Page 25 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

Seven Years Earlier

Pettercairn, Scotland

A rranging all the pieces for a secret marriage was a Herculean task.

It had taken Tavish nearly two months.

Isla could only disappear for a few hours at a time without raising alarm, so they had only a small window in which to enact their plans.

The legal requirements for handfasting in Scotland were straightforward—a couple needed only to declare their vows before two witnesses.

In practice, however, it was best to ensure that the chosen witnesses were well-known members of a town.

This explained why the local blacksmith often performed handfastings in Gretna Green.

When he signed his name to a document, everyone knew his identity .

Tavish had chosen a doctor in Stonehaven—a pillar of the community—to witness their handfasting.

A man far enough away from Pettercairn that he had no ties to either the Dukes of Grayburn or the Earls of Northcairn.

In fact, the good doctor had likely not even known their identities.

But in exchange for a few coins, he had tied the ribbon of handfasting around their clasped hands.

The moment had been . . .

How could Tavish think to describe it?

The fluttering weight of Isla’s slight hand in his. The love and adoration in her eyes as they spoke their vows. The warble in his voice as he slid the slim band of gold onto her finger. The surety in his veins that this—this!—was the best decision he would ever make.

It scarcely mattered what the future held for him. With Isla at his side, they could conquer anything.

They bid the doctor and his wife goodbye, the man promising to deliver a copy of their wedding lines to the local sheriff for recording.

The most difficult hurdle had been accomplished. They were married, and there was ought either of their families could do about that. Tavish had his small inheritance. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough provided they lived frugally.

Now, they rode for home astride Callum’s hunter, Goliath.

Tavish had borrowed the horse without mentioning his plans.

Isla’s arms wrapped around his waist from behind, her face pressed into the space between his shoulder blades.

Despite the discomfort, traveling via horseback had been a wise decision, enabling them to quickly exit the road whenever necessary.

They couldn’t risk being seen by someone who would recognize them.

Not until they were ready to tell their families.

“Almost there,” Tavish murmured, nudging Goliath over the last bridge before Cairnfell.

They had been gone longer than he had hoped. The roads had been busy today, and he and Isla had tucked into the trees every half mile or so to permit a farmer or carriage to roll past.

Tavish urged Goliath forward, turning the last bend before the narrow track split. The right fork continued past Cairnfell and onto Balfour land. The left fork crossed the River Southcairn and carried on into Grayburn’s estate .

This was it. The place where they would separate.

Tavish had wanted desperately to find a way for them to manage a few hours alone after their marriage. A wee space for them to talk and laugh and, he fervently prayed, consummate their union.

But he had to abandon the dream once he realized how far afield they needed to travel in order to declare their vows.

Covering twelve miles in each direction in under four hours—a handfasting occurring in the middle—had been grueling.

He could feel Isla’s weariness seeping into his back.

Unfortunately, she still had a mile to walk before reaching home.

With any luck, she would only receive a scolding for her tardiness.

Pulling Goliath to a halt, Tavish stopped before the crossroads.

Wind rustled the trees that lined the narrow road and tugged at the ends of his great coat. A lone hawk called overhead. Somewhere in the distance, sheep lowed.

Thankfully, this was not a well-traveled road. More of a rural trackway than a thoroughfare.

Curling his left leg over the pommel, Tavish dismounted, reaching for Isla. She slid off Goliath and into his arms with a soft moan of relief. He pulled her tight against him.

His wife!

The words reverberated in his mind, echoing like bells on Christmas morning and every whit as joyful.

How he adored her. The feel of her body melting into his. The sink of her chest as she exhaled in contentment. The way her hands slipped under his great coat and jacket to fist the fabric of his waistcoat, as if she intended to hold him forever.

She had slipped his wedding ring off her finger, threading it through the ribbon of their handfasting and stowing it in her pocket alongside their marriage lines for safety.

Soon, they would never again have to hide their love.

“Two days,” he whispered in her ear.

“Two days,” she returned.

That was when they would leave in truth. The escape had been planned in detail.

They would each leave letters for their families, outlining what they had done.

Then, they would abscond. Marrying beforehand had been a calculated decision.

If they eloped, it gave Grayburn reason to chase them and potentially stop their nuptials.

But if they were already married, there would be nothing he could do.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Isla sighed into his neckcloth. “I want us to be together every hour of the day. No more caution or secrecy. Just you and I, hand-in-hand, running into the sunshine of our future.”

Tavish basked in the happiness of that image for one deep breath.

He needed to let her go. She must hurry home.

And yet, he struggled to release her. It felt akin to dragging his own heart from his chest.

Instead, he bent his head and kissed her.

He intended it to be a quick kiss of parting. A promise of things to come. But one kiss became two . . . and then became twenty.

Bloody hell, how he loved this lass. How blessed to have found her. To know that she would be the companion of his soul from now until his dying breath.

One of her hands threaded into his hair, pulling his head more firmly against her own. Tavish lost himself in the delicious joy of kissing his wife.

“Ye need to go, lass,” he murmured against her mouth. “They might come looking for ye.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

“Isla—”

His clever wife inhaled his words, nibbling them from his lips.

Tavish had just dipped his head to feast on the sensitive place below her right ear, the spot that always made her moan, when Isla let out a horrified scream.

He lurched upright as she shoved him away.

“You damn, miscreant curr!” a stern English voice snarled. “I will kill you for this!”

Tavish whirled to see the Duke of Grayburn descending on him from up the road, face a glowing coal of rage, walking stick swinging like a cricket bat, his limp pronounced.

“Go!” Isla pushed Tavish’s shoulder.

“Isla—”

“Go! He won’t hurt me. GO!” She shoved him toward Goliath.

“Isla! ”

“Gray will harm you! Don’t be a stubborn idiot. Go!”

Though it went against everything Tavish thought himself to be, he swung onto Goliath’s back and whirled away, kicking the horse into a gallop.

Away from Grayburn.

Away from Isla.

Once Tavish gained the bend, he slowed, pausing to look back.

If Grayburn so much as laid a hand on her—

The duke faced Isla down, yelling and flushed. But his arms remained at his side, one hand clenched around his walking stick. He did not appear to be physically threatening her.

Grayburn whipped his head upright, his gaze finding Tavish. If the man had a gun, Tavish would already be dead.

He wheeled Goliath for home, a knot of dread twisting in his gut.

Damnation.

How, after all his precautions and detailed scenarios, had he not anticipated the worst?