She and Tavish had leapt from that cliff’s edge once and had both paid a heavy price.
Remember Malton Hillbecame her almost hourly chant.
It was the only thing that saved her sanity—pondering her community and work there. The one that marriage to Colonel Archer could give her.
The colonel had hinted on two separate occasions that he wished to speak with her. Alone.
Isla had pretended to misunderstand his meaning both times.
If he proposed, and if Isla said yes, Lady Milmouth would insist upon an impromptu celebration. Isla couldn’t bear forcing her current husband to celebrate her impending nuptials to another man.
The final evening drew to a close, and they all said brief goodbyes in the drawing room, promising to see one another in the morning before departure.
Tavish had slipped from the room unnoticed an hour before.
There would be no goodbye between them.
A dreadful weight lodged in Isla’s stomach as she made her way upstairs.
Gray rapped on her chamber door just before she climbed into bed.
“Archer has requested a private audience with you before we depart tomorrow,” her brother said without preamble.
Though entirely expected, the announcement landed with the clang of a prison door.
Isla could scarcely say why.
Colonel Archer represented the future she wanted—Malton Hill and her stewardship of its lands and people. She had known this was coming. And the timing was excellent, as she sensed Tavish would be gone before sunrise.
Gone.
Just conjuring the word caused her grief to ripple.
“Of course,” she said through lips gone numb.
She would have to tell the colonel of her marriage before accepting him. Honor demanded no less. The hour of reckoning bore down on her like a runaway carriage.
“Excellent. I will inform Archer that he may have an audience after breakfast. I had planned to leave before luncheon, but perhaps we should consider extending our stay for a day or two. Permit you and Archer to celebrate and plan your life together.”
“Of course,” she repeated on a nod.
“Good night, Sister. Sleep well.”
Gray closed the door behind him. The warning in his tone hung in the air.Sleep soundly and stay putwas his unspoken demand.
Isla crawled into bed and snuffed her candle. The bed canopy loomed overhead.
She thought of Malton Hill and the woman she was there—strong, independent, flourishing. She could easily imagine her steward, Mr. Cranston, pushing his spectacles up his nose as they discussed wool yields and plans for refurbishing tenant cottages along the river. Or hear the rattle of her châtelaine as she counted silver with the housekeeper and went over the household accounts.
How she wanted that life!
Seven years ago, Tavish had nothing to recommend him. That hadn’t changed. He was still penniless without any clear prospects. A future with him remained shrouded in want and uncertainty. Assuming Tavish even wished for a life with her, of course.
And yet . . . the thought of leaving him without even saying a proper goodbye, without a private discussion that offered her a modicum of closure . . .
No note magically appeared under her door.
She did not pen one of her own.
