Tavish, on the other hand, scarcely stopped moving.
Once he settled his effects, Isla watched as he shed his coat, leaving him in his kilt, waistcoat, and shirtsleeves. From there, he sharpened an axe and chopped wood beside the oaken front door before carrying it upstairs, kilt swinging, to stack it neatly against the wall to the right of the fireplace.
With each movement, Isla felt she was witnessing him settle back into his Scottish skin after so many years away. A relaxing, perhaps, of the militant Captain Balfour.
He laid a fire, and once it crackled in the hearth, he pulled a stool close to the flames, toasting bread for their luncheon. A crock ofcrowdiecheese, a jar of marmalade, a loaf of bread, and a plate covered with a pretty embroidered cloth sat on a side table at his elbow.
Isla studied him from her perch on the sofa, that unfortunate pull of attraction still humming.
She noted the flex of his biceps against the thin linen of his shirtsleeves. The ease with which he balanced on the balls of his feet, calves flexing in his woolen stockings, gently coaxing the fire to life. The confident way he cut the bread into uniform slices and slipped them onto a skewer for toasting.
Colonel Archer’s words to Tavish on that fateful night would not let her be—I’ve never seen you touch a woman. You are as celibate as a monk!
Was that true? Had Tavish spent the past seven years as chaste as a priest, loyal to her and their marriage vows?
The notion held a lovelorn sort of ache. As she was growing and changing at Malton Hill and planning a future without him, he had been doggedly faithful to her. Year after year, as he slogged through winter mud in Portugal and baked beneath summer sun in Spain, Isla had been there, in his thoughts and desires.
If she pondered it too long—Tavish languishing in some far-off clime, heart stalwart and true—a stone lodged in her stomach.
And then to see him now—still beside her, still loyal—his broad shoulders flexing as he lifted a slice of bread from the fire . . .
Finally, she could bear the wondering no longer.
“Is it true what Colonel Archer said?” she asked, leaning forward on the sofa.
“Pardon?”
He handed her a plate of perfectly toasted bread slathered in a thick layer of softcrowdiecheese, topped with a drizzle of marmalade and a sprinkle of salt. It smelled heavenly.
“Is it true that you never touched a woman in all your years in the army?” she asked.
Tavish shifted on his stool before the fire, toasting iron extended over the flames. He spared her a glance over his shoulder.
“Of course. Ye think I would betray ye like that?” His tone held a hint of incredulity.
“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.” She touched the crust of her bread on her plate.
He was silent for a moment.
“Because ye kissed Fletch?” He asked the question without inflection, not a trace of accusation.
Which somehow made it worse. Because his anger, she could counter. She could use it to stoke her own ire. But to feel his understanding and perhaps a hint of melancholy . . .
That merely added more weight to her regret.
“Yes.”Just the once, she wanted to add. It meant nothing.
She didn’t. Because, though it was the truth, saying the words felt too much like a child brushing off bad behavior. And at the time, the kiss hadn’t meant nothing. She had hoped it would be a beginning to something. A promise of sorts.
Though now, in hindsight, she had to wonder.
Colonel Archer’s kiss had been pleasant, but certainly not the all-consuming incineration she experienced with Tavish.
Which type of kiss was the result of genuine, long-lasting love? She couldn’t say.
“And others?” He rotated his own toast over the flames, as if her answer mattered not at all. But the white grip of his knuckles on the skewer betrayed him. “You kissed others?”
“And others,” she whispered.
