Page 58 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

They approached the house from Cairnfell rather than along one of the primary routes that would pass by a gatehouse with its keeper.

In all truthfulness, Tavish had only seen Dunmore once or twice in his life.

And that was as a lad with Callum when they would dare one another to sneak as close to the place as possible.

In the light of day, the honey stone facade shone, and the acres of glass panes gleamed. A grand palace for the daughter of a duke.

Why hadn’t Isla written? Had Grayburn detained her, trying to force her into compliance? Or had he silenced her with some threat against Tavish?

Either option curdled his stomach .

Fletch and Tavish discussed whether or not to knock on the door with their rifles in hand.

“Though it goes against the grain, I suggest we begin with diplomacy,” Fletch said. “Grayburn is surely the magistrate in these parts. No need to threaten the man with a firearm and give him reason to charge us with a crime before we have completed our reconnaissance.”

Though Fletch made excellent sense, for once, Tavish deplored his friend’s level head. He wanted to storm through the front door, gun cocked and ready to fire.

But Fletch won in this.

Dismounting, Tavish and Fletch handed their horses’ reins to a waiting groom. The boy’s eyes took in Fletch’s expensive clothing—everything about the man proclaimed him an aristocrat—before widening in recognition when they touched on Tavish. Thankfully, the boy said nothing.

So far, so good.

Tavish rang the front bell.

A stuffy butler answered the door.

The man gave Tavish a thorough up and down before his eyes flickered to Fletch.

“Captain Tavish Balfour to see my wife.” Tavish put the steely command of an army officer into his voice. The tone he used with underlings when he wished them to cower in fear.

Grayburn’s butler was made of stern stuff because the man didn’t so much as twitch. “I do not think your wife to be on these premises, Mr. Balfour. I bid you good da—”

The butler broke off as Tavish pushed his way into the house.

It appeared diplomacy was at an end.

“Sirrah!” the man gasped in outrage.

“Isla!” Tavish called.

The butler tried to grab his sleeve.

On a growl, Fletch pulled the man loose and placed himself between the butler and Tavish.

“Isla, love, where are ye?!” Tavish yelled up the stairs.

He scarcely noticed the gilt mirrors and elegant busts and acres of marble on display. In his periphery, Fletch grappled with the butler .

All Tavish’s attention was on locating his wife.

A strong hand seized his arm. With automatic movements—a quick jerk of his arm and a twist of his upper body—Tavish tossed off the footman who had grabbed him. Blood pumped in his veins, his every sense alert as if this were a battlefield.

“Isla!” he shouted again, starting up the stairs.

Two more footmen raced into the entryway. Fletch had subdued the butler and pivoted to face the footmen, fists raised.

“I say!” a decidedly aristocratic voice called behind Tavish. “What is this tumult?”

Tavish pivoted on the stairs.

A gentleman stood just inside the doorway of what appeared to be a drawing room.

Lord Matthias Kinsey.

He stood tall—the sleeve of his right arm pinned up at the elbow, a book in his solitary hand.

With a stern shake of his head, Lord Matthias waved off the footmen and butler. “I have this in hand, McPherson. As you were.”

“But, my lord—” the butler began.

Lord Matthias gave another severe shake of his head. “Enough.” But Tavish noted how the book in his hand trembled.

Tavish walked down the staircase, Fletch joining him.

Tavish had rarely seen Lord Matthias, even as a boy. A few years older than Tavish, the gentleman had the look of Isla in the shape of his face and the watchfulness of his gaze.

“Balfour.” Lord Mathias nodded.

“Lord Matthias.” Tavish gave an abbreviated bow, lungs a bellows. “I am in search of my wife.”

“I see.” Gesturing again with the book in his hand, Lord Matthias indicated that Tavish and Fletch should step into the drawing room.

“Thank ye.” Tavish righted his coat, adjusting his collar. He had not expected to find an ally in this place.

The drawing room was everything Tavish would expect of Grayburn’s position and wealth. An enormous gilt mirror hovered over an equally impressive marble fireplace. Paintings by Caravaggio and Gainsborough graced the walls, and a lush Aubusson carpet rested underfoot .

Lord Matthias looked at Fletch. “And your companion?”

So polite, that sentence. As if they had merely come calling for tea.

Tavish made quick introductions, breathing heavily. He was primed for a fight, and though he had partially gotten one, Lord Matthias’s gentlemanly demeanor was jarring.

