Page 9 of A Tartan Love (The Earls of Cairnfell #1)

The fire burned low in the hearth, casting eerie shadows up the bookcases.

Originally the dining hall of the medieval tower house, the library featured a high-barrel vaulted ceiling and the family coat of arms carved into stone above the mantelpiece—three holly leaves flanked by two knights under the family motto, sub sole sub umbra virens, which translated as “flourishing both in sunshine and shade.”

“So what brings ye home now of all times?” Callum asked once they were each holding a glass of the fine Bracklamore whisky Tavish had brought with him. “This whisky is excellent, by the way.”

Tavish saluted him with his own glass.

As usual, Callum vibrated with energy—one knee bouncing, body shifting in his chair—some part of him always in motion.

To be truthful, it surprised Tavish that Callum was here at all.

His brother always appeared more at ease outside of family obligations, chasing some dangerous pursuit or another.

Daring curricle races in London. Sailing a boat across Montrose Basin in a tempest. Climbing the sheer face of Cairnfell without a rope .

The more perilous an activity, the more certain it was that Callum would seek it out. Boredom was the true enemy of his existence.

“I’m right glad ye like the whisky.” Tavish stretched his feet toward the fire before returning to his brother’s question with, “I have a spot of business in Aberdeen.” A secret marriage to address, rather, but his family knew nothing of his history with Lady Isla.

“And I am planning on meeting up with a pair of army friends for a week of hunting near Corgarff and finalizing plans for America.”

“Ye still set on heading to Pennsylvania then?” his father asked.

“Aye. I enjoyed my time in the States. And there is significantly more opportunity there.”

After banishing Bonaparte to Elba in 1814, a portion of the 95th rifles had been sent to assist efforts in defending British interests in Florida and Louisiana.

Though the British had eventually admitted defeat and returned home, Tavish had found the States themselves to be an alluring mix of economic possibility and lofty idealism.

“What is your plan then in Pennsylvania? Live on the frontier in a log cabin and farm the land?” Callum pushed to his feet and began pacing. “That sounds like a rather dreary life for an earl’s son.”

Of course Callum would think so.

Anger, well-worn and familiar, spiked Tavish’s pulse. Bitter words stacked on his tongue:

Aye, opera dancers and gaming hells are rather thin on the ground in rural Pennsylvania, so of course ye would think the place a dead bore.

From long habit, Tavish breathed through the sudden rush of fury and bitterness.

Callum’s compulsion to seek thrilling pastimes didn’t harm only himself. The rest of the family had suffered because of it over the years, Tavish in particular.

He had forgiven Callum—he had —but as Tavish still dealt with the consequences of his brother’s folly, resentment festered.

One of a myriad of reasons why Tavish had delayed returning home.

“I assure ye, Pennsylvania is a mite more sophisticated than that. Have ye not heard of Pittsburgh?” Tavish pasted on a stiff smile.

“My friend, Captain George Ross, is the son of a prominent whisky distiller. Bracklamore whisky in Moray, to be precise.” Tavish raised his glass.

“He knows everything there is to know about growing rye and turning it into the best whisky inside or outside of Scotland.”

Callum fixed him with a pained look. “Ye intend to become a whisky distiller? Is that what we Balfours have been reduced to?”

Tavish merely lifted an eyebrow at Callum’s tone. No thanks to yourself, that eyebrow said.

Callum at least had the decency to look away.

“Aye. I have some capital from the sale of my commission and an understanding of the lay of the land in the States. Ross has the knowledge to create the whisky. And we have another friend, Fletch, who has promised to invest the rest of the monies needed. We’ll hammer out all the finer details when we meet at the end of next week.

Our thoughts are to give the whisky producers in Kentucky a run for their money.

True Scottish whisky made like it is in the old country.

None of this apocryphal Irish nonsense they get up to in Kentucky. ”

Lord Northcairn sipped his glass appreciatively. “It’s excellent whisky, Son. Ye shall have to send me a case of your first bottles.”

Their conversation drifted off after that, wandering first to corn futures and wool prices before becoming lost entirely in Lord Northcairn’s musings on a horse he had an eye to purchase.

With what money? Tavish longed to ask.

Neither Callum nor their father asked Tavish any further questions.

But then, that had always been the way of things with them.

Northcairn had his heir in Callum, and Tavish was merely an afterthought.

If he told them he had spoken with his secret wife at Cairnfell this afternoon, they would likely respond with polite noises.

Maybe ask Tavish how he was going to support her. Nothing more.

Well, until Tavish informed them that his wife was Lady Isla Kinsey. Then, the vitriol and recriminations would fly. The talk of Kinseys enraged Balfours, just as much as Balfours infuriated Kinseys.

