He chuckled. “Good night, Isla.”
She nodded and reluctantly retired to her bedchamber.
But hours on, sleep remained elusive.
She lay on the comfortable mattress, pillow under her cheek, his locket hanging from a chain around her neck. The enamel felt heated from her skin, as if it held the memory of their past love just as surely as every atom of her body.
Wrapping the locket in her fist, she stared at the fireplace beside the bed. It was far too easy to envision Tavish on the other side of the chimney, long body stretched before the hearth with only a blanket as a mattress.
Perhaps she should have pushed for him to join her in the bed. Not for anything else but sleep.
Yet her revelation at his question—that she would still choose him over any other gentleman—felt too raw, too jolting. And she worried that if he were in such close proximity, she might act rashly. Turn into his arms, press her body to his, and demand a repetition of their explosive kisses from earlier in the week.
Her imagination could easily supply his reaction—his warm palm on her waist, the firm press of his lips. Just the thought sent heat pulsing through her veins and pooling in her abdomen.
But she would never toy with his noble heart and raise expectations she hesitated to fulfill.
Granted, Tavish hadn’t attempted a repeat of their kisses, either. But the memory of them hummed along Isla’s skin whenever he was near.
She sighed and rolled onto her back, staring up at the bed’s canopy, Tavish’s locket still clutched in her hand.
Time.
Unlike the girl she had been, Isla knew she needed to give her realization a bit of time. A space where it could be aired in the light of day for her examination. Perhaps her jolt of remembered love for him was an aberration, a one-time occurrence that would not stand up to future scrutiny.
She still had Malton Hill foremost in her mind’s eye.
Yet, speaking with Tavish about her estate . . .
His unwavering support and instant desire to assist her in achieving her goals. How like him . . . to hold her happiness above all else.
If she contemplated it too long, she felt like weeping.
Because he had always unerringly supported whoshewanted to become—the vision she had for herself—rather than demanding she fit into the mold Polite Society required.
She prayed she could do the same for him in return.
Sleep was long in coming.
For Isla, thenext few days passed in a blur of memory.
Lady Mariah sent over books from Castle Balfour’s library, and Isla and Tavish exchanged favorites that they had read over the past few years.
Isla wrote letters to Mr. Cranston at Malton Hill, following up on matters with the widowed Mrs. Tippets and her children.
She and Tavish hiked the cairn and, instead of screaming in fury, they stood atop the rock and let the wind batter their clothes and tug at their hair and whip away the crack of their laughter.
But mostly, they talked, just as they had in the past . . . words and ideas, as ever, flowing easily between them.
Isla would ask a question about his time in the military, such as, “Tell me how you landed in the Rifles?”
Or, “How did you change from the Tavish I knew into Captain Balfour?”
And then Tavish would tell her of his military training—the battles fought and the friendships made.
A few hours later, he would ask something like, “What is your greatest hope for Malton Hill?” and she would describe the ongoing refurbishment of the old barns and her desire to create a successful dairy.
Back and forth, give and take.