“What the devil!” Grayburn’s loud voice sounded in the entrance hall. “Where is that scoundrel? Someone fetch me a whip to drive him from my home!”

Excellent. Here came the fight Tavish craved.

Lord Matthias half rolled his eyes. “Gray is mostly bark, though under a bit of strain at the moment. Stand your ground, Balfour.” He took a large step back, retreating to the wall just as Grayburn barreled into the room.

“You blackguard!” Grayburn speared Tavish with a dark look. “I will see criminal charges brought for this, pushing your way into my home and assaulting my staff.”

The duke came up short when he noticed Fletch, arms crossed, standing at Tavish’s side.

“Archer and I have come to fetch my wife, Grayburn,” Tavish said. “Even you cannot hold your sister against the will of her husband.”

“What wife?” the duke asked with silky ease, his glee barely masked. “You don’t have a wife, Balfour.”

Anger flared through Tavish’s veins. Fletch had been right.

“I did as of yesterday.”

“Well . . . facts change.” Grayburn shrugged. “A marriage doesn’t exist without evidence and witnesses, and I assure you there are neither where my sister is concerned. You are nothing to her. Now, again, you will leave before I have you arrested.”

“I will see my wife—”

“Archer.” Grayburn turned to Fletch, dismissing Tavish entirely. “I must admit I am somewhat disappointed to see you in Balfour’s company.”

Fletch didn’t so much as flinch. “As I’ve said from the beginning, Grayburn, Balfour is the most honorable gentleman I know. That fact remains true.”

Grayburn snorted. “Surely, you have better sense—”

“My wife, Duke!” Tavish snapped. “I would see Isla and—”

“That is Lady Isla to the likes of you.”

“As Lady Isla might be currently carrying my bairn . . .” Tavish paused to let that tidbit of information land, “I would like to speak with her.”

Grayburn’s expression blanched before the red of rage reappeared.

“If you so much as touched her—”

“I’m her bloody husband, Grayburn. Of course, I touched her! I intend to touch her again!”

Grayburn took two steps toward Tavish.

“Tavish?” Isla’s bright voice sounded from the entry hall.

Relief washed over Tavish, as miraculous as rain on dry soil.

“Isla! Love!” he called.

Isla walked through the doorway, a cheery smile upon her lips. Tavish’s chest swelled at the sight.

As ever, she appeared as dazzling as a summer afternoon. The setting of Dunmore suited her, he noted. The elegance of the drawing room accentuated the expensive cut of her sprigged muslin dress and the intricate braiding of her coiffure.

How had it been scarcely a day since he had seen her? He took two steps forward, eager to swing her into his arms, only to be stopped by Grayburn’s warning hand.

“Tavish?” Her gaze darted between Tavish and Fletch, questioning. “Colonel Archer?” She curtsied in greeting.

She did not appear to be in any distress.

Nor did she push past her brother’s warning hand and cross to Tavish.

His heart trembled in his chest. What had occurred? What had Grayburn done?

“Did you not get my message, Tavish?” she asked.

“Message?” was all he could push past lips gone numb.

“Yes. The one I promised to send. I sent two, actually.”

“Two?”

“Yes. One last night and then another this morning.”

“I received nothing.”

She frowned. “I sent them. I gave them to McPherson . . .” Her smile melted away.

Isla pivoted to Grayburn .

For his part, the duke stared over her shoulder, not meeting her gaze.

“Gray.” Isla’s mouth drew into a thin line.

Tavish knew that tone. It was the one that presaged a thorough tongue-lashing.

The duke’s left eye twitched. “Isla.”

“What happened to my letters?”

“I certainly do not know—”

“You ordered McPherson to intercept my messages to Tavish.” Not a question.

“I refuse to dignify that accusation with a re—”

“How idiotic could you be?!” Isla threw up her hands. “Did you think you could just not deliver my letters to my husband —and he is my husband, no matter your meddling in our marriage—in an attempt to drive a wedge between Tavish and myself?”

“Isla, again, you are becoming hysterical—”

“I am not the delusional one here, Gray! After everything I said to you last night, you truly thought Tavish and I would abandon our love over a misunderstanding?” Isla rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Gray. Your hatred blinds you to reality.”

Tavish’s heart soared at his bonnie wife’s spirited defense of their love.

Grayburn, however, appeared a thundercloud, dark and ominous and ready to burst.