Page 51 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

I sla could feel herself changing.

Day by day, she found it a bit more difficult to hold onto the dream of Malton Hill. Her happiness here with Tavish at Cairnfell rivaled the happiness she experienced at Malton Hill.

Moreover, a terrible truth had been gently taking form in her mind.

She hadn’t buried her love for her husband, or even abandoned it.

She had simply replaced it—exchanging Tavish for Malton Hill in her affections.

And now faced with them both, she could no more forgo either of them without losing a vital part of her soul.

How was that possible? And as ever, what was she to do?

On their sixth day at Cairnfell, Lady Mariah managed to slip them a lovely dinner of braised beef with roasted potatoes when she delivered the post. Though Isla appreciated Tavish’s ability to create a meal with the most rudimentary ingredients, a proper dinner seated at the table was a welcome change.

The weather had turned chilly with rain lashing the windows and wind guttering the fire in the hearth, making the hearty meal even more welcome .

“Any word from Captain Ross about your plans for Pennsylvania?” Isla asked, spooning potatoes onto her plate, eyes darting to the stack of letters Lady Mariah had brought. Tavish had read them, a frown between his brows.

“Nothing specific.” Tavish poured himself a glass of red wine. “We’re still trying to locate a third investor.”

Isla knew that concerns for his future weighed heavy.

“Why did you leave the army?” she asked. “Many men make a living out of it. The wages are not so terrible, particularly for an officer such as yourself.”

He took a bite of beef, chewing slowly.

Isla tried not to stare with only middling success.

His eye had finally healed from Colonel Archer’s battering, the skin once more smooth and golden.

Sometimes, she wished she could watch Tavish for hours—tracing the lines of his body, cataloging the smooth skin at the nape of his neck or the shadowed hollow beneath his bottom lip .

. . all the places she longed to press a kiss.

He was her husband. All of that lovely maleness was hers and hers alone.

For now.

The price to keep him would be immense. Perhaps higher than she wished to pay. Assuming he even wished to remain married.

It was why, when he had pulled away after their waltz last night, she hadn’t protested.

“Why did I leave?” His eyes took on that haunted expression she was starting to recognize, as if he were lost in a nightmare of memory.

“Because after so many years of killing and death, I think ye lose foundational parts of your soul. I could feel it happening—a sort of hardening of my humanity—and I simply couldn’t bear it anymore. I never wish to become such a man.”

Isla thought back to the boy he had been, standing beside Goliath on the road that night. Caving to Gray’s demands. So unsure and wavering in which path to take.

And here he was now, full circle. Sure. Strong. Confident in what he wanted. The Tavish of now would always assert what was right over what was easy. He would pay the high price to remain true to his innermost self.

Yet one more reason to love him.

“But I’m sure the Rifles would take me back, if I wanted. My commanding officer was none too pleased to see me go, and unlike other regiments, the Rifles were not disbanded at the end of the war. I could re-enlist.” He darted a look at her then, as if assessing her reaction.

Isla was shaking her head before he even finished his sentence. “No. Of course not.”

“It would be a way to support a family,” he added, voice quiet.

Ah.

They had spent days tiptoeing around the elephant of conflict in the room—the collision of their impending divorce with their renewing affection, both of which were compounded by the harsh reality of their future desires being, rather literally, a world apart.

Tavish opened the door to the discussion, but Isla wasn’t sure she wanted to step through it. Because she feared heartbreak sat on the other side, and she wasn’t prepared to confront it.

If only she didn’t like him quite so well.

But with this . . .

“Return to the army?” She focused on cutting her beef. “I cannot imagine you risking your soul in such a fashion. You were wise to get out when you could.”

He nodded, as if he had expected her answer.

“Ross suggested I go into politics.” A rueful smile quirked his lips, as if to say, Can ye believe such an absurd suggestion?

But . . . Isla could.

Abruptly, she could see it. Tavish would be dazzling in politics. A gentleman with his native intelligence, analytical mind, and strong moral compass . . .

“I think you would be brilliant.”

Now it was his turn to stare at her.

“You would,” she continued. “You have a competent magnetism about you. As more than one person said during the house party at Kingswell—the world could crumble to pieces and you would simply set to, cleaning up the mess. I can think of no one who would better champion the nameless masses of this country than you.”

