Page 7 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

Even Isla had heard of the Rifles. Their bravery and brilliance in battle were a common topic. No soldier could enlist directly into the Rifles. A man had to prove his mettle and marksmanship and only then would he be asked to join their distinguished ranks.

And Tavish had become one of them. Had he even known how to shoot a rifle when they married?

It was only a matter of minutes before she discovered his name in the Gazette .

Lieutenant Tavish Balfour had fought in the Peninsular War and had been lightly wounded in the Battle of Badajoz. In 1813, he had advanced from Lieutenant to Captain. There was no mention of him at the Battle of Waterloo.

Sparse facts.

But more than she had known before this moment.

His face from earlier today rose before her, the white scar stretching beneath his right eye.

Was that the “light” wound he had received in Badajoz?

She could scarcely stop herself from imagining it.

Tavish in a military uniform, covered in blood and gore, jaw set, rifle lifted to fire and defend himself.

Or, perhaps, to be used as a club to bludgeon an enemy assailant.

She had seen such a thing once. Not a true battle, of course.

But a pair of farm hands at Malton Hill, bared to the waist and attempting to bloody each other with their fists.

It had been brutal and violent, and then to imagine Tavish in a similar situation, face twisted in rage, bayonet raised to —

Snick.

The library door opened.

“There you are.” Matt nodded in greeting.

Unlike Gray, who saturated a room with the importance of his august person, Matt had a gentler energy.

Though nearly of a height with Gray, her brothers were only vaguely similar in looks.

Where Gray was sandy-haired and hazel-eyed, Matt’s hair was darker with matching soft brown eyes.

Where Gray held his head like a general about to bark orders at troops, Matt had the mien of a monk—quiet and contemplative and set on retiring from the world.

He rarely left the grounds of Dunmore, no matter Isla or Gray’s pleading.

Only once, when Isla had needed rescuing after Tavish’s abandonment, had Matt asserted his will, bundled her into a carriage, and set forth.

It had taken Isla a long while to understand that Matt needed to control how he interacted with the world. Or, rather, how the world saw him.

The source of his discomfort was obvious—the bottom half of his right arm was missing from the elbow down. The same birth deformity that had resulted in Gray being born with his right leg slightly shorter than his left had denied Matt a right forearm and hand entirely.

Today, like every day, saw him with his right coat sleeve pinned up. Both Isla and Gray had pestered Matt to simply have his tailor cuff his right sleeve at the elbow, but their brother wouldn’t hear of it.

“My appearance is already odd enough. Allow me the normality of seeing what my arm could have been,” Matt had said on more than one occasion.

Unfortunately, Isla rather thought that summed up how Matt saw his life in general— what could have been .

“Matt,” she nodded.

“Taking in some light reading, I see.” He glanced meaningfully at the Gazette . His sharp gaze missed nothing. “Gray told me about Captain Balfour. Ranted, rather. I assume you are merely verifying the evidence.”

“Yes. Rather.”

They never spoke of this, she and her brothers.

Matt and Gray had never asked for specific details about her tempestuous relationship with Tavish Balfour, and she had certainly never volunteered anything.

The whole was all very English and stuffy, but Isla was glad of their silence.

Her brothers only knew that there had been some brief attachment between herself and Tavish—an attachment that Gray had successfully disrupted.

Matt likely understood the depth of that attachment, but she doubted his mind had ever leapt to matrimony.

“What have you discovered?”

“Captain Balfour was in the Rifles, it turns out. Not with the Gordon Highlanders, as I had supposed.”

“Ah.” Matt peered over her shoulder, reading the text. “Balfour made captain in 1813 after the Battle of Vitoria. A dreadful number of men died at that time.”

Though her brother said nothing more, she could feel the weight of his questions: Are you still entangled with Balfour? Will you kindle Gray’s wrath once more?

Isla swallowed as her answers to his hypothetical questions would be Yes and Most likely .

She needed to speak with Tavish first and understand why he had returned.

Matters to be settled , he had said. God-willing, that referred to her and the knot of their handfasting.

She prayed he intended to pick apart the tartan ribbon that had once bound their hands together.

Isla knew little of what was involved—only that divorce was possible, as Scottish marriage law was decidedly more forgiving than English—but she assumed it would require the help of a man to sort. Matters always did.

If Tavish agreed to dissolve their marriage, they would eventually need to involve Gray to help keep their divorce as secret as their marriage had been. Only the might of a duke could ensure the divorce happened behind closed doors and hidden from scandal-hungry journalists.

More to the point, Gray was one of the most powerful men in Britain.

Ergo . . . no Scottish judge would rule on her marriage without consulting her brother first. The second her name crossed a magistrate’s desk, Gray would be informed of the truth: His sister had married a Balfour.

And if her brother hadn’t been told before that point . . .

Isla shuddered.

The only thing more terrifying than an angry Gray was a humiliated and angry Gray.

He must be told. It was simply a question of when .

But Matt . . .

At the moment, her confession hung on the tip of her tongue . . . to tell Matt of her handfasting and beg for his help in untangling it. No matter how inconsequential she considered the weight of her marriage, even the tiniest stone, when caught in a slipper, could leave the flesh abraded and raw.

And right now, her psyche stung. Anxiety stuffed her lungs and rendered her breathing tight.

Matt had always been the peacemaker. If she asked him, Isla knew he would keep her confidences as much as he deemed possible.

That was, until her confidences required him to set foot off Grayburn lands and possibly interact with a solicitor or some official in person.

Yes, Matt had rescued her once, but over the years since, her brother had become even more set in his ways, more of a recluse.

If she told him, he would likely wince and then urge her to confess all to Gray.

Thinking of which—

“McPherson?” Gray’s voice echoed in the entryway, calling for the butler.

“I recommend hiding the evidence of your curiosity, Sister.” Matthias glanced toward the open door. “You know how he gets over these matters.”

Swallowing, Isla gathered the papers together and dropped them back in the obliging drawer, shutting it with a soft clack.

Would that disposing of her past indiscretions were so simple.