Page 26 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)
Kingswell House
Aberdeenshire, Scotland
T ouching Lady Isla had been a colossal mistake.
A tactical error that Tavish, as a longtime soldier, should have known to avoid.
Seven years.
Seven years without so much as laying a bare fingertip to a woman’s skin.
And now this . . .
Even hours on, staring at his ceiling in the light of dawn, he recalled the satiny give of her wrist and replayed the wee carnal snatch in her breathing. Evidence that she hadn’t been unaffected. That his touch still meant something to her .
If he thought about it too long, Tavish felt concussed—his head woozy and senses spinning.
And he had definitely thought about it overlong.
I don’t want you.
Och , the other bit from last night that wouldn’t leave him be.
Sitting up, he kicked his legs out of bed and slumped forward, his head between his hands.
Of course, he knew in his rational mind that Isla didn’t want him. What sensible lady would want the poverty and struggle of a life spent with him?
And even if he had funds and a secure future, who was to say Isla wanted the man he had become? Seven years of war had changed him, just as the passage of years had given Isla ample time to regret her youthful indiscretions.
However, knowing a fact and truly accepting it were two rather disparate things.
Tavish knew she didn’t want him. But hearing the words low and harsh from her lips had rattled something inside. Some dormant yearning he had assumed long dead.
She didn’t want him. But he feared a neglected wee corner of his heart still wanted her.
Lifting his head, Tavish stared at the rain lashing the window panes. The maids had been in earlier to open the shutters, light the fire, and leave a pitcher of warm water. A cup of hot chocolate and plate of fresh scones rested on the bedside table.
Small luxuries, but ones Tavish had rarely experienced since . . . well, since Mariah’s ruination, at the very least. Luxuries that Isla surely took for granted and ones Tavish would likely never be able to provide.
Such logic did nothing to soothe his longing for the lass he had left. His wife. The woman he had loved and now understood he would likely love until the day he died. A girl who perhaps had only existed in his adolescent perception and memory.
The Isla of the present didn’t want the man he had become.
He needed to respect her wishes and let her go.
Rain kept the guests indoors.
After breakfast, the ladies retreated with Lady Milmouth and Lady Forsyth to do . . . whatever ladies do. Something about ribbons or embroidery. Tavish was unclear on the particulars.
Grayburn disappeared with Lord Milmouth and Sir John Forsyth.
Tavish played billiards with Ross and Fletch, the three of them talking of everything and nothing. The guilt of Tavish’s secret marriage weighed heavily—smarting with each clack of the billiard balls—yet there was nothing to do but bite his tongue and carry on.
After Fletch won twice, they retired to the warm fire in the library, meticulously discussing their plans for Pennsylvania. Tavish and Ross intended to relocate to the United States and begin work there, keeping Fletch up-to-date with frequent letters.
As usual, Fletch became animated as they spoke, hands gesturing and words spilling easily. He was the most gregarious of their wee group, enthusiastic and excitable. A puppy of a person, Ross often described him.
Ross, by contrast, was quick with a dry remark or teasing quip. More of a cat than a puppy, he would say.
Tavish knew himself to be the cool-headed one. The soldier who, the more intense the fighting, the more calm and clear his thinking. Quiet and observing but swift to act when circumstances required it.
“Ye be a bird of prey, Balfour,” Ross had once said. “Silently circling, cataloging every detail before diving into action, like a raptor falling from the sky to snatch up a mouse.”
A far cry from the often brash boy Tavish had been. Years of war and battle had a way of refining a man to steel.
As ever, talking with his friends felt like slipping into a comfortable boot. How many fires had they shared? Divvied up rations, passed around a bottle, discussed their hopes and dreams?
After lunch, the young ladies joined the gentlemen in the library. Thankfully, Grayburn remained absent .
“You gentlemen were quite the topic of conversation earlier,” Miss Forsyth announced.
“Oh, yes!” Miss Crowley clasped her hands before her bosom. “We should dearly love to hear of your time with the Rifles.”
She glanced at Tavish with what could only be described as avid interest. He made a note to do nothing to raise the girl’s expectations. She was lovely, but not for him.
Fletch laughed that easy laugh of his. “I cannot imagine even a fraction of what occurred would be appropriate for a lady’s ears.”
“Surely there is something you can tell us?” Miss Anne Forsyth said.
