Page 31 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

T avish was sprinting toward the lake before Isla hit the water.

He had watched the whole happen with nauseating horror. Miss Crowley blundering into Isla. Isla staggering backward into the railing that, with a sickening crack, gave way.

The white flutter of Isla falling would likely haunt his nightmares—her arms reaching skyward, the muslin of her dress rippling in the air.

No!

That had been his only thought.

No!

His rifle had landed somewhere on the lawn, tossed aside in his desperation to reach her, hat ripping from his head with the force of his strides.

The moment felt like being in the midst of a battle. When time slowed and his senses became heightened and he could see with acute clarity how he needed to act and behave.

Someone was screaming. Perhaps several someones. Shapes flickered in his periphery .

Nothing else mattered beyond saving Isla.

His wife.

His love.

Reaching the lake’s edge, he plunged through the surface in a shallow dive, the frigid water washing over him. He scarcely noticed it. Arms stroking, he powered across the lake toward the bridge, desperate to reach her.

Thank God Isla had surfaced. She gasped for breath, neck arched upward and face barely exposed, arms moving as she tried to tread water.

And then he was there, grabbing onto her elbow, pulling her into him.

“I have ye,” he panted. “Isla, ye be safe.”

She clawed onto his arm, blue eyes flaring wide.

“Stuck,” she wheezed, head threatening to sink beneath the water once more. “My skirts . . . caught . . .”

He didn’t wait for her to finish. Filling his lungs, he sank below the surface, eyes open and searching for the problem.

The cotton muslin of her gown fanned out in the murky water, making it difficult to immediately discern the problem.

He caught a blurred glimpse of her white legs moving in efficient circles to keep her head afloat. Dimly, his brain noted that she was treading water proficiently, particularly given her tangled state . . . and with more skill than he remembered her possessing.

She was stuck. How? And where?

He scanned, looking for the snag.

There!

A section of her skirts was tangled in the branches of a fallen log. Diving down, dodging her legs, he grabbed a handful of the fabric and pulled.

Once. Twice.

His lungs screamed for air by the time he ripped the muslin free.

He kicked upward, surfacing with a great gasp.

And then she was there, arms extending, cold fingers grasping his neck and shoulders.

“Tavish.” The intimate whimper of her voice enveloping him.

Isla’s voice. That of the girl he loved .

“I have ye, lass,” he panted, a hand wrapping around her waist. “Ye be safe with me.”

Her eyes met his, open and tender. A window to the soft heart of her.

The years melted away, vanishing like hoarfrost in the warmth of summer sun.

They were just Isla and Tavish. Best friends, reaching for one another as they always had. The press of her hands—one clinging to his shoulder, the other on his chest—and the soft give of her body under his palms.

A second passed.

Maybe two.

The briefest flash of fantasy where the past seven years had never happened. A wee liminal space where they still loved each other. Where their hearts still beat in harmony, and she still wanted a life with him.

And then reality came crashing back down.

The Isla before him was not the lass he had known—her body more rounded, her cheekbones and jaw more refined.

Her gaze shuttered, and she pushed away, treading water. “I can swim without assistance, Captain.”

Shouting intruded from overhead.

Tavish glanced up to see Miss Forsyth and Miss Crowley sobbing on the bridge, staring down in horror.

Och.

He was an acquaintance effecting a rescue, not a husband desperate to save his wife.

“Let’s get ye to shore,” he said, breathing hard.

Isla nodded.

Tavish turned, giving her his back. “If ye wish, ye can hold my shoulders, and I’ll tow ye to the bank.”

The firm weight of her hand grasped the side of his neck.

Slowly, Tavish kicked for the shoreline.

“Ye be a better swimmer than I recall,” he couldn’t help but say.

She said nothing for a long moment.

And then, “The swimming hole is precisely where you left it. I might have practiced over the years.”

He barely stopped a grin .

That’s my lass , was his first thought. Chased quickly by a second— She is not for yourself.

A glance at the edge of the lake confirmed this.

The other gentlemen were just now arriving, calling and reaching for Isla. Grayburn shook out his greatcoat.

Tavish’s feet brushed against the silty bottom of the lake. Pushing upright, he dragged Isla forward.

Suddenly, Grayburn was in front of them, wrapping Isla in his greatcoat to preserve her modesty and lifting her out of the water. But not before Tavish got a glimpse of her lush body from behind, the dripping muslin of her gown quite translucent.

Oof.

Yet one more thing to haunt his dreams.

“Thank you, Balfour,” Fletch said, as Tavish stood in the water to his waist, catching his breath. “Your bravery and abilities know no bounds.”

Grayburn, predictably, snorted as he set his sister on her feet on the grass.

Fletch frowned. “Come now, Grayburn. Even you must admit that we just witnessed a tremendous act of heroism. How many times must we tell you: Balfour is always like this. The finest shot. The first into the breach of danger. The clearest head amid a crisis.”

“’Twas miraculous to witness,” Lord Milmouth added. “Such quick thinking. You saved the lady’s life, Captain Balfour.”

“Indeed, you did.” Fletch turned to Tavish. “Lady Isla appeared stuck, and you freed her. Thank goodness her ladyship knows how to swim.” He shot Grayburn a bright smile. Because who else would have taught the lady to swim?

And still, Grayburn said nothing. Though he did give Tavish a look of such bitter vitriol, it could strip paint. The duke ushered Isla away from the bank, limping as he walked away.

Frown deepening, Fletch turned to follow them, asking after Lady Isla.

It was left to Ross to extend a hand and pull Tavish from the lake.

“Like Fletch said, always the hero,” his friend said with a wry smile.