Tavish was quiet for a long while after that, picking at his food.

“Does the idea alarm you?” she asked.

“Nae.” He reached for his wine glass. “Merely trying to accommodate the concept. I’ve never thought of myself as the political type, either here or in America.

But then, I ken that most professional interactions are political in one way or another.

Heaven knows, I spent years leading men and acting as a mediator between their needs and those of my superiors. ”

“I’m not sure politics would be much different.”

They moved on to speaking of other things, but she could see him turning over the idea of running for office.

Of course, he would need a wife to assist him.

A proper sort of wife. But when she envisioned him stepping into a London dining room, ready to woo patrons, the only wife she could picture on his arm was herself.

Hours later, the rain continued to drum overhead, and an unpleasant chill had settled into the room.

Isla frowned as Tavish began setting up his bed. They hadn’t revisited his sleeping on the hard flagstones of the great hall, but for Isla, every night alone in her large bed became more difficult to tolerate, particularly if she thought of him suffering and cold.

A true wife would ensure his comfort.

“You needn’t sleep here.” She pointed to his makeshift pallet. “The bed is plenty large for us both.”

He didn’t even look up as she spoke. Merely continued to fluff a pillow and place it atop the stack of blankets.

“Tavish.” Her hands went to her hips, as if preparing to scold him. Another wifely behavior, unfortunately.

He picked up a second pillow. “Isla, as I’ve said, I find it no bother to sleep here.”

Oh! This stubborn man!

“It’s pouring rain, and the temperature is falling. The great hall will be baltic by morning. Why are you resisting my decidedly sensible suggestion?”

Tavish dropped the pillow atop the blankets of his makeshift bed. Raising his head, he fixed her with his gray eyes . . . and something dropped within his expression. A mask she hadn’t realized he had been holding. And in its stead, she saw raw hunger—feral and barely contained.

Every last drop of moisture evaporated from her mouth.

“Isla.”

He said her name like an epithet. Or was it a hosanna? She could scarcely say. He took one step toward her before stopping himself.

“Lass, if I crawl into that bed beside ye”—his voice a rasp—“I will not keep my hands to myself. Lying beside ye without touching ye would require greater strength of will than I possess. A sane man knows his limits.” He scanned her stunned expression. “So I sleep here.”

He pointed to the piled blankets.

Oh.

And . . . now all she could picture were the delightful ways he would not keep his hands to himself. The wanting as he pulled her against his body and bent his lips to hers. She could hardly breathe for the desire clouding her thoughts.

“Is that why you haven’t kissed me? Or even attempted to kiss me?” Her questions emerged breathless. “There was a moment during our waltz when . . .”

The memory of their last kisses in that empty bedroom rose like a specter between them. The wild greed of his mouth pressing against hers. The delicious weight of his hands skimming her body.

He nudged his pallet with a foot, shoulders shrugging. “Ye haven’t tried to kiss me either, lass. Why is that?”

Because I don’t know , she thought.

Because if I kiss you again, I’m not sure I will ever stop, and I don’t want lust to drive decisions about my future.

Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face.

“Exactly,” he whispered. “Ye must understand, Isla, if we consummate our marriage, that will be it.”

“Pardon?”

“If I have ye, if ye take me as your husband in truth, that will be it. I will not share that intimacy with yourself and then pass ye off to another.” He paused, the next words emerging as if torn from his throat.

“If ye kiss me, ye should know where it will lead—you and I spending our lives together.”

His words landed with all the subtlety of a gunshot.

Isla barely stopped a wince.

“Because once we share our bodies with one another—if we make that commitment,” he continued. “I will never let ye go. You will be mine, and I will be yours.”

His lips formed a sad quirk—one that added, quite clearly, and we both know ye don’t want that.

And yet, as she held his gaze, she realized he was wrong.

I want to choose you.

The same words from several nights before, only this time, present tense instead of conditional— I want instead of I would .

No more hypotheticals.

I want you. I want us.

The realization upended every aspect of her thinking, stilling her tongue and rendering her thoughts a stunned hum.

Nodding, she retreated to her own bed, but sleep was impossible.

Tavish’s words and her own burgeoning emotions would not let her be.