Page 50 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

Isla turned for the bedchamber, but paused to watch Tavish make up his bed, concern frowning her forehead.

“Why not at least sleep on the sofa?”

With a snort, he lay on the sofa, showing her quite clearly that his tall frame could not fit.

Her frown deepened.

He grinned. “Though I find your concern touching, lass, I assure ye, I spent years sleeping on the hard ground with nothing more than my arm for a pillow. This—” He pointed to the makeshift pallet on the floor. “—is practically luxurious.”

“Careful. You might be laying it on a bit thick. And saying you are accustomed to such spartan sleeping arrangements is not exactly the comfort you wish it to be.”

He chuckled. “Good night, Isla.”

She nodded and reluctantly retired to her bedchamber.

But hours on, sleep remained elusive.

She lay on the comfortable mattress, pillow under her cheek, his locket hanging from a chain around her neck. The enamel felt heated from her skin, as if it held the memory of their past love just as surely as every atom of her body .

Wrapping the locket in her fist, she stared at the fireplace beside the bed. It was far too easy to envision Tavish on the other side of the chimney, long body stretched before the hearth with only a blanket as a mattress.

Perhaps she should have pushed for him to join her in the bed. Not for anything else but sleep.

Yet her revelation at his question—that she would still choose him over any other gentleman—felt too raw, too jolting.

And she worried that if he were in such close proximity, she might act rashly.

Turn into his arms, press her body to his, and demand a repetition of their explosive kisses from earlier in the week.

Her imagination could easily supply his reaction—his warm palm on her waist, the firm press of his lips. Just the thought sent heat pulsing through her veins and pooling in her abdomen.

But she would never toy with his noble heart and raise expectations she hesitated to fulfill.

Granted, Tavish hadn’t attempted a repeat of their kisses, either. But the memory of them hummed along Isla’s skin whenever he was near.

She sighed and rolled onto her back, staring up at the bed’s canopy, Tavish’s locket still clutched in her hand.

Time.

Unlike the girl she had been, Isla knew she needed to give her realization a bit of time. A space where it could be aired in the light of day for her examination. Perhaps her jolt of remembered love for him was an aberration, a one-time occurrence that would not stand up to future scrutiny.

She still had Malton Hill foremost in her mind’s eye.

Yet, speaking with Tavish about her estate . . .

His unwavering support and instant desire to assist her in achieving her goals. How like him . . . to hold her happiness above all else.

If she contemplated it too long, she felt like weeping.

Because he had always unerringly supported who she wanted to become—the vision she had for herself—rather than demanding she fit into the mold Polite Society required.

She prayed she could do the same for him in return.

Sleep was long in coming.

For Isla, the next few days passed in a blur of memory.

Lady Mariah sent over books from Castle Balfour’s library, and Isla and Tavish exchanged favorites that they had read over the past few years.

Isla wrote letters to Mr. Cranston at Malton Hill, following up on matters with the widowed Mrs. Tippets and her children.

She and Tavish hiked the cairn and, instead of screaming in fury, they stood atop the rock and let the wind batter their clothes and tug at their hair and whip away the crack of their laughter.

But mostly, they talked, just as they had in the past . . . words and ideas, as ever, flowing easily between them.

Isla would ask a question about his time in the military, such as, “Tell me how you landed in the Rifles?”

Or, “How did you change from the Tavish I knew into Captain Balfour?”

And then Tavish would tell her of his military training—the battles fought and the friendships made.

A few hours later, he would ask something like, “What is your greatest hope for Malton Hill?” and she would describe the ongoing refurbishment of the old barns and her desire to create a successful dairy.

Back and forth, give and take.

Isla felt transported back to the girl she had been. And Tavish, with every passing hour, became more and more her Tavish.

Isla had ravaged her inner emotional landscape in venting her grief. But within the debris, new seeds had taken root. New memories of Tavish and perspectives on their love. New insights and ways of seeing him.

He hadn’t changed so much as evolved. Just as she had.

And like the new seeds, her affection for him flowered and bloomed, sending out a branch here and a tendril there.

No, they were not the same people. But they still understood one another. Still saw the same beauty in the world and laughed at the same jokes. Still thought along the same paths .

They were still two halves of the same soul.

The knowledge was both euphoria and catastrophe.

What was Isla to do?

Tavish feared for his sanity.

Each morning, Isla emerged from her bedchamber, fresh-faced and neatly dressed. And each day, the expression on her face softened a bit more—moving from impassive to warm to a happy smile upon seeing him.

And with every interaction—every look exchanged, every lively conversation—he tumbled deeper in love with her.

She was all he could see, all he could want.

If he possessed an ounce of self-preservation, he would force more distance between them.

Leaving her once had nearly ended him. But losing her again? He wasn’t sure he would survive it. The first time, he had held onto hope that she would write, that there might be a reconciliation. But this time . . . with the finality of divorce and her remarriage, there would be no return.

Granted, Isla hadn’t mentioned the prospect of their divorce in several days. But then, she had also never once indicated she was interested in continuing with their marriage.

Tavish could scarcely blame her.

His lacking prospects had not miraculously improved. Her understandable attachment to Malton Hill remained the same.

He knew Isla wrote letters most days to her people there. She had even described her plans to assist a widow named Mrs. Tippets in gaining employment with a local seamstress.

