He was crazed, dizzy on need and want and the love pounding in his veins.
Later, he couldn’t say what broke through the lust-filled haze of his thoughts.
Some deeply ingrained instinct that had seen him survive the horrors of war, year after year. The same instinct that told him when and how to direct a bullet to his chosen target.
An infinitesimal sound. A shift in the air. Something.
A silent warning shouted at Tavish to duck.
Just as the Duke of Grayburn’s fist sailed through the space that his head had occupied.
24
Tavish staggered sideways, whirling to a crouch. Every sense alert, cataloging the danger.
His heart was a kettle drum against his ribs.
Grayburn filled his vision—a silk banyan thrown over shirtsleeves and trousers—mouth twisted in rage.
“Damned mongrel curr!” the duke snarled, lunging for Tavish. The abrupt motion sent both the man’s mule slippers flying, pitching Grayburn forward.
Isla screamed.
Tavish dodged again, pivoting as Grayburn stumbled and fought to regain his balance, roaring obscenities.
“Gray! Stop!” Isla sobbed, drawing her own dressing gown around her body.
Tavish darted to place himself between his wife and her brother. As ever, instinctively protecting her.
Grayburn bellowed, taking three uneven steps before having hiselbows seized by Ross and Fletch, who Tavish finally noticed were in the room as well.
“You miserable. Scheming! BASTARD!” Grayburn raged, pulling against the hands that held him. “I will see you hanged for this! I will destroy you! How DARE YOU TOUCH HER!”
Isla was weeping at Tavish’s back, deep hiccupping sobs.
Chest heaving, Tavish’s military training snicked into place. He assessed the room with clinical precision.
Someone had placed a large candelabra on a chest beside the open door.
Grayburn continued to pull against the other men’s hold, the maroon of his banyan matching the red of his face. He was barefoot, his slippers discarded. Tonight marked the only time Tavish had ever seen the duke without shoes, making the lacking two-inches of his right leg glaringly apparent in the slope of his shoulders.
Holding Grayburn’s right arm, Ross looked at Tavish with understanding and pity.
But it was Fletch, grasping Grayburn’s left arm, who held Tavish’s attention.
His friend appeared shattered—the very image of heartbreak. Good, kind Fletch who had saved Tavish from enemy fire at the Battle of Badajoz. The man who had rallied Tavish’s spirits and championed him at every step and never once wavered in his loyalty.
Grayburn shrugged free, straightening his banyan with brisk movements, his face shuttering in the candlelight. The duke’s icy facade had been restored. Limping, he rammed his feet back into his slippers, the thick sole of the right mule instantly correcting his gait.
He turned back to Tavish with a sneer. “I would challenge you to a duel, Balfour, but your carcass isn’t worthy of the honor of me filling it with lead.”
Tavish only half-heard Grayburn’s threats. The man’s rancor was an ancient thing, well-worn and expected.
But Fletch’s devastation . . . his look of bewilderment and confusion. Like the entire world had turned upside down, and he couldn’t make sense of reality.
“I don’t understand.” Fletch shook his head. “Ross and I caught Grayburn coming out of Lady Isla’s room. She had vanished, and His Grace was convinced that she was with you, Balfour. Which . . . I assumed to be laughable. Ross and I followed His Grace to your room, certain we would find you there, fast asleep. Because . . . I know you. You would never—”
“He’s a dishonorable bastard, Archer,” Grayburn spat. “I’ve been telling you this in no uncertain terms all week. This isn’t the first time Balfour has been sniffing about my sister.”
