Page 45 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

W ell, I must say that visit could have gone a wee bit better,” Ross sighed, clucking his horse. “I’m not sure Fletch is going to forgive ye.”

Tavish nudged Goliath forward, resisting the urge to answer with a grunt. His left cheek throbbed, and his eye was half-swollen shut. For once, his exterior appearance matched the wretchedness of his internal one.

However, given that Ross was still at Tavish’s side, the man deserved better than a guttural reply.

“Perhaps not,” Tavish said. “All I can do is hope for a mending of our friendship given time.”

To his dying day, Tavish would regret how Fletch had uncovered the fact of his and Isla’s marriage. It had been as cowardly and selfish an act as Tavish had ever committed.

Fletch was more than justified in his anger.

Tavish had awakened to find a note pushed under his bedroom door. At first, his foolish heart had assumed it was from Isla. That she wished to speak with him, or reconcile, or throw herself upon his chest and profess her love.

More the eejit , him.

Instead, he had found Fletch’s black scrawl. A wounded diatribe against Tavish and his betrayal of their friendship. The letter ended with a bleak parting shot:

Given the breach of trust between us, I think it best to sever both our financial ties and those bands that once bound us tight as brothers.

Flowery but to the point— we are no longer friends, and I will not be going into business with ye.

As if Tavish’s spirits could sink any lower.

Isla had departed at dawn with Grayburn.

She had fallen upon Tavish like his lips held the meaning of life. Like she were famished and his body the only sustenance that would satisfy.

And then she had left without a word.

Tavish struggled to feel anger over her actions. Instead, he harbored a bone-deep sadness. He had always known this was how things would end with them. She had made her intentions clear from the beginning— I don’t want you . I don’t want the life of poverty and hardship you offer.

As for Fletch . . .

“He struggles to hold a grudge, Fletch does,” Tavish said.

“Aye. But perhaps he hasn’t been sufficiently motivated in the past. Time will tell, I ken.

” Ross shrugged. “In the meantime, I’m unsure what you and I are to do.

Fletch was to provide a substantial amount of our needed capital.

We cannot move forward with our plans in Pennsylvania without an investor. ”

Tavish nodded. He was twice an eejit for not foreseeing this outcome with Fletch.

“Do ye have anyone in mind?” Tavish asked. “Would your father be interested?”

“Nae. If anything, my father would be happy to see the whole plan scuppered. He wants me home, managing my wee estate, and contemplating marriage.”

They rode in silence for a long moment .

“Would it . . .” Ross began. “Would it be so terrible if we backed out of our plans?”

Aye! Tavish wanted to snap. Some days, the only thing keeping him upright was the thought of the green hills of Pennsylvania and his fields of rye growing there. A tangible something that prevented his future from feeling so very bleak.

Ross took his silence as encouragement.

“Once ye be free of Lady Isla, ye could marry anew. A lass whose family supports your suit and provides ye with a dowry. Combined with your funds from the sale of your commission . . .” He drifted off.

Och , Tavish didn’t want a different wife. He liked the one he already had, thank ye very much. But as she currently had no interest in remaining married to him . . .

“A new lady’s dowry would have to be truly spectacular to support us in any meaningful way.”

“Aye, but if it included property. An estate, even . . . ye could have ongoing income.”

Tavish looked out over the countryside—the hills covered in purple heather, smoke rising from the occasional stone farmhouse—wondering if there would ever come a time when his life felt settled. Anytime Tavish wanted something—his inheritance, the woman he loved—it was stripped from him.

“Have ye considered politics?” Ross asked, seemingly from nowhere.

“Pardon?” Tavish turned to stare at his friend, the motion causing his eye to pulse in pain.

“Merely that ye have presence. Your father is an earl with a position in Lords. Ye could put for a seat in Commons. Between that and the right wife, ye could live quite comfortably.”

“Do I look like a politician type?”

“Nae. But I think that would be part of the appeal. Ye are a bit of a war hero. Ye could do some shooting exhibitions and use the momentum to boost your abilities to take on Westminster.”

“Have ye gone doolally ? Perhaps Fletch knocked your head last night, too, because ye be speaking utter nonsense.”

Ross merely shrugged again .

They rode in silence for a few more minutes.

“Why all this talk of new wives, estates, and politics? It appears to me ye want to back out of our endeavor,” Tavish said. “Ye ken I won’t hold ye to any part of it.”