Tavish stepped onto the grassy bank. Water sluiced off his body, weighing down the wool of his regimentals and squishing between his toes in his boots.

The panic of the moment over, he started to shiver.

Damnation.

Ross grabbed his shoulder. “Are ye well?”

Tavish nodded, bending and bracing his hands on his knees to stem the trembling. Combat had always been like this—a few minutes of tense, calculated action followed by a shaking nervous attack once the danger had passed.

Taking a few more deep breaths, Tavish managed to stand upright.

“It still catches me off-guard, even after all this time,” Ross continued.

“Pardon?”

“Your ability to react instantly to a crisis. It’s almost preternatural. Ye were nearly in the lake by the time the rest of us gentlemen even realized something was amiss. Nothing escapes ye.”

Not where my wife is concerned, at least , Tavish thought, the words sour.

He glanced to where Isla stood, shivering in Grayburn’s coat.

Ross followed his looking. “Lady Isla appears to be in decent spirits. Wet and cold, but no harm done.”

Tavish grunted.

He took a few steps, grimacing as the water squelched in his boots.

Blast.

It was going to take some work to save his footwear. Fortunately, they were sturdy leather. Only an idiot wore boots that couldn’t get wet, given the Scottish weather. But this was a bit extreme.

Granted, focusing on his boots was merely a distraction from everything else. The terror that Isla had been hurt. The sense of their years apart slipping away. The press of her body against his once more.

His hands thrummed with the lingering feel of her. The soft give of her skin, the generous curve of her waist. That was new. The Isla of his memories had been slight, more girl than woman.

But this Isla . . .

Tavish closed his eyes, bracing his hands on his knees once more.

Yearning swelled his chest like a sponge soaking up rainwater until it was nigh to bursting .

Dammit all to hell.

He loved her.

He still loved her.

Of all the moments to experience an earth-shattering truth . . . with Grayburn not even ten paces away and Fletch clucking like a mother hen over Isla.

Tavish feared he was going to be sick.

Bloody hell.

He had likely never stopped loving her.

He might have buried the emotion deep within, but she had always held the key to unlock him.

Tavish had loved the girl Isla had been. The wild unconventionality of her. The fierceness with which she met challenges.

Aye, she was no longer that girl.

But now, Tavish was rapidly coming to adore the strong, resilient woman she had become.

The sort of woman to stare down the barrel of a rifle and keep her chin high.

This new version of Isla might be a stranger in many ways, but Tavish already knew the heart of her. That had never and would never change.

How he loved her!

It was a part of his essence, of the very fragments that made him.

Tavish existed. Therefore, he loved Isla Kinsey.

A truth as sure as any philosopher’s aphorism.

Years. He had spent years slogging through the mud of Portugal and shedding blood in Spain. And he realized now that he had done it all in some small measure to protect her. That as long as he fought and rallied his men and became the deadliest of soldiers, she would be safe at home in Dunmore.

He had lived his life knowing that she existed. That elsewhere on this planet, she breathed and laughed and loved in some joy-filled heaven.

And that had been enough to soothe the beast of his regret.

Until now.

Ross placed a hand on his back.

“Are ye well, Balfour?” he asked, voice low.

Tavish wanted to say nae .

He managed a nod instead .

I don’t want you.

The echo of her words reverberated through him.

Aye, he might yet be sick.

He had to let her go.

“Ho, Balfour!” Fletch called.

Tavish sucked in a stuttering breath and lifted his head as his friend approached.

“Are you unwell?” Fletch looked him over. It was the practiced eye of a commanding officer searching a soldier for a battle wound.

It hurt to meet his friend’s concerned gaze. To know the pain that he would cause this good man. How terrible to lose Isla and Fletch in one awful stroke of Fate. At least they would have one another.

The thought wasn’t as comforting as Tavish wished.

“I’m . . .” Lovesick? Unnerved? Fair out of my mind with regret? Tavish went with, “. . . well.”

Fletch’s gaze turned skeptical.

“Truly, I am,” Tavish continued.

“Ye look like hell,” Ross said.

“Go to the devil,” Tavish shot back, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“That’s a bit better.” Ross looked at Fletch. “But it lacks his usual bite.”

“Mmm.” Fletch stared at him.

Damn these two and their perceptive eyes. They would ferret out this secret.

“How is the lady?” Tavish asked.

“About as well as you,” Fletch said. “Cold and wet but glad to be alive.”

Tavish nodded.

“Grayburn behaved abominably.” Fletch glanced back at the duke. “Not even a word of kindness for your actions. Your families are not friendly, and still you ran to save the lady. That alone should be acknowledged.”

And what was Tavish to say to that? “Any of ye would have done the same. I just happened to be the first to notice the lady fall.”

“For the love—” Fletch bit off his words. “Just once, I would like to see you claim something for yourself, Balfour. A mere smile of glory or a smug expression of ego. Something.”

Tavish managed a sharp laugh.

“I think he’s gone a wee bitty fou . Addled in the head.” Ross slapped his back. “How much pond water did ye drink?”

Tavish shoved him off.

“Well, you may not accept it,” Fletch said, “but I cannot express the depth of my gratitude, Balfour. You saved my lady and—”

Tavish cut him off with a slice of the hand. “No thanks are necessary, Fletch.”

His friend merely stared, expression bewildered. “Someday, I will find a way to repay the debts between us.”

“Fletch, someday I am sure to do something that will have me groveling for your forgiveness. When that happens, I thank ye for remembering this moment.”

“As you say.” Fletch rolled his eyes, assuming Tavish was in jest. “Come on, then. Let’s get you dry before pneumonia sets in.”