That bit of bare chest rendered her light-headed. As did the shadowy muscles moving underneath when he took three steps forward, halving the space between them.
She had seen his bare chest before. Of course, she had. When they swam in the eddying pool or lounged about on the grassy bank, drying afterward. But that had been the chest of a boy. This . . .
Her eyes drank him in. How had she thought herself prepared to face him? The whole week had been a slow seduction. Not on his part, but her own.
She had seduced herself.
And now, her only thought was for that too-faint kiss. The smoldering fuse yearning for the tiniest spark to erupt into flames.
Isla took two steps toward him before stopping herself.
The sound of her own breaths echoed in the room—too fast, too urgent.
“Isla.”
She closed her eyes at the sound of her name. Gravelly and winded.
As if he, too, were seconds away from coming undone.
“Ye shouldn’t be here, lass. Nothing good will come of this. This is our goodbye.”
“I know.”
“Fletch intends to propose to ye tomorrow. Ye should go back to bed.”
“I know.”
And yet, her feet remained rooted in place.
“We won’t see each other again.” She could hear the pleading in her voice. “Not alone. Not like this.”
“Nae. We both ken it ends here. It ends now.”
She nodded.
“Ye don’t want me, ye said,” he continued. “Not me nor the life I offer.”
Malton Hill rose in her mind, mist lifting over the fields into the gold of sunrise, sheep lowing in the distance. The scritch of her quill as she met with tenants to collect rents and discuss their concerns. Mrs. Tippets with her arms around her fatherless children, eyes brimming with thanks.
“I don’t.” The words sounded like heartbreak to her ears.
“Well.” He looked away from her. “There ye are, then.”
She stared at his profile, willing him to close the distance between them. To do something to ease the weight of their memories, their longing, the pang that—
“Goodbye, Isla. I wish ye every happiness.”
He spared her one final glance before dipping his head and turning for the door.
“Tavish . . .” She gasped his name, just as he had hers in the grotto.
He pivoted back to her.
Suddenly, she knew what came after those ellipses.
Tavish . . . I can’t seem to stop wanting you.
Tavish . . . what are we to do?