What a bollocking mess this had all become.

In the end, it was Mariah who knocked on his bedchamber door just after he retired for the night. She came bearing a tray of hot chocolate and shortbread.

“I thought ye might like a wee go at supper before bed,” she said with a wan smile .

“Ye know me too well.” Tavish motioned her into his room.

Sitting before the fire, Mariah poured them each a cup of chocolate, sipping with a quiet groan of appreciation.

Initially, they spoke of inanities.

Yes, the twins were a handful.

Yes, Kenneth was enjoying his studies.

No, they had no plans to visit London or even Edinburgh. Though Alice might come for a visit from Aberdeen over Michaelmas.

Tavish had never told Mariah about his marriage. Not because he worried about her reaction—she would love and accept any lady he married, Mariah’s heart was so huge.

No, he simply refused to add one more burden to the already heavy load of worry his sister carried.

“How bad is it?” Tavish finally asked.

Mariah didn’t pretend not to understand. She set her cup down with a sigh and tried to give him a bright smile, but it emerged as a pained grimace. It was an expression he remembered their mother wearing, as well. An attempt to put a brave face on difficult circumstances.

“That bad?” Tavish continued.

Tilting her head back, his sister studied the ceiling, as if willing her tears to drain back into her eyes.

“I never cry over it,” she whispered. “It’s merely been so long since . . . since . . .” She trailed off.

Since I had help or a sympathetic ear, Tavish easily supplied.

Guilt nipped at his heels.

“Ye needn’t feel guilty, Tavish,” Mariah continued, accurately reading him.

“There is nothing ye could have done here except be a drain on our limited financial reserves, and that is the truth of it. In some ways, it was fortunate that your regiment never returned to Britain during the War. No one could have reined in Callum’s excesses or changed the events that happened before your departure or since. ”

Tavish snorted. “I could have put a bullet through Grayburn’s black heart.”

“And swung from a hangman’s noose for it? I think not. At least Callum is home now, attempting to make amends.”

“Are you positive there is nothing I can do to assist ye? ”

“Quite.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, coals settling on the fire.

“And yourself?” Tavish asked. “What of your prospects?”

Mariah gave a bitter laugh. “Nothing has changed there. I am as ruined as ever. I am so beyond the pale that even eligible gentlemen farmers cross the street when they see me coming . . . fearful that the taint of my reputation might touch them from twenty paces off.”

Tavish ground his teeth. Of all the unfair things he had experienced over the years—and heaven knew he had seen aplenty—the fact of his older sister’s ruination stung the worst. Though Grayburn hadn’t actually done the ruining himself, the duke had been the puppet master pulling strings to ensure it happened.

“And Da’?” Tavish had to ask.

Mariah shrugged. “The same. His health declines year over year because he does nothing to curb the worst of his drink and appetite. Moreover, there is a widow he visits with some regularity outside Stonehaven. Everyone speaks of it, as our father is incapable of discretion. Alice, thank goodness, is married. Ken will do well as a solicitor, perhaps venturing into politics eventually. Edmund is resourceful and will make his way in the world. But my heart breaks for Elsie. I cannot imagine there will be much of a future for her. She is barely ten years old and already saddled with a lack of a dowry, looming poverty, and a scandal of an older sister. Who will marry her?”

“Callum will ensure she is taken care of.”

“Will he, though?” She sipped her hot chocolate.

“I’ll thrash him if he doesn’t.”

“So confident of your abilities? Ye rarely bested him in the past.”

Tavish stared into the fire. “Seven years of war change a man. I assure you, Callum wouldn’t stand a chance.”

He said the words quietly, but given how Mariah flinched, she caught the steel behind them.

“But ye dodged my question,” Tavish continued. “What of your own future?”

“Mine? Hah!” Mariah set down her cup and stared into the low flames, expression bleak. “I merely hope that Callum has a nursery full of children who need a loving aunt to tend to them. That is the best my life can bring.”

“Perhaps my new adventure will be fairy-kissed, and I will earn enough selling whisky that I can provide ye with a future of comfort.”

His sister shot him a side-eye, rife with her own disbelief.

“The same good fortune that, seven years ago, saw a distant ‘uncle’ purchase you a regimental commission at no small cost? An uncle with whom we have never spoken, before or since?”

Tavish acknowledged the hit with a lift of his chin. Yet one more secret he kept from his family.

“‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” he quoted, setting down his teacup with a faint clink. “Sometimes miracles happen when they are most needed.”

“I stopped believing in miracles years ago,” Mariah snorted. “Someday ye will tell me the truth of how your regimental commission came to be.”

“Someday,” he agreed. He owed his sister as much. “But not tonight.”