Page 27 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

And so the company sat as Miss Forsyth played a pretty Bach minuet and then sang a pair of Italian arias with her sister to polite applause. Miss Crowley demurred to perform, insisting she was out of practice.

“Lady Isla, you must grace us next,” Fletch encouraged.

“Please.” Grayburn motioned toward the piano with a languid hand. “Your playing is always welcome.”

Tavish resisted a frown. He hadn’t known Isla played. If she had mentioned it, he couldn’t recall. But, naturally, the daughter of the Duke of Grayburn would have been tutored in music. Such things were expected of young ladies.

“Hear, hear, Lady Isla. Your abilities at the keyboard must be celebrated,” Fletch said before turning to Tavish and Ross. “Her ladyship is a fair angel when she plays. Her melodies transport me to heaven.”

Something ugly twisted in Tavish’s gut. Fletch knew this part of her. He had heard her play before—and more than once, by the sound of it.

While Tavish . . . hadn’t even known.

Isla blushed. “You give me too much credit, Colonel Archer. ”

“Play for us, Lady Isla, and let the company judge for themselves.”

With some reluctance, Isla sat at the pianoforte, sorting through music before settling on a concerto by Herr Beethoven.

What followed was fifteen minutes of astonishing musical virtuosity. Her fingers flew across the keyboard with ease, notes ringing soft and then loud, dynamics coaxing emotion from the instrument.

Tavish was, indeed, transported to heaven.

It was the oddest feeling—a deep sense of admiration and astonishment at her skill and mastery. But even more acute, a pang of loss. That this brilliant talent had been there all along—Isla had to have begun learning at a young age—and Tavish simply . . . hadn’t known.

But . . . why would he? Isla had probably practiced every day right after being drilled on French verbs and before plein aire drawing lessons.

The study as natural a part of her life as eating and sleeping.

It likely hadn’t occurred to her to mention it to a husband who had never seen her in that sphere.

They had only ever met alone, isolated from the world and society.

How many other things had he not known about her?

Isla finished to enthusiastic applause, her smile radiant. The same smile he once assumed she bestowed on him alone.

Even in that he had been mistaken.

She did not look his way as she returned to her seat. Not even a flicker of a glance.

I don’t want you , she had said .

And as Tavish excused himself for bed, he understood—perhaps better than he ever—precisely why. Because, despite being her husband, he wasn’t sure he knew her in any real way.

The next morning dawned bright and cheery as if the elements wished to apologize for the dreary weather of the day before.

The morning post arrived, and Isla spent an hour propped against her headboard, reviewing the letters that had arrived from Malton Hill—one each from Mrs. Sumsion and Mrs. White, as well as a long missive from Mr. Cranston, Isla’s steward.

Her heart sank as she read his words about one of her tenant farmers:

Mr. Tippets passed away unexpectedly on Friday last. It is a dreadful business, as you can well imagine.

Poor Mrs. Tippets is beside herself with grief and worry.

She knows she cannot pay their rent nor work the farmland alone, not with four small children underfoot.

I cannot bear to evict them, knowing they will end up in the poor house or worse.

I am sure you feel the same. What course of action would you like to take?

Isla let the letter flutter to the counterpane.

Mr. Cranston asked an excellent question—what did she wish to do in this instance?

Situations like this were what made being mistress of Malton Hill so challenging, and yet, rewarding. Here, her actions dramatically affected people’s lives.

In this instance, of course, Isla wouldn’t cast Mrs. Tippets and her children out on their ears. But neither could she let them live rent-free on her property indefinitely. What would be an equitable yet compassionate solution?

Isla spent far too long pondering options, reaching no conclusions, before dressing for the day.

Consequently, she was the last to arrive in the breakfast room, the rest of the party already dining on toast soldiers and coddled eggs.

The gentlemen lurched to their feet with murmured greetings. Colonel Archer even took a half step toward her, as if he would see to her care, but Gray hastened to pull out a chair with a solemn, “Good morning, sister,” before turning to prepare her a plate from the sideboard.

It was her brother’s typical behavior toward her—polite and solicitous, particularly in company. Think what you would about Gray—and Isla had certainly thought plenty over the years—his manners were always impeccable. Only a Balfour sent him lashing out in fury.

Speaking of which . . .

Captain Balfour sat directly across from her. He appeared just as intimidating and stoic today, his coat brushed with military precision. Sunlight tangled in the strands of gold in his auburn hair, setting them to shimmer.

Their eyes briefly met before Isla looked away. But not before she saw the vexation there.

Captain Balfour was in a sour mood.

She disliked that his moods were still known to her.

He had been discomfited yesterday as the ladies asked questions about the soldiers’ experiences.

Something about the set of his shoulders let her know that Captain Ross and Colonel Archer had omitted important details.

Probably all the important details. Did she even wish to understand the horrors Captain Balfour had suffered over the years?

Of course, this morning, the ladies immediately returned to the topic of war.

“You cannot imagine, Colonel Archer, the tremblings we ladies experienced yesterday as you described the role of the Rifles in Wellington’s army.” Miss Crowley clasped her hands under her chin.

“Yes,” Miss Anne Forsyth added, looking at her cousin. “I cannot fathom how your aim with the rifle can be so true, Edward. It boggles the mind, the distances you spoke of and the Rifles’ accuracy across them. How is such a thing even possible?”

