Page 4 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

Given that Grayburn was usually the picture of sangfroid made the entire display even more delightful. As ever, the duke’s temper flared when he had to interact with a Balfour.

Some things remained as predictable as the tides.

Grayburn stopped at his sister’s side. Unlike Lady Isla, his features were sharp. As if God took a chisel and hammer to a block of granite to form him—knocking off great slabs to create large eyes under a stern brow ridge, the thick slash of wide cheekbones, and a patrician nose.

That His Grace’s nose sported a permanent bump courtesy of Callum’s fist only added to the charm in Tavish’s view.

The duke gave him a slow up and down—a sort of contemptuous, pitying appraisal.

Surely Grayburn noted the three subtle repairs in Tavish’s greatcoat—neat stitches done by his own hand during the days and weeks of mindless nothing between battles.

Tavish might be an earl’s son, but there had been little money for over a decade now.

“Balfour.” Like his sister, Grayburn did not dip his head in greeting. “Same as ever, I see.”

His words dripped with decades of derision. Generations, really, of spite and animosity.

Once, Tavish might have reacted to the slight.

But seven years of war—of watching friends blown apart in cannon fire, of hearing the shrieks and cries of the dying in his dreams at night—had tempered him.

Unlike the boy he had been, he now knew when to draw a sword, literal or proverbial. He would not spend energy fighting unless it became necessary.

“Grayburn,” Tavish returned. “Out surveying enemy territory? Plotting your attack, perhaps?” He might not draw a weapon, but needling an enemy was a well-proved battle tactic.

Predictably, Grayburn stiffened, his eyes drawing down in a murderous manner.

Ah.

Cairnfell still struck a nerve, it seemed.

It was common knowledge that Grayburn wanted Cairnfell for his own, which likely explained His Grace’s presence today. The large hill—the common origin of their two families—rested between their estates.

The fell had passed between their families several times over the years.

The most recent exchange had occurred just over fifty years ago, when Tavish’s grandfather had won Cairnfell from Grayburn’s grandfather in a game of faro.

Locals referred to the incident as the “Infamous Jack of Hearts” after the winning card.

Northcairn had declared it a divine message from God, blessing his ownership of Cairnfell.

Grayburn stormed out, shouting allegations of cheating.

The current Grayburn wanted revenge for this past slight and aimed to reacquire Cairnfell for his half of the family.

His Grace drew in a slow breath and darted a sideways glance at his sister. Tavish could practically see a vitriolic response clinging to the duke’s tongue, but ever the gentleman, he refused to release it in a lady’s presence.

“I was unaware you had cashed out of your regiment, Balfour,” Grayburn parried instead. “Or, at least, I suppose you cashed out.”

The implication being that Tavish was somehow stripped of his captaincy and tossed out on his ear.

“Aye, well, with the French Menace having been resolved at Waterloo, the army has been aggressively reducing the number of troops. I had a chance to sell on my commission, and I took it.”

“He is a captain now, Gray . . . Captain Balfour.” Isla gave her brother a tight smile.

Grayburn’s eyes never left Tavish’s face. He had the impression that the duke would bite off his own tongue before calling Tavish anything other than an unmitigated bastard .

“Sister, please return down the trail to the carriage. I shall join you in a moment. But first, I would like a private word with Mr. Balfour.”

Even Isla raised an eyebrow at Grayburn’s deliberate slight.

“As you wish. Though do not be long.” She gave Tavish a pensive look before turning away.

Grayburn watched until she disappeared into the trees before whirling back to Tavish. “I thought my instructions were exquisitely clear the last time I conversed with you.”

“Och, aye, they were. If I ever see ye again, I’ll put a bullet through your heart. It was perfectly articulated and impressively melodramatic.” Tavish rocked back on his heels.

Color climbed Grayburn’s throat. “Then why . . . the hell . . . are you here?!”

“I’m on my family’s land, Grayburn. How was I to know ye would be trespassing upon it today?” Tavish spread his arms wide. “I’m permitted to visit my family, particularly after an absence of seven years. ”

“You promised to stay away from my sister.”

“And I have kept to that promise up to now. Ye lot be the ones to find me here today, not the other way around.”

The duke’s nostrils flared, red spreading from his neck to his cheeks. Soon the tips of his ears would be glowing like a blacksmith’s forge.

“Lady Isla has never been for the likes of you. Maintain your distance, or I will hold to my part of the bargain.”

“And put a bullet through my heart?”

“Precisely. I beg for you to give me an excuse.”

Grayburn pivoted and followed his sister down the path, anger evident in how his gait slipped from a smooth glide into a subtle limp.

Tavish took petty comfort in it.

Sighing, he turned for Goliath.

Swinging into the saddle, he caught a glimpse of Lady Isla through the trees, looping her hand through Grayburn’s elbow as they continued down the trail. The duke shot a murderous glance over his shoulder.

Tavish tipped his hat in farewell, knowing Grayburn would find it irritating.

The duke’s returning glare did not disappoint.

Chuckling, Tavish nudged his own horse for the trail that led north toward Castle Balfour and home.

Thankfully, he hadn’t actually agreed to steer clear of Lady Isla.

That would prove impossible.

Because one secret truth remained—

Lady Isla Kinsey was already Tavish’s wife.