Page 60 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

Two Years Later

Malton Hill, Gloucestershire

England

B aa! Baa!”

Tavish grinned as his son waved a chubby fist at the sheep grazing in the field. The sheep paid him no mind, content to munch on the green grass.

“That’s right,” Tavish said. “A sheep says baa .”

Wee Fletch was just past his first birthday and could say a few words, but wasn’t quite walking yet.

The toddler looked up at his father, a frown marring his face. Blue-eyed and blonde, the lad was the image of his mother. They had named him Fletcher Balfour in honor of the man who had, unwittingly, brought Isla and Tavish back together. Fletch had even stood as the lad’s godfather .

“Moo?” Wee Fletch asked, his lips pursing into a perfect O with the sound. He pointed in the direction of the dairy barn.

“I’m sorry, my boy. We have to wait until Mamma is done with Mr. Cranston. Then we can go see the coos.”

Wee Fletch sent a longing look toward the barn.

As today was Monday, Isla remained closeted with her steward, reviewing accounts and discussing tenant issues.

Isla enjoyed running her estate, and Tavish adamantly supported her endeavors, despite the occasional busybody who voiced an opinion about Lady Isla Balfour’s indecorous ways. Tavish stared down any detractors.

Just over two years ago, Tavish and Isla had wed in the parish kirk in Pettercairn. A proper marriage this time around, calling the banns for three weeks beforehand.

The first week of the banns, Dr. Sumsion had mounted the pulpit and intoned, “I publish the banns of marriage between Lady Isla Kinsey of Dunmore and Mr. Tavish Balfour of Castle Balfour . . .” The entire congregation had gasped, loudly, before dissolving into hissed talking.

Dr. Sumsion had needed to pound the pulpit to regain everyone’s attention.

For the next two weeks, Tavish and Isla’s looming wedding had been a delicious topic of conversation, much to the delight of the nosy nebbies of the county. A Balfour and a Kinsey uniting in marriage. The astonishment! The scandal!

Neither the Duke of Grayburn nor Lord Northcairn attended the actual wedding, marking the first and last time His Grace and his lordship agreed upon anything.

The only crack in Grayburn’s indifference came the day before Isla’s wedding.

A footman from Dunmore had appeared on the doorstep of Castle Balfour, a box in his hand.

Tavish had watched as Isla opened it with trembling fingers.

Inside, she found a stunning sapphire-and-gold parure—necklace, ear bobs, and a hair comb.

Isla had lifted Grayburn’s short note, shaking her head.

I can no longer stomach the sight of these—a gift from my father to your mother—and so I pass them to you. May your marriage be more fortuitous than that of my parents.

— G

Tavish had lifted an eyebrow at Grayburn’s snippy tone.

Isla had beamed with tears in her eyes.

“I don’t care why he sent me this,” she said to Tavish. “I love that I have something more of my mother to pass to our children. Our own history to write.”

The morning of their wedding dawned clear and bright.

Every able-bodied person within a ten-mile radius packed the kirk to witness the miraculous marriage. Tavish’s brothers and sisters had been particularly enthusiastic, much to Lord Northcairn’s disgust.

Lord Matthias escorted his sister down the aisle to a waiting Tavish—Ross and Fletch at his side as best men.

Isla had never looked more lovely, Tavish thought.

Her wedding gown—cream satin with an overlay of gold-shot netting—draped her elegant figure, and the white lilies of her bouquet perfumed the church.

But it was the profound love in her blue gaze that had Tavish choking back tears.

They both openly wept as they recited their vows.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the congregation.

Stepping from the church in a shower of rice, they had raced to the waiting carriage. Tavish would forever remember gathering his wife close and kissing her to cheers and the peals of church bells.

Tavish and Isla had immediately set out for Malton Hill.

Matthias had made good on his promise to secure Isla’s inheritance.

Per their mother’s will, Grayburn had ceded Malton Hill as well as a tidy sum left to Isla.

Tavish had happily signed their marriage contracts, guaranteeing the property for Isla’s own use.

As the son of an earl, Tavish knew the basics of land management and could have stepped into the role of lord of the manor, but he wanted Isla to have the primary governance of her people.

As ever, he wished his wife to have the life she chose for herself.

A grunt sounded from behind. Wee Fletch twisted in Tavish’s arms, looking over his shoulder.

Turning around, they both watched as Matthias finished loading a Baker rifle, carefully pouring priming powder into the touch hole. It was tricky going with just one functional arm, but Matthias was determined to master the task .

Though quiet and retiring, Matthias had a will of steel, Tavish had come to realize. The man refused to let his disability dissuade him from his goals—in this instance, learning how to load and fire a rifle.

“Good work!” Tavish called, shifting Wee Fletch in his arms.

Three weeks past, Matthias had arrived for a lengthy visit. Isla had been ecstatic to see him, flying into her brother’s embrace.

Matthias had proved a dear friend to both of them. He visited regularly and doted on Wee Fletch. Just last night, Matthias had spent over an hour attempting to teach Wee Fletch to say Uncle Matt with some success.

Today, however, Tavish was continuing to teach Matthias how to aim and shoot a rifle. He could have left Wee Fletch in the care of his nanny in the nursery, but Tavish adored watching his son explore the world.

“Dat?” Wee Fletch pointed toward Matthias.

“Yes, that’s your Uncle Matt. Watch. He’s going to fire the rifle.”

“Boom!” The toddler’s eyes went wide.

“Yes, boom.” Tavish looked to Matthias. “Ready?”

Matthias nodded, looking down the field toward the paper target attached to a board. “I’m going to perfect my form.”

“Ye absolutely will. Practice does make perfect when it comes to target shooting.”