Gracious. The ladies should endeavor to be more circumspect in their ogling.

Isla barely stopped an eye roll as she pushed her own eggs around her plate.

Given her letter this morning, she felt the differences between herself and the other young ladies keenly.

Miss Forsyth had clearly never debated the fate of a kindly widow and four fatherless children.

“You must have more faith in me, Anne. In all of us.” Colonel Archer waved a hand to indicate his fellow officers. “It was a bit of a lark at times to see who could shoot the farthest with the greatest accuracy.”

Isla frowned. “But surely war is not such a game, sir. You practiced accuracy in order to—” She halted. “Or, rather, I cannot imagine . . .”

She trailed off, unable to complete either thought in company. Helplessly, her gaze tangled with that of Captain Balfour across the table. She read the truth there, turbulent and churning .

Yes, the men had certainly seen horrors, just as Isla witnessed hardship and suffering at Malton Hill. Such was the nature of life.

The room fell into silence. Gray shifted at Isla’s side, but said nothing.

Colonel Archer, amiable as ever, stepped into the conversational void.

“Sometimes, a bit of sport was just the thing we soldiers needed,” he said before turning to Captain Ross. “Do you remember the time Balfour shot a playing card out of Lieutenant Wilson’s hand at two hundred paces? It was the most incredible—”

Gray snorted.

It was a decidedly indelicate noise.

Every head swung his way.

“Two hundred paces? As in, two hundred yards?” Gray fixed Captain Balfour with a contemptuous lift of one eyebrow. “Impossible. A man can scarcely see that far, much less make an accurate shot.”

Colonel Archer sat back in his seat, lips pressed together in amusement. The gentleman was almost ridiculously affable, Isla decided. What would it take to spark the smallest flash of irritation?

Though she had to admit she shared her brother’s skepticism. She doubted her Tavish had rarely fired a rifle before enlisting, much less been a crack shot. It beggared belief that he could have developed such a true aim so quickly.

“I assure you I do not exaggerate, Your Grace,” Colonel Archer said. “I saw the whole with my own eyes. It was an astonishing feat of marksmanship.”

“Aye,” Captain Ross chimed in, “and made all the more remarkable because Lieutenant Wilson knew that Captain Balfour wouldn’t strike his hand.”

Captain Balfour, notably, said nothing in his own defense. Merely spooned jam onto a roll and took a bite, as casual as you please.

Gray watched him chew, though when next the duke spoke, it was to Colonel Archer.

“I do not doubt what you thought you saw, Archer. Only Balfour’s abilities.” Gray’s tone implied that perhaps some trickery had been afoot. That Captain Balfour’s impressive display had been duplicitous.

If Gray thought to dampen Colonel Archer’s enthusiasm, he was greatly mistaken.

“Hah! Your Grace, with all due respect, you didn’t serve and fight alongside Captain Balfour for nearly seven years like Ross and I.

I’ve seen Balfour make a shot like that more times than I can count.

He could have taken the shot at three hundred paces and still hit his mark. ”

“Aye,” Captain Ross agreed. “Balfour is ridiculously modest, but he was generally considered one of the best shots in the Rifles.”

“And that,” Colonel Archer added, “is tantamount to saying he is one of the best shots in the whole of the British Empire.”

Gray merely lifted his eyebrows.

Captain Balfour continued to eat his roll, as if the conversation were of no consequence.

Silence descended once more.

Isla reached for her tea, her throat suddenly gone dry. She still struggled to imagine her Tavish as a crack shot. Though, she thought wryly, his long-ago aim at her heart had been true.

Captain Balfour’s gaze flicked to hers. It was the tiniest movement, but Isla saw the dark amusement there. He found Gray’s protests entertaining. Which meant that his friends’ words were true.

The reaction was also a smidgen of her Tavish. Though she had never seen him around others, she supposed he would be like this. Content to permit friends to talk up his strengths before proving them correct in some way. A jest of sorts.

Isla disliked seeing her Tavish in Captain Balfour. It abraded the scab atop the wound of his loss.

He is a stranger to you , she reminded herself. Just listening to him and his fellow officers talk about fighting in Spain and Portugal yesterday . . . the camaraderie of their relationship, the way they would complete one another’s sentences, the shared jokes and knowing looks.

Captain Balfour had lived a lifetime of experiences without her.

It was the indomitable Miss Crowley who broke the quiet. “’Tis a pity you gentlemen do not have your rifles here, so we could put the claim to the test.”

The beatific smile that lit Colonel Archer’s face probably caused lilies to bloom somewhere in the Amazon.

“My dear Miss Crowley, my mother requested we bring our regimentals. Therefore, I am more than pleased to inform you that we former officers do, indeed, have rifles and uniforms in our possession. Do we not, gentlemen?” He looked to his friends.

Captain Balfour and Captain Ross both nodded.

Colonel Archer stood, giving Gray a brief bow. “Your Grace, may I formally invite you to test your shooting skills against those of His Majesty’s Rifles. Perhaps that will help you understand why the Rifles were one of the most respected and feared regiments in Wellington’s army.”

Isla was watching Captain Balfour as Colonel Archer spoke. The wicked delight in his eyes said it all.

If Isla’s suspicions were proven correct, Gray was about to be thoroughly schooled.