Page 32 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

Seven Years Earlier

Pettercairn, Scotland

T avish waited until after dinner to corner Lord Northcairn in his study.

Tavish’s pulse had been drumming at the base of his tongue for hours. He prayed Isla was safe, that Gray had raged but not harmed her.

After much thought, Tavish realized that their plan remained the same—secure the funds of his inheritance and rescue Isla.

It was merely a wee bit more complicated now.

But once he had Isla free, they could decide together where to go. Only then would Tavish tell his father about their marriage. At the moment, he needed his father’s unwitting support. Forgiveness would be easier to receive than permission.

An affectionate man, Lord Northcairn doted on his children and usually excused their foibles. For example, Callum had a knack for trouble—namely gambling, ladies of ill repute, and acts of daring-do—and Da’ had regularly brushed off his exploits.

So Tavish assumed that his father would eventually come around to the idea of a Kinsey as a daughter-in-law. But he wanted to ease into telling him.

“Ah, Tavish.” His father beamed, waving him into his study. The fire in the hearth cast shadows along the wooden paneling on the walls and decorative plaster overhead. “Come to join me for a spot of whisky, lad?”

“O’ course.”

Alcohol would only help this discussion.

They sat before the fire, sipping at their tumblers, speaking of inanities—the chance of some fishing later on in the week, Mr. McKay’s prized hound who had just whelped a litter of auspicious puppies.

Finally, Tavish found his opening.

“So, Da’, I turned eighteen this month, and thoughts of my future have been circling in my head. I know that Mamma left me a wee inheritance. I have begun thinking of how I can best use those monies for my . . .”

Tavish trailed off. The longer he spoke of his inheritance, the darker his father’s expression became until it resembled a funerary shroud.

“Da’? What is it?”

Lord Northcairn sat forward, skin suddenly haggard and gray.

“I . . .” He swallowed, as if some ghastly truth were stuck in his craw. “I am so sorry, son. There is no inheritance.”

“Pardon?”

His father ran a shaking hand over his face. “Just that. The money is gone.”

“How?! It was set aside for me. Legally, it is mine.” Tavish could hear the panic in his voice.

“Aye. And ye can take me to court and demand I pay it, but I’m telling ye lad, there is no money to be had. ”

“But . . . ye be an earl? Our lands and tenants bring in regular revenue.”

“Aye, but that merely supports us day-to-day at present. There be no excess.”

Tavish lurched to his feet, desperate to move, hopeful that simply shifting positions in the room might afford a solution. “But what about Mariah’s situation? She won a large settlement for breach of promise from Lord Stafford at the last Court of Sessions.”

“Gone.”

Tavish stared down at his father, noting the hunch in the man’s shoulders, the bleak anger in his gaze.

“How? How can all that money be gone?”

Lord Northcairn sighed. “That bastard Grayburn.”

“Grayburn?”

“Aye. When Mariah was in London last year, unbeknownst to any of us, Grayburn lured Callum into the depths of some of the worst gaming hells in London. Your brother racked up significant debts that had to be settled.”

A terrible ringing started in Tavish’s ears. A numbness spread to his limbs and whispered of catastrophe.

“Every last cent I could muster went to settle Callum’s markers. Your inheritance. Your sisters’ dowries. The monies from Mariah’s settlement. We were hardly flush with cash before this, but now, we are paupered.”

His father shrugged his shoulders. As if the complete disintegration of their finances and the future of all his children were a cloak, easily shaken off and discarded.

I have a wife to support! Tavish nearly yelled. Why did you save Callum from the consequences of his piss-poor decisions and leave the rest of us to suffer for it?

Damn his brother and his poor judgment. And damn Grayburn for being the devil who birthed it all. One more woe to lay at Grayburn’s feet.

Tavish remained silent. Devastation and Panic were fighting cockerels in his chest, each warring for dominance. Callum would probably wager on their fight and lose.

So bitter those thoughts .

Tavish breathed through the cacophony of anger. Would plowing a fist into Callum’s face, the crack of bone on bone, be as satisfying as he currently imagined? He rather thought it would.

“What am I to do then?” Tavish met his father’s gaze, his fury barely in check. “Ye will cast me off into the world without a farthing? Without a thought for my future?!”

Lord Northcairn looked away to the fire. “I cannot say. Like most other gentlemen, ye will have to plot your own course.”

In other words, I protected the honor of my heir, and the rest of ye can sort yourselves.

The horror of Tavish’s situation sank deeper.

What was he to do?

He had a wife . A girl whom he loved more than life, more than breath, and who now relied on him to keep her housed and clothed and . . . happy.

Tavish knew it would be wiser to stay. To talk with his father. To explore, perhaps, other avenues and ideas for a profession.

Instead, he stood and walked out. Across the great hall, down the main staircase, and through the front door. He left the walls of his ancestors, hiking across their land. Climbing until he summited the slipping shale of the cairn of Cairnfell itself.

Head back, he roared his fury. His despair. His helplessness.

The north wind roared back. Merciless. Scouring the tears from his cheeks and offering no help beyond a pounding headache and a hoarse voice.

The next day , a letter arrived for Tavish. Unfranked and sealed with unstamped red wax, he already knew its sender before he unfolded the foolscap.

He withdrew to his bedchamber to read its contents .

Balfour,

I will be brief.

You will never speak with my sister again. I do not know what your intention has been with this scheme. Perhaps you think to ruin Lady Isla and harm our family for the slights you assume you have been dealt. I do not care. Your association with her ends this moment.

Tavish paused, absorbing the words.

Grayburn didn’t know about their marriage. Isla hadn’t told him.

Tavish was unsure if he felt relieved or frustrated. If the duke knew of their marriage, then Tavish would have a legal claim on Isla, one that superseded her brother’s. His Grace would have to let them be together.

But as it was . . .

The letter continued:

I know your family is paupered. Your brother’s indiscretions are numerous and well-known. You have no prospects beyond the dubious legacy of your father’s title and your family name, tarnished as it is by your older siblings’ behavior.

Tavish clenched his jaw. The dishonor that had fallen upon Mariah had its origins with Grayburn.

And if his father was to be believed, Grayburn had deliberately led Callum down the primrose path to destruction.

Yes, both his siblings had made mistakes, but the root of those mistakes lay at Grayburn’s feet.

Therefore, I offer you a reprieve. I am prepared to purchase you a commission in the 92nd Regiment. It is far better than you deserve, but I cannot have you here, sniffing around my sister. Take my offer. Leave and never return.

But know this: If I ever see you again—if you so much as breathe the same air Lady Isla breathes—I will put a bullet through your heart, damn the consequences.

Graybur n

That was it.

Tavish’s legs gave way, and he slumped to his knees on the floor. A supplicant, pleading for some glimmer of hope.

What am I to do?

The question spun in his mind, a child’s top whirring, granting him no surcease.

Whichever way he examined the situation, there was no solution. No route for him to provide for Isla without pursuing a career. The military was the best—and, possibly, his only—solution.

But . . . it would mean a separation from Isla for a time.

Until he could get his feet under him and come for her.

Despite Grayburn’s demands, Tavish would not agree to never return.

He would forswear himself in that oath. Promising to never see Isla would be akin to pledging to hold one’s breath indefinitely—an impossible task.

No.

Grayburn could threaten all he wished, but unlike the devastation the duke had wreaked on the Balfour family, His Grace would never come between Tavish and the woman he loved.