Matthias sat on the ground, adopting the supine firing position the Rifles used—back reclined, rifle butt against his shoulder, and the barrel propped on one foot. The pose enabled him to steady the gun without having to use two hands.

“Remember,” Tavish encouraged. “Breathe in to focus and steady your aim, breathe out to fire.”

In some ways, it astounded Tavish that Matthias was three years his senior. The man had spent so much of his life cloistered away that he had rarely participated in common activities that most men enjoyed. Watching him step into the world felt momentous.

“Hands up, lad.” Tavish grinned at Wee Fletch. “Uncle Matt is going to make a boom.”

Eyes still wide, the toddler instantly placed both his palms over his ears. It was patently adorable. Tavish took several steps back, moving Wee Fletch well away from any danger .

Matthias lined up the shot, took aim, and fired.

Crack!

A hole appeared inside the black circle at the center of the target.

Tavish and Wee Fletch whooped with joy.

Matthias jumped to his feet, a grin on his face. His dark hair tumbled across his forehead, his brown eyes sparking with delight.

“Matt!”

The men turned at the sound of Isla’s voice.

Tavish’s bonnie wife waved a hand as she crossed the lawn to them.

“What a shot!” She rushed to give her brother a hug, his larger frame dwarfing hers.

“Thank you.” Matthias blushed and bent to reload the rifle.

“And how are my boys?” Isla asked, turning to Tavish and Wee Fletch.

Predictably, Fletch leaned forward, arms outstretched. “Mamma!”

Isla gathered him close, peppering his face with kisses.

Tavish lifted an eyebrow.

Isla didn’t mistake his expression.

“And, of course, a kiss for you, too,” she said on a laugh, reaching up a hand and pulling Tavish’s mouth down to hers.

Wee Fletch pushed a palm against Tavish’s cheek.

“Moo?!” he asked, waving his fist toward the barns.

“You want to see the cows, darling?” Isla asked.

“Moo!” Wee Fletch pointed again.

“Coos are of importance today.” Tavish wrapped an arm around his bonnie wife, kissing her temple.

He loved nothing more than holding his two precious people in his arms.

“Well,” Isla raised her eyes to his, “I suppose we should go seek them out. If I haven’t told you yet today, Tavish Balfour, I love you.” She darted a glance back at Matthias, still loading the rifle. “Thank you for not only taking care of me, but also the people I love.”

“I love ye, too, lass.”

“Remind me to show how much I love you later.”

“Indeed?” Tavish laughed. “I look forward to a demonstration.”

He bent down, kissing her more deeply until, once again, Wee Fletch interrupted them with a palm pushing on Tavish’s cheek .

“Papa! Moo!” he said in his sternest voice, pointing emphatically toward the barns with an expression that brooked no argument.

Hours later, Isla cuddled against Tavish in their marital bed, her head resting on his shoulder.

Wee Fletch was ensconced with his nanny in the nursery, and Matt had retired an hour ago.

Tavish pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

This was the time of day that Isla loved most—the hours alone with Tavish when they spoke of everything and nothing.

“How fares the regiment?” she asked.

“ Och , the same as usual. Old Colonel Patterson still prefers the sound of his own voice to any other, but John Burgess hit the target this week, so I consider that progress.”

“You will make soldiers out of them yet.”

Isla didn’t think she would ever tire of watching Tavish integrate with life at Malton Hill.

He had fallen into the community as if he had always belonged.

He commanded and trained the local militia.

Which meant that Isla regularly admired the masculine cut of his body in regimentals and heard the sharp bark of his voice calling drills.

It was enough to turn a lady’s knees to jelly.

Most significantly, Tavish had taken to listening to local constituents at the Hare and Fox in town. He was plotting strategy in order to run for a seat in Parliament next year.

Isla could think of no one better to help govern the country.

“How are matters with Mr. Cranston?” Tavish asked, referring to her meeting earlier.

“Excellent. The harvest looks to be robust this year, though there are some concerns about the south field.”

They spoke about wheat yields, the growth of the dairy farm, and their hopes for the lambing season come spring .

“And the festival?” he asked.

Isla sighed. “The Autumn Festival Committee is finalizing plans, despite Mrs. Sumsion and Mrs. White’s disagreements concerning the bazaar.”

“Ah.”

Isla nudged him with her elbow. “I might need you to ply the ladies with your charms. See if you can’t bring them around to a compromise.”

“My charms?”

Isla lifted her head and grinned at him. “You know you can be devilishly charming when you wish, Tavish Balfour.”

“Is that so?” He kissed her. “I feel like ye should be enumerating these charms for me.”

“What if I give you a gift instead?” She placed his palm to her stomach, pressing it there.

He stilled, his gaze going wide. Sitting upright, he stared at her and then looked down to where his hand rested. Up and down.

“Are ye sure, lass?”

Isla nodded, tears pricking her eyes. “I believe so. Another babe come early summer.”

“So soon?”

She gave a watery laugh. “All things considered, it’s a miracle it took this long.”

“ Och , my love!” He kissed her, slow and deep, before pressing his forehead to hers. “Are ye happy then?”

“Tavish Balfour, I will always be ecstatic to welcome your child. I have hopes that this one will have your red hair and pillow lips.” She kissed said lips to prove her point. “Are you happy?”

“Isla, love, I thank God every day that I get to spend my life at your side. So aside from a wee bit of terror as for your own health and safety, I am happy. Now about those charms of mine.” He kissed away her tears. “Allow me to give ye a demonstration.”

Isla laughed in earnest, turning her face to his and silently echoing his sentiments—

After so much heartache, she gave thanks every day for the gift of Tavish Balfour in her arms.