Isla couldn’t look on suffering and not rush to help, such was the nature of her heart.

And Tavish couldn’t listen to Isla’s hopes and dreams without longing to help her achieve them .

Such was the nature of his heart.

And so, even though it nearly broke him, Tavish did what he could to assist her.

He wrote to Fletch, apologizing again and reiterating his support of his friend’s suit for Isla’s hand.

He wrote to Ross and urged his friend to stand by their business plans in Pennsylvania.

All while trying to stem his own free fall back into love with Isla.

Each day felt like running a gauntlet, dodging the punishing force of his adoration of her and praying he could make it to sunset without tripping up and doing something ruinous, like kissing her again.

The evening of their fourth day at Cairnfell, they had just finished tidying up after dinner when Isla turned to him, a hand on her hip.

“Do you dance?” she asked.

His locket rested on her chest, dangling from a gold chain and glinting in the warm light of sunset pouring through the west-facing window.

She hadn’t taken the locket off since he had gifted it to her.

It did something to him, seeing that wee representation of his affection.

Like those precious fleeting minutes so long ago when she had worn his wedding band.

“Pardon, lass?”

“Dance? You?”

“Like a Highland jig?”

She laughed. “No, like a minuet or a waltz.”

Tavish stared, trying to suss out the purpose of her question. “Of course I waltz. I also carry calling cards, can recite the order of precedence from the king down to Lord Byron, and have excellent table manners. Despite my poverty and your brother’s ill opinion, I am an earl’s son.”

“So you acquit yourself well in a ballroom?”

“I haven’t received any complaints from ladies with abused toes. I believe an elderly widow once complimented my finely-turned calf.”

Isla leaned down and—shamelessly, he had to add—surveyed said calves. She tapped her far-too-kissable lips as she studied them, his locket swinging with the rhythm.

“I would agree with her assessment. ”

Heat washed the back of Tavish’s neck. He adored this bold version of Isla far too much for his sanity.

“We’ve never danced together, yourself and I.” She lifted an eyebrow. An unmistakable challenge. Similar to the ones he remembered presenting to her.

“Nae.”

“I believe a demonstration would not go amiss.”

“Of my dancing ability?”

“Yes. Once the glove of challenge has been laid, a gentleman should pick it up.”

A beat of silence.

“A waltz, did ye say?” he asked.

She nodded, teeth biting into her plump lower lip.

Tavish took in a slow, steadying breath. He had scarcely touched her in days, terrified that if he did, he simply wouldn’t stop. And yet . . . he could deny her nothing.

Stepping in close, he snaked his right arm around her waist. A quick breath expanded her lungs. She mimicked his stance, her right palm pressing into the small of his back. Grasping her left hand in his, Tavish lifted their joined hands above their heads.

“Scandalous,” Isla murmured. “You favor Mr. Wilson’s waltz.” She named the popular dancing master who had brought the waltz to London from Paris.

“’Tis all the rage on the Continent, lass.”

The dance was scandalous. Their position forced them to stare into one another’s eyes, bodies so close, scarcely more than two inches separated them.

Slowly, they began to turn in a slow three-four rhythm—down-up-up, down-up-up. The soft scent of lavender wafted off her skin.

She clicked her tongue. “Such shocking behavior, Captain Balfour. People will think me wanton.”

Humor flashed in her tone, but he felt the tremors in her limbs as they twirled around the room in a languid circle.

That was the precise moment Tavish realized the danger of this moment. Because she filled his vision, the blaze of sunset through the window turning her skin to pearls. So close, he could count the freckles scattered across her cheekbones and feel the puff of her breath against his chin.

With each sweep of her skirts, the space between them closed—two inches became one . . . and then became no space at all. Her softness pressed against him, sending his pulse soaring.

Isla swallowed. He watched the roll of her throat with rapt fascination.

“You are indeed an excellent dancer,” she whispered.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Somewhere along the way, they had stopped moving.

They stared at one another, their breaths filling the air.

Alarm bells clamored in his mind.

It would be so easy to kiss her. To release her hand, grasp her neck, and pull her mouth to his—an action he had done hundreds of times. His senses anticipated it, how her chest would rise to meet his, how she would taste.

But he knew himself. As he had intuited earlier, once he began kissing her, he wasn’t sure he would ever cease. He would tumble them both onto the enormous bed in the next room.

And she would succumb to the wildfire of their mutual desire. He may not have much practical experience in these matters, but he could feel her yearning in the pliable sway of her body and see it in the inky black of her blown pupils.

He wouldn’t permit their unruly lusts to rob her of Malton Hill and her dreams for her home. He loved her too well.

With a forced smile, he dropped his hands and stepped back with a small bow.

“Ye be an accomplished dancer yourself, lass. I imagine ye have sore feet after every ball, given the clamor of gentlemen who vie to stand up with ye.”

Isla blinked, as if his words landed like a splash of cold water.

Tavish supposed he had intended them as such.

“Yes,” she said, blinking again. And then, with a wee shake of her head, she turned for a seat before the fire.

Tavish told himself he was glad the spell had been broken .

For the remainder of their time here at Cairnfell, his mandate remained simple—

Do not touch Isla.

That way lay madness.