Page 40 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

But by all that was holy, he wanted her. Not just the physical charms of her person—though he decidedly wanted those, too—but the clever snap of her wit, the fierce tenacity of her mind.

He wanted the girl she had been and the woman she had become. He wanted a lifetime exploring every iteration of the person she would grow to be.

The longing felt too vast to accommodate. Like trying to wrap his arms around the sun and hold it tight. Surely, he would be scorched to dust .

Thankfully, the cool drizzle of rain cooled his ardor.

Tavish looked up the path, gravel glistening.

“Here they are, Grayburn.” Fletch came into view, the duke on his heels.

Both men were soaked from the rain, caped greatcoats drenched and the brims of their top hats dripping.

Fletch waved, a broad smile on his face. Were he a puppy in truth, his tail would be wagging.

Grayburn scowled, limp pronounced, his brow as dark and ominous as the clouds overhead—more or less His Grace’s permanent expression with any situation that involved a Balfour.

Tavish lifted a hand in greeting.

“Really, Grayburn,” Fletch continued as they drew near. “How many times must I tell you? Despite the differences between your families, you can depend upon Balfour’s honor as a gentleman.”

The duke’s glower turned thunderous. Tavish could practically see the man biting back a ranting tirade—enumerating Tavish’s base behavior towards Isla in the past, His Grace’s surety of a repetition of said behavior, and how he would enact retribution.

However, propriety stilled Grayburn’s tongue.

His Grace couldn’t disclose Tavish’s past behavior without implicating his sister and damaging her reputation.

And so he clenched his jaw and seethed in silence.

Tavish was petty enough to revel in Grayburn’s discomfort, particularly after Isla’s revelations just minutes ago.

Fletch stopped in front of Tavish, peering around his shoulder to Isla still standing out of the rain. Grayburn walked past the two of them to his sister.

“Grayburn was convinced you were ravishing Lady Isla in the woods.” Fletch gave an abbreviated eye roll, as if the very notion were absurd in the extreme.

Guilt wrapped around Tavish’s ribcage and squeezed. Had the gentlemen taken another five minutes to arrive, he very well may have been ravishing Isla in the woods.

Bloody hell.

This was a debacle .

“I have assured His Grace in no uncertain terms that you are not that sort of gentleman.” Fletch looked to where Grayburn was speaking quietly to Isla. “But he simply refuses to believe me.”

Tavish experienced a surge of affection. Isla deserved a husband like Fletch—loyal and good. He would worship her until the day he died.

So would Tavish, for that matter, but probably with less reverence and more passion.

“The history between our families is deeply unpleasant, as well ye know,” Tavish said. “I do not fault Grayburn for his concerns.”

“Yet another reason why we all admire you so, Balfour. You spare kind words for your enemies. You always have.”

Grayburn and Isla approached them, her hand threaded through her brother’s elbow.

“The rain has cleared. Archer, would you be so kind as to accompany Lady Isla back to the house?” Grayburn extended Isla’s hand toward Fletch. “I shall join you both momentarily. I merely wish a brief word with Captain Balfour.”

The murderous look Grayburn gave Tavish didn’t instill confidence that the brief word would be a pleasant one.

Fletch glanced at Tavish in concern, silently asking if he needed assistance. Tavish gave a faint shake of his head. Grayburn would bluster, but if it came to fisticuffs, Tavish knew he could hold his own.

Fletch and Isla had scarcely gone thirty feet before Grayburn whirled on Tavish.

“I don’t know what game you are playing at here, Balfour, but you will not win.”

Tavish couldn’t stop a snort. “No game, Grayburn.”

“Spare me your prevarication. Why else were you out in this forest alone with Lady Isla?”

“ Och , I could scarcely leave your sister unaccompanied in the woods. As Fletch said, I am an honorable man, despite your lowering opinion.”

“We both know that to be a lie. Your past actions have been anything but honorable in regards to my sister.”

“Hah! Like your actions toward my own sister and brother?”

Grayburn reared back. “As I suspected, you are panting after Isla in some unwarranted bid for revenge. There isn’t a thimbleful of honor between all you Balfours.

Lady Isla is not for the likes of you. Do not think for one minute that you can sniff around her skirts, reclaim her affections, and receive one farthing of her dowry.

I will see her cast out of our family first.”

Deep, long-buried rage swelled Tavish’s chest.

“Unlike yourself, Grayburn, I don’t ruin gently-bred ladies for sport.”

The duke went icily still. “What, precisely, are you accusing me of, Balfour? I have never—and would never—ruin a lady .”

The implication being that Mariah was no lady.

Tavish pinched his lips to stem a tirade of anger.

When he trusted himself to speak, he returned to the topic at hand. “I have no designs upon Lady Isla’s dowry or her familial connections, Grayburn. Upon my honor as a gentleman.”

Upon her person, however . . . Tavish most definitely had aspirations there. That he would not deny. He wouldn’t act upon those designs, but he held them.

Fortunately, Grayburn didn’t notice the omission.

“A gentleman,” the duke sneered. “What use is your word?”

Tavish gritted his teeth. “My honor is as valuable as your own, all things considered.”

“You dare to besmirch my hon—”

“Enough, Grayburn.” Tavish held up a palm. “Ye dislike me. Ye consider me a fortune-hunter and rakehell or worse. Ye wish me dead. But none of those opinions change the fundamental nature of who I am—”

“A libertine like your brother? Or a light-skirt like your sister?”

It was an unforgivable insult.

Anger charred Tavish’s veins.

This bastard had ensured Mariah’s disgrace and dragged Callum to his doom.

But the soldier in Tavish saw the tactic for what it was—Grayburn was baiting him. Challenging him to lash out. To strike. And then what? The duke would accuse Tavish of assault? Have him arrested?

Powerful men had certainly reacted more brutally with less justification.

Tavish wasn’t a boy, quick to temper and imprudence. One didn’t survive seven years of constant war without learning to keep a level head when provoked.

“Careful, Grayburn.” Tavish leaned forward. “We both know the true reason ye say such things about Lady Mariah. Ye be jealous that it wasn’t yourself to whom she offered her virtue.”

It was a low strike, but given how Grayburn hissed and stepped back, Tavish knew his bullet had struck true. He had long suspected that Grayburn harbored a tendre for Mariah—the man expended far too much effort in church attempting not to look at her—and here was proof.

“No true gentleman would speak so crudely of a lady,” Tavish continued, “and Lady Mariah is a lady, no matter your insinuation, to say nothing of your ruinous behavior toward her.”

“Pardon?!” The duke’s eyes flared in surprise. “Again, what are you accusing me of here, Balfour? You think I somehow orchestrated your sister’s ruination?”

“Orchestrated? Encouraged? The end result was the same. Spare me your protestations of innocence, Grayburn. We both know that ye have treated my own sister with much greater disrespect than I have ever displayed toward your own. At least my past intentions toward your sister were always honorable.”

“How dare you! I shall ensure that—”

“I’ve said my piece, Grayburn. Your threats are hollow. Fortunately, I do not require your approbation in order to live my life. Good day.”

With that, Tavish pivoted and walked off toward the woods, away from Grayburn and Isla and Fletch.

Anything, really, to prevent himself from plowing his fist into the duke’s smug face.

It took ten minutes of brisk walking to regain his temper.

Tavish needed to keep his distance from Lady Isla for the remainder of the house party. No good would come of them rekindling their physical attraction to one another, even if the phantom brush of her lips burned in his memory.

Aye, he loved her, but she had made her future goals clear. If he cared for her at all, he would respect her intentions and help her achieve them.

From now on, all he could be was a distant friend.