Lady Isla stood to one side, hands folded at her waist. Nothing indicated she would be adding her voice to the ladies’ enthusiasm, though curiosity danced in her gaze.
Compared to the others, she appeared mature and poised and, to be blunt, expensive. The lace trimming of her rose muslin gown must have cost a small fortune.
As a lad, church had been the only place Tavish witnessed Isla in company.
Then, she had always been in motion, expression animated and smile at the ready.
Before this house party, he would have supposed her to be unchanged—the vibrant center of any gathering, a bright light drawing all to her flame.
However, like himself, she had become quieter over the years, more observant. Only her hair remained the same—already slipping from its curl, strands dangling straight beside her face.
But there was still an arresting quality to her. A sense of mystery in her composure. A spark in her eyes that promised a quick wit and unusual depth of thought, if only a gentleman could break through the shell of her exterior.
I don’t want you.
Tavish glanced away before anyone realized he had been staring overlong.
“Do ye have maps, Fletch?” Ross asked. “We could show the ladies our movements and describe the sights we saw in Spain and Portugal.”
“Brilliant!” Fletch grinned.
Fletch took charge. He sent a footman to collect tin soldiers from the nursery and flipped through his father’s collection of rolled maps. A few minutes later, they had a map of the Iberian Peninsula spread out on the table in the middle of the library, tin soldiers sitting in a basket.
“Ross and I were stationed in the Peninsula in 1808, almost from the beginning of Wellington’s action there.” Fletch lifted two soldiers from the basket and placed them atop the town of óbidos on the Portuguese coast north of Lisbon.
Fletch moved the toy soldiers through the various battles he and Ross had seen. Ross added wry commentary along the way.
“Ah, yes, Corunna, where my first pair of boots disintegrated to dust.”
“It was about then that I decided I didn’t mind the taste of weevil. A bit like mustard.”
“I’m fairly certain we counted the leaves on trees to entertain ourselves over those weeks.”
They spoke of the reputation of the Rifles, the deadly accuracy of their aim over great distances. How the Crapaud —the French soldiers (said with a hint of contempt)—would scatter when they learned that the Rifles would join the attack.
All the while, rain pattered against the windows, and a fire popped in the hearth, attempting to bat away the chill.
“It wasn’t until after Bussaco in the autumn of 1810 that Balfour joined us.” Fletch added a third soldier to their ranks, grinning at Tavish.
“Lieutenant James Westover made captain and transferred to another company.” Tavish folded his arms across his chest. “I took his place.”
“Ah, Westover! I miss him.” Fletch gave a fond smile. “Capital fellow.”
“Crack shot, as well,” Ross added.
From there, the ladies asked enthusiastic questions, which Fletch and Ross readily answered. If anyone noticed that Tavish and Lady Isla remained generally silent, they didn’t remark on it.
For his part, Tavish ruthlessly avoided even looking at her. But he felt her in the room. A weight on his spirit. Or perhaps just a rising bit of self-consciousness.
The whole affair was rather bizarre, he decided.
A clash of two worlds that he had always viewed as utterly separate: his relationship with Lady Isla Kinsey and his time serving as a soldier.
It felt odd that Fletch and Ross should know her—not as his wife, but as the beautiful, wealthy lady that Fletch would likely marry .
Did she feel anything as his friends spoke?
Did she wonder about all that was not said?
The hunger and deprivation they suffered during the retreat to Ciudad Rodrigo, waiting for supplies to arrive.
An event Fletch summed up as being “a bit unpleasant.” The terror of the Battle of Vitoria where their own dead had carpeted the battlefield.
Horrifying bloodshed Ross described as “rather disheartening.”
If Isla saw between the lines to what was not said, she didn’t show it. Her expression remained polite, but Tavish thought he saw something occasionally flicker. A slight wince over their privations, perhaps. A faint lift of an eyebrow at Miss Crowley’s incessant questions.
The topic of the war with Napoleon continued through dinner.
However, when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, Lady Milmouth declared the women would provide musical entertainment instead of dunning the gentlemen for more war stories.
Grayburn, of course, nodded his approval.
As usual, His Grace was dressed as if he were spending an evening with the Prince Regent at Carlton House instead of with friends in the Scottish Highlands.
The duke’s initial anger toward Tavish’s presence had been replaced with a determined indifference to simply pretend that he didn’t exist.