Page 24 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

He refused to relinquish his friendship with Fletch. But would Tavish ever be able to stand in the same room as Fletch and his new bride without longing to punch something?

Tavish wasn’t sure.

Bloody hell, but this was a fankle , a knot of Gordian proportions. Suddenly, he was infinitely grateful there would soon be a vast ocean between himself and Lady Isla.

She stared at him, eyes snapping. The faint moonlight caressed her skin, turning it into the finest alabaster.

He hated that Fletch probably already knew what her skin felt like under his lips—silk and heat and rose petals.

Dammit.

Tavish probably was jealous.

“Promise me, Captain Balfour,” she whispered.

Not Tavish.

Certainly not darling or love .

Captain Balfour.

Why did the reality of moving from sweethearts to strangers have to be lined with spikes that abraded the wound of her loss?

But in this, he decided to acquiesce. Isla was Tavish’s wife currently; therefore, his loyalty should be to her first. And as Fletch’s potential future wife, Isla deserved to control how and when he learned of her prior marriage .

“Very well,” he nodded. “But be careful, lass. Try not to toy with Fletch this week. Maybe wait until after the house party to deepen your connection.”

Anything to prevent Tavish from having to watch Fletch openly court her.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Pardon?”

“A reason to force me to remain true to you. To avoid other gentlemen.”

“Enough!” He leaned down. “Your comment earlier about Miss Crowley’s—how did ye phrase it?— ample bosom ? Was that not jealousy, too? I’m not the only one struggling with this change in our circumstances.”

“Hah!” She pointed a finger at his face. “So you admit you are jealous!”

Whip quick, Tavish wrapped his palm around her raised wrist—the reflex as habitual as lifting a rifle to his shoulder. A ghost of the boy he had been, endlessly reaching for her, snatching any excuse to feel her body against his.

The shocking warmth of her skin singed his nerves and raised gooseflesh along his arm.

She gasped.

Their hands remained frozen, locked in the air between them.

I can’t believe you dared to touch me! her rapid breaths said.

I can scarcely believe it either, his own breathing replied.

But if this were to be the last time he would touch his wife, Tavish refused to relinquish her. Not until she tugged on her wrist or demanded her freedom.

She did no such thing.

He could feel the bird-flutter of her heartbeat under his fingertips.

With infinite care, he lifted her arm and pressed a kiss to the sensitive hollow on the inside of her wrist. A brush of his lips to the pulse that trembled there.

He had thought to tease her, to show her that she, too, still felt the tug of their connection.

Oh, but the jest was on him .

Her skin smelled like lavender in August. Once, he and his men had stumbled upon a lavender field in bloom outside Guadalajara.

Purple-blue flowers stretched across a low valley, perfuming the air.

It had been a feast for the senses—the buzz of lazy bees, the sun-drenched smell.

They had discovered a beehive and gorged themselves on day-old bread slathered with lavender honey.

It had felt like venturing into the Elysian Fields themselves.

Touching Isla’s skin after a drought of seven years evoked that afternoon—a surge of longing and hunger and wild yearning. An ache to recapture a fleeting instant of luminous contentment.

Helpless, he kissed her wrist again, lingering this time.

Her breathing caught, a wee catch in the back of her throat. That unguarded sound, coupled with the frantic tattoo of her heartbeat, sent triumph flaring through his veins.

“Ye are not unmoved either, lass. The thump of your pulse betrays ye.” He nuzzled her palm before pressing a kiss there. “Admit it.”

His words broke the spell.

Her fingers curled inward, and she pulled on her wrist, demanding to be set free.

He released her instantly.

They stared at one another, a scant foot of space between them. Their harsh breaths filled the air.

How easy it would be to cross those final few inches and let his mouth find hers. To rediscover if her kisses still ignited flames in his chest.

He remained rooted in place.

“I am sorry that Colonel Archer—Fletch—is your close friend. But that means you know, as well as I, what a good man he is. I don’t . . .” She drifted off.

“Ye don’t what, lass?”

“I don’t want you.” She said the words slowly, as if pulled from deep within. “I don’t want the life you could offer me. Not anymore.”

The truths punched through the hazy lust of his thinking.

I don’t want you.

Reality washed over him, as brisk as a dooking in the North Sea in January.

I don’t want you .

Tavish took a step back, nodding.

Of course.

Eejit.

Why would she want him when someone like Fletch was an option? And she wasn’t wrong. Fletch was a good man.

“Aye.” He cleared his throat. “Aye. Of course. I agree. Ye deserve better than I can offer ye.”

“Captain, I—”

He stopped her with a slice of his hand. “There is nothing more to say between ourselves. Ye have the right of it. I will rely on yourself to tell Fletch about our marriage when the moment is right. Just . . . delay the betrothal until after I meet with the procurator fiscal.”

She met his gaze and nodded once before leaving as quietly as she had come.

But not before Tavish noticed her hand, the one he had kissed, clenched tight into a fist.