Page 33 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

Kingswell House

Aberdeenshire, Scotland

Isla stared into the fire, desperate to reorder her thoughts after her impromptu swim in the lake.

She snuggled into the warmth of a blanket around her shoulders and sipped a cup of tea. Her wet hair spilled loose, cascading down the back of her armchair and slowly drying. The housekeeper and a maid had left Isla to rest.

“Recover your strength, ye poor lamb,” the housekeeper had said.

A hot bath and a change of clothing had done wonders to restore Isla physically.

Emotionally, however . . .

She didn’t think a nap was going to cure what ailed her.

It didn’t help matters that Miss Crowley had talked for nine minutes without taking a breath—Isla had timed the girl—about Captain Balfour’s heroism.

“Oh, Lady Isla, you should have seen it,” she had rhapsodized, eyes glowing with hearts as Isla stood dripping in the entry hall, Lady Milmouth and the housekeeper fussing to fetch towels and arrange a bath.

“The way Captain Balfour reacted when you went under. He was like an arrow flying to the mark, tossing his rifle, his hat tearing from his head. Like . . . like a hero of legend, bolting into the breach to rescue a fellow soldier from enemy fire. But instead, he raced to save the sister of his sworn enemy. ’Tis a nobleness of spirit my poor heart can scarcely fathom.

Look—” She extended a shaking hand. “I tremble still. How shall I ever sleep?”

Isla wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

But then, she could hardly fault Miss Crowley for her enthusiasm. Regardless of the boy Tavish had been or the imposing Captain Balfour he was now, the man commanded attention.

His display had been astonishing. And Isla knew him well enough to understand that if Miss Crowley had been the one to tumble into the lake, Tavish would have acted just as quickly.

I have ye, lass. Ye be safe with me.

Just remembering his rumbled words sent gooseflesh pebbling Isla’s upper arms.

For the smallest fraction of a second, when he had tugged her skirts free and surfaced to ensure she was well, he had felt like her Tavish. Wry and gentle. Open and concerned. As if the past seven years had never happened.

It had been terrifyingly disorienting. The sense of something long dormant shaking awake.

But then she had touched him, and the aura disintegrated. This Tavish was too big, too strong. The hard planes of his chest under her palm had been . . . astonishing.

And now, hours on, Isla felt . . .

Oh, what did she feel?

Confused, certainly. Overwhelmed. Unsure .

The longer she was in his company, the harder it became to separate the Tavish of then from the Tavish of now.

On a sigh, she shifted in her chair, setting down her teacup and tucking her feet underneath her.

Her logical brain knew that a life with Tavish wasn’t what she wanted.

She had a crystal-clear vision for her future—Malton Hill with tenants’ needs to address and the resilient woman she was there.

A future that didn’t involve living in poverty with a Scot, no matter how physically alluring, compelling, or skilled with a rifle.

But her heart . . .

Her heart was a shambles. The girl she had been longed for him still, for the joy and happiness they had once shared. She probably always would.

And yet, Isla recognized that even her remembered joy and happiness were likely a counterfeit. A replacement for the love lost with her mother’s death. A heady combination of tasting a forbidden fruit and rebelling against Gray’s abrupt cooling in demeanor.

A knock sounded on her bedchamber door.

“Come,” she called.

Her brother stepped into the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Thinking of Gray . . .

“Are you recovered?” he asked without preamble.

As usual, he was dressed to perfection, not a hair out of place. She had soaked through his greatcoat when he lifted her from the lake, dampening his jacket. Surely, he had cursed her name for spotting his attire.

“Yes. I am quite well, simply tired and chilled,” she returned.

He nodded, gaze assessing, his hazel eyes turbulent. His father’s hazel eyes. A color so very different from Isla’s own blue or the green of their mother. A forever reminder that Isla was not a Kinsey in truth.

Gray crossed to the window, limping slightly. The sight did not portend a calm conversation about her health.

Her brother surveyed the late afternoon light, but his hands twitched, tugging ends of his coat sleeves, as if desperate to cast them from his body.

Once, Isla would have fretted over the volatility of his moods. Now, she simply wished to no longer be subjected to them .

Silence stretched.

Gray had come for a purpose. He would get to the point.

“You will do me the courtesy of stating how you learned to swim,” he said at last.

Ah.

So that was his concern.

Not a question or a request, of course. A demand.

“What does it matter how I learned, Gray? The skill saved my life. Every lady should know how to swim.”

Gray whirled on her, fire igniting in his gaze. The setting sun poured through the window beside him, burnishing his hair and turning it into a lion’s mane.

“Be that as it may, Isla, a lady only learns to swim”—he ticked off his fingers—“if her father, a brother, or her husband teach her. Learning any other way is reprehensible. Our father certainly didn’t teach you.

Neither did Matthias nor I. You have no husband.

So again, I ask, who taught you how to swim? Was it that man ?”

You have no husband.

Hah!

“Captain Balfour? He has a name, Gray.” Isla looked away to the fire. “I refuse to speak with you when you are seething over the Balfours. No good will come of it.”

Silence.

Isla so rarely disobeyed him—fear made her tread carefully around Gray’s temper—that her recalcitrance stunned her brother into silence.

Lifting her chin, she looked at him. Really looked at him. The scowling brows under his lion-mane hair. The stern slash of his mouth.

The horror of his temper the evening he had found her with Tavish would never abate. The aftermath of that fury had been horrific. What lay in store for her now?

Words crowded Isla’s throat—quarreling, fractious things she could scarcely contain.

Will you toss me out for insubordination, Gray? What will you do once you learn I am married to that man ?

Why do you hold the circumstances of my birth like a knife to my throat?

Tavish had rattled something loose within her. A need, perhaps, to shrug off the last vestiges of the compliant, passive self she had so loathed as a young woman.

