He glanced at her again, as if he had heard her regret that time.
She took a bite of her toast. The contrasting warm crunch of thebread, the creamy tang of thecrowdie, and the sweet yet bitter punch of the marmaladeshould have quickened her senses.
Instead, the whole stuck in her throat.
He pulled his toast off the skewer with practiced ease, setting the hot bread on a plate balanced on his thigh. Pushing aside the cloth-covered plate, he reached for the crock ofcrowdie.
She watched as he prepared his own slice as he had hers—crowdie, marmalade, and a pinch of salt. And then, as was his wont, he took an obscene bite.
That peek of her Tavish felt like a gleam of sun in January—the faintest echo of summer . . . of a season, now lost, when life had burst with bright happiness.
To think, she was the last woman he had touched.
Well, of course, she was. It had only been four days since they had nearly combusted in each other’s arms.
But before that. From their first kiss almost eight years ago to this moment, she had been the only woman whose cheek he had caressed, the only one who had made his body crackle with heat and his chest rumble with desire.
The very idea felt almost too large to accept. To think he esteemed her to such an extent, even after all this time.
The well of her shame sank deeper.
“Don’t,” he said, swallowing. “There is no need to mire yourself in guilt. What’s done is done.”
She nodded. And then, on a deep breath, offered him an olive branch.
“I have realized this week that those other gentlemen were all weak imitations. Somehow, I had diminished . . .” She motioned to the space between them. “But now . . .”
She drifted off. Because trying to say the words aloud sent the truth of them burrowing deep.
In a very real sense, after Tavish left, she had needed to reduce what they were to each other in order to preserve her sanity. Because if what they had together had splintered so easily, what did that say about her? About him? Surely, the fault had to have been in the shallowness of their relationship in the first place.
But now . . . she didn’t know.
She waited for that pang of grief to tremor as it always did when she thought of their past, of what she had lost . . . but in the present moment—sitting before him, watching him watch her—nothing came.
Perhaps these past days had scoured the pain away.
Toast in hand, Tavish unfolded his large body from the stool before the fire and, after a moment’s debate over where to sit—an armchair or the sofa—he sank down beside her on the sofa. Their bodies didn’t touch, but she felt the heat of him everywhere regardless.
They each took a bite of their toast, chewing slowly.
Tavish swallowed. “Ye have lived years of experiences that I cannot fathom, just as I have lived events that you cannot imagine. But as I’ve said, ye still know me better than anyone before or since. I consider ye the person closest to my heart. I would never—Icouldnever—taint the memory of our past love—”Deep breath.“—by seeking comfort in another’s arms. It would be akin to dining on pig slop after a rare and most elegant feast.”
Isla watched as he took another bite of toast. The afternoon sun filtered through the window behind them, burnishing his auburn hair. Vividly, she remembered the silken texture of it against her palms. How, when her nails scraped his scalp, he had growled, low and deep.
He brushed a loose crumb from his lips and then set his plate aside before angling his body toward hers.
“Isla, the truth is . . .” He took in another long breath before meeting her eyes.
Her heart stuttered.
His gaze was pure Tavish.HerTavish. The open, sweet boy she had known. The boy, she was rapidly realizing, who had not vanished but had simply grown into this remarkable man.
“The truth is . . . ,” he swallowed, “as long as we are married . . . I would not want my first experience with . . . with intimacy to be with anyone but yourself.”
It took a moment for the impact of his words to land.
First experience. . .