“I admit that I see the wisdom in my father’s advice. And now that our funding has disappeared . . .” Ross drifted off. “However, I won’t leave yourself unsettled.”

“I’m not yours to tend to, Ross.”

“Aye, but I value ye as a friend and, as such, your happiness matters.”

“Well, I’d rather . . .”

Whatever Tavish intended to say died on his lips.

They had just rounded a corner and there, in the distance, a woman sat on a log beside the road. Dressed in a light blue pelisse and a straw bonnet, she was bent in half, palms covering her face, shoulders shaking with sobs.

He recognized her instantly.

“That bloody bastard!” Tavish hissed, kicking Goliath into a gallop to reach her.

He threw himself from the saddle before the enormous hunter had fully stopped.

Damn Grayburn and his cold, black heart.

“Isla.” He crouched in front of her, pulling her hands from her face. “Love. Darling. What’s happened?”

She lifted her head, tears clinging to her lashes, strands of blonde hair hanging limply beside her jaw. She had never looked more miserable or more heartbreakingly beautiful.

“Isla,” he whispered again, a hand raising to thumb away her tears. Anything to offer her comfort.

However, she didn’t lean into his palm or sigh with relief to see him.

Instead, her lovely face contorted in rage.

She placed both palms on his chest and shoved. Hard.

Tavish toppled backward, landing on his bottom in the dirt with an oof .

Isla stood and stomped down the road, away from him.

Ross swung from his saddle beside Tavish, taking Goliath’s reins in his hand .

Tavish rolled to his feet, brushing off his buckskins as Isla strode away. She made it about twenty feet before stopping in the middle of the road, her bonneted head turned away, her hands balled into fists. She stood there for several seconds before tipping her head back . . .

. . . and letting loose a heart-rending scream.

The sound came from deep within her chest—harsh, desperate, and so anguished. To Tavish’s ears, it was the sound of every lady abandoned by a lover. Every mother who learned of her son’s death on a battlefield. Every woman who suffered the impotence and rage of what it so often meant to be female.

Tavish closed the distance between them, stopping at her side.

She glanced at him, silently daring him to curb her actions.

As if he would ever clip her wings.

She screamed again. That gut-wrenching noise he had once taught her.

And Tavish . . . did nothing. He stood and let her unleash pain.

Isla roared several times, her bonnet slipping from her head and hanging down her back, before turning toward him. Tavish reached for her, but again, she rejected his help.

Instead, with a sob, she beat her fists against his ribs. He tightened his muscles and let her vent her rage.

Because she knew: Unlike every other man in her life, Tavish would bear her fury. He would let her expend it on his body and would hold her in the aftermath.

Because he knew that her anger was actually grief and pain in disguise.

Because their minds, as ever, were uncannily attuned.

The anger in her fists decreased with each strike, until slowly, she crumpled—slumping into him, her hands balled against his chest. She greited , forehead pressed to his collarbones.

“He c-cast m-me out, Tavish,” she hiccupped. “He s-said he was d-done. That y-you were c-coming behind us, and I w-was yours to d-deal with now.”

Tavish pulled her against him, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “He’s an arse-headed blackguard, Isla, and I should have plowed my fist into his face last night.”

If Tavish thought his words would help, he was mistaken. She collapsed into dreadful wracking sobs that sounded as if her very being were coming undone.

Perhaps it was.

I don’t want you.

And yet, Gray had forced her to be with Tavish anyway.

Gently, Tavish lifted her into his arms, cradling her close as he walked back to Ross and Goliath.

His friend’s gaze held only empathy and understanding.

Setting Isla in front of his saddle, Tavish swung up behind her and gathered her to his chest. She melted into him—one hand clutching his lapel, the other snaking inside his coat and around his waist to grip a fistful of his waistcoat, her face pressed to his shirt.

He nudged Goliath to walk on, letting the sounds of her heartbroken sobs drift along the road behind them.

Tavish, Isla, and Ross arrived late at an inn on the southwest outskirts of Aberdeen, the distance between Kingswell and Castle Balfour being too great to travel in one day.

They would spend the night here and then go their separate ways come morning—Ross to his family north, and Tavish to his in the south.

While Ross saw to the horses, Tavish stepped into the entryway and requested two rooms—one for Captain Ross, the other for Captain Balfour and Mrs. Balfour.

The innkeep frowned at Tavish’s black eye, but only asked if they had a preference for a room to the back or front of the building.