Or maybe her courage had a simpler origin: Tavish had returned, and Isla finally felt like someone would stand beside her in a crisis. A person who would reach out a hand and say, “Grab hold. I have ye,” just as Tavish had earlier.

And how tragic that Isla didn’t believe her brother would help her but intrinsically trusted her soon-to-be former husband.

Rather telling, that.

“Isla,” Gray finally said on a deep breath. “Please answer me.”

“So what if Captain Balfour was the one to teach me, Gray?” Isla threw up her hands.

“He is my past. And the past will occasionally intrude on the present, particularly when the knowledge I learned then might save my life now . Also, may I remind you, Captain Balfour is the gentleman who jumped into the lake to save me. Not you. Not Colonel Archer. Captain Balfour was my savior. And he was the only gentleman present who knew I could swim.”

“Do not attempt to turn this argument back on me.”

“I’m merely stating facts.”

“When and how did he teach you, Isla?”

“Enough. I’m not speaking with you like this.” Isla pushed to standing.

Gray tracked her movements. “You will do me the courtesy of answering my questions, Isla.”

“Why, Gray? Are you going to summon a doctor next? Demand proof I am still a virgin?”

“If I must.” He looked away, muttering something that sounded like damnable Balfours . “At the very least, I wish to know if I need to bloody that man for his impertinence toward you.”

You can try.

Fortunately, Isla stopped that sentence in time.

“Enough! I never engaged in such intimate activities with that man , as you call him.” Not for lack of wanting to engage in intimate activities, she declined to add. And not for lack of planning to engage in them. “When will you stop punishing me for a brief lapse in judgment seven years ago? ”

Gray pivoted, head shaking. “The more I learn of your dalliance with Balfour, the less ‘brief’ I think it was. How deep was your involvement there?”

“I’ve already said all I intend to say, Gray.

I am yet a maid. You needn’t worry that you are selling damaged goods to Colonel Archer.

” Gray at least had the decency to wince at her choice of words.

“I have no intention of revisiting the mistakes of my youth. My goals and dreams for the future are focused on Malton Hill, as well you know. Can you please do me the honor of believing me?”

Her brother stared at her, plumbing her gaze as if he would ferret out all her secrets.

“I have spoken with both Colonel Archer and Lord Milmouth about a marriage contract.” Gray changed the topic.

“Oh. Have you?” Isla hated the faint tremor in her voice.

Botheration. With Tavish consuming her thoughts, Isla had rather lost the plot on her week here.

“Yes,” Gray said. “Nothing official, naturally. Nothing binding. But all is in readiness.”

“I see.”

You said you would wait for my consent before acting , she wanted to add. Events were moving faster than she had considered.

“Are you going to tell Colonel Archer about your involvement with Balfour?” Gray turned for the door.

“Of course. He deserves to know. But as it is my secret to tell, I thank you for letting me be the one to tell it.”

Gray nodded. Just once. “See that you do. As you said, Malton Hill is your goal. Only my approval will see the estate safely into your hands. I am trusting you to act properly, Isla. Do not disappoint me.”

And then he was gone.

Hours later, Isla sat reading before the fire—hair dry now and tied into a thick braid, heart quiet after an evening spent free of her brother and the other house guests.

The hallway floorboards creaked outside her bedroom, and a note appeared under the door.

Isla stared at the folded foolscap, white and damning against the wood.

No need to wonder who it was from. Only one person in this house would be slipping her a note.

She contemplated not reading it. Just tossing it onto the fire and pretending she had never received it. After all, no good would come of deepening her relationship with Tavish at this point.

She had her sights set on Malton Hill and her life there—the laughter of Mrs. White over dinner, the comfort of Dr. Sumsion’s sermons and Mrs. Sumsion’s wry commentary afterward. Isla’s community and the place where her decisions made an impact.

After some pondering, she had decided on a course of action for the now-widowed Mrs. Tippets and her children.

The local seamstress, Mrs. Bolton, was in need of a new assistant, and Isla knew Mrs. Tippets to be skilled with a needle.

Surely with the right encouragement, Mrs. Boulton would hire her.

Moreover, Mrs. Bolton had a wee apartment above her shop where Mrs. Tippets could live and work.

Isla would write Mr. Cranston in the morning and propose the solution.

Any interaction with Tavish Balfour threatened to upend the very real good Isla did at Malton Hill.

But the bit of foolscap, stark against the dark floor, caused her heart to pang. Its presence indicated concern and, perhaps, tenderness.

Soft footsteps sounded overhead.

Capitulating, Isla picked up the paper.

YSQ DJO NQWW? VYK . . .

She translated:

Are you well? Tap the ceiling with a poker once if yes. Twice if you require rescuing. Three times, and I shall bring the cavalry .

Isla didn’t wish to smile. She didn’t wish to be charmed.

And yet . . .

Here, again, were shades of her Tavish. Just as in the lake earlier, the moment felt disorienting. A ghost of the past transposed over the present, rendering her light-headed.

The Isla of seven years ago would have tapped three times, daring him to act outrageously.

Now . . .

She picked up the fire poker and, standing on a chair, tapped the ceiling with the handle. Just once.

She imagined him in that room overhead, crouched down and listening attentively. How had he hoped she would react?

Swallowing, Isla returned the poker to its stand.

After a few minutes, the footsteps retreated, and another door closed with a faint snick —Tavish retreating to his own bedchamber.

Emotion gathered in her throat, as unwelcome as it was unexpected. That same well-worn grief, a king tide rushing into her chest and threatening to spill over its banks.

With a stern shake of her head, Isla banished it.

Malton Hill and her people there.

That was her goal.

She merely needed to keep her eyes on the prize.