you, my friend.”

Ross lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Even with so many comely ladies present?”

Fletch snorted. “Two of those ladies are my cousins, I will have you know.”

“People marry their cousins all the time,” Ross countered.

“Hah! Caroline and Anne are more like sisters than cousins. The thought of marrying either—” Fletch shuddered. “But they are fine girls, of course. The finest! Either of you should be so lucky. And Miss Crowley is charming.”

“Indeed,” Ross chuckled. “Why do I feel like ye have no interest there either?”

Fletch laughed and promptly changed the subject. “And you, Balfour? Have you come up with a plan to resolve . . . matters?”

It was an oblique reference to Tavish’s marriage. Aside from those who were present at said wedding, Ross and Fletch were the only two other people who knew of its existence, though even they did not know the identity of the lady.

Tavish hadn’t meant to tell anyone, but Fletch and Ross had caught him deep in his cups after the Battle of Tarbes.

Though their own casualties had been relatively light, the slaughter had been great among the French.

The loss of life had weighed on Tavish’s soul, for not the first nor the last time .

Usually, Ross and Fletch would leave to find solace elsewhere—Ross in the arms of whatever woman he could find; Fletch with his Spanish paramour.

But that night, his friends had remained at Tavish’s side. Together, they had drunk enough French wine to float a small boat, becoming more loose-lipped with each glass.

“Why don’t you ever touch a woman?” Fletch had asked.

“Aye! I have long held that question.” Ross saluted with his cup.

“Not once have I caught you kissing a lady-bird or even gazing at a comely bosom.” Fletch.

“Do ye not like the lasses, Balfour?” Ross.

The question caught Tavish off guard. Of course, he liked the lasses and had a more than healthy appreciation of a fine bosom.

However, he had made sacred vows to one particular lass, and regardless of her feelings on the matter, he intended to honor their marriage.

Ross and Fletch teased Tavish for nearly thirty minutes before he admitted the whole to them.

“I am married.” He stared into the ruby depths of his glass, as if it could conjure some clarity alongside the headache he would have come morning.

“Married?!” Ross slapped the table. “And we are only now hearing of this?!”

“It’s complicated.” Tavish pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Complicated . . . how?” Fletch asked.

“Our marriage was a handfasting, and her family is unaware of our attachment. We didn’t part on the best of terms.”

“But . . . you are her husband.” Fletch frowned. “She is bound to you.”

“Aye, but she is not pleased with that fact. My death would surely be a relief.”

“Oof! That’s a fine pickle then.” Fletch belched. “So who is this lucky woman?”

“I shan’t be disclosing that information. She is a lady, and I will not harm her good name by uttering it.”

A long silence ensued.

Ross finally roused himself, swirling his wine in his cup. “Ye do realize that divorce is possible in Scotland. ”

“Aye.”

“And adultery is generally considered the surest way to go about it.”

“Aye.”

“And still . . .” Ross raised an eyebrow at him. An unspoken question. A wondering.

Tavish drained the rest of his cup. “I don’t have it in me to dishonor my marriage vows and betray my wife. We will simply have to find another way of dissolving our union, she and I.”

“So you won’t—” Fletch made a vaguely rude gesture. “—until you have dissolved your marriage?”

“That’s about the right of it.”

And that had been that.

Both Fletch and Ross knew that Tavish intended to dissolve his marriage before embarking for America.

Folding his arms, Tavish looked at his friends hovering a few steps above him.

“Aye,” he said. “I spoke with a solicitor in Aberdeen about a possible divorce. As I have never contributed to the lady’s upkeep, the matter should be fairly straightforward on the basis of desertion. And the lady herself is in agreement.”

“Ye saw her?” Ross leaned forward.

“Aye.” And I will see her again in mere seconds , he declined to add.

“How did that go?” Fletch asked.

“About as one would expect. Plenty of tense silences and a host of words left unsaid.”

“Do ye ken she still loves your sorry carcass?” Ross asked.

Tavish recalled Isla’s icy gaze, her clipped words.

“Not a chance in hell. And I will thank both of ye for guarding this secret with your lives. As usual, I plead with you on your honor not to mention it to anyone, for the lady’s sake.” The last thing Tavish needed was one of his friends mentioning his marriage this week.

Fletch motioned for them to continue down the stairs.

“So why no interest in Miss Crowley, Fletch?” Tavish changed the subject.

“My sights are set on a different lady. ”

“Are they now?” Ross matched their friend’s smile.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, a murmur of voices humming from the drawing room across the way.

Fletch paused and turned around to face Tavish and Ross.

“There is no harm in telling you both, as it will become plain soon enough. I have recently requested and have been granted permission to court—” Fletch paused, a sort of happy wonder taking over his features.

He took a step back, peering into the drawing room.

“Ah, you can see her perfectly from here.”

He motioned for his friends to come closer. Tavish did so, looking in the same direction as Fletch.

There, perched on a settee and rimmed in fading sunlight, sat Lady Isla speaking with Lady Milmouth.

A terrible ringing commenced in Tavish’s ears.

“Truly?!” Ross’s eyebrows rose, as if impressed. “Grayburn gave ye permission to court his sister?”

“Yes,” Fletch said, that same wonder in his voice. “It scarcely seems real.” He clapped a hand to Tavish’s shoulder. “I know that you don’t approve of Grayburn as a rule, but even you must own that his sister is as lovely and refined a lady as has ever lived.”

“Aye,” Tavish managed over a throat gone sandpaper dry.

“I shall count on you both to assist me,” Fletch continued. “Keep the other ladies diverted, so I can spend more time with Lady Isla. I hope to settle our betrothal soon, possibly even by the end of this week.”

Only later, as he lay staring at the canopy above his bed, did Tavish realize that had been the point—the precise juncture in time where he should have confessed that Isla was the lady he had married.

However, in the moment standing with Fletch and Ross, Tavish was too stunned to utter another syllable. The word betrothal rolled around his brain like a billiard ball, knocking all other thoughts aside.

And in that wake, two facts blinded him to any other reality.

One, Isla had known when they spoke atop Cairnfell. She knew she was being courted by another gentleman with the intent of marriage.

And two, she hadn’t said a damn word of it to Tavish. Regardless of what had happened and would happen between them, pursuing a second marriage before securing a divorce definitely resided in the column entitled Details I Must Tell Tavish .

He wanted to rage. To scramble up the sides of Cairnfell and bellow his fury.

Instead, he shuttered his expression and grimly followed Fletch and Ross into the drawing room.