The price to keep him would be immense. Perhaps higher than she wished to pay. Assuming he even wished to remain married.
It was why, when he had pulled away after their waltz last night, she hadn’t protested.
“Why did I leave?” His eyes took on that haunted expression she was starting to recognize, as if he were lost in a nightmare of memory. “Because after so many years of killing and death, I think ye lose foundational parts of your soul. I could feel it happening—a sort of hardening of my humanity—and I simply couldn’t bear it anymore. I never wish to become such a man.”
Isla thought back to the boy he had been, standing beside Goliath on the road that night. Caving to Gray’s demands. So unsure and wavering in which path to take.
And here he was now, full circle. Sure. Strong. Confident in what he wanted. The Tavish of now would always assert what was right over whatwas easy. He would pay the high price to remain true to his innermost self.
Yet one more reason to love him.
“But I’m sure the Rifles would take me back, if I wanted. My commanding officer was none too pleased to see me go, and unlike other regiments, the Rifles were not disbanded at the end of the war. I could re-enlist.” He darted a look at her then, as if assessing her reaction.
Isla was shaking her head before he even finished his sentence. “No. Of course not.”
“It would be a way to support a family,” he added, voice quiet.
Ah.
They had spent days tiptoeing around the elephant of conflict in the room—the collision of their impending divorce with their renewing affection, both of which were compounded by the harsh reality of their future desires being, rather literally, a world apart.
Tavish opened the door to the discussion, but Isla wasn’t sure she wanted to step through it. Because she feared heartbreak sat on the other side, and she wasn’t prepared to confront it.
If only she didn’t like him quite so well.
But with this . . .
“Return to the army?” She focused on cutting her beef. “I cannot imagine you risking your soul in such a fashion. You were wise to get out when you could.”
He nodded, as if he had expected her answer.
“Ross suggested I go into politics.” A rueful smile quirked his lips, as if to say,Can ye believe such an absurd suggestion?
But . . . Isla could.
Abruptly, she could see it. Tavish would be dazzling in politics. A gentleman with his native intelligence, analytical mind, and strong moral compass . . .
“I think you would be brilliant.”
Now it was his turn to stare at her.
“You would,” she continued. “You have a competent magnetism about you. As more than one person said during the house party at Kingswell—the world could crumble to pieces and you would simply setto, cleaning up the mess. I can think of no one who would better champion the nameless masses of this country than you.”
Tavish was quiet for a long while after that, picking at his food.
“Does the idea alarm you?” she asked.
“Nae.” He reached for his wine glass. “Merely trying to accommodate the concept. I’ve never thought of myself as the political type, either here or in America. But then, I ken that most professional interactions are political in one way or another. Heaven knows, I spent years leading men and acting as a mediator between their needs and those of my superiors.”
“I’m not sure politics would be much different.”
They moved on to speaking of other things, but she could see him turning over the idea of running for office. Of course, he would need a wife to assist him. A proper sort of wife. But when she envisioned him stepping into a London dining room, ready to woo patrons, the only wife she could picture on his arm was herself.
Hours later, the rain continued to drum overhead, and an unpleasant chill had settled into the room.
Isla frowned as Tavish began setting up his bed. They hadn’t revisited his sleeping on the hard flagstones of the great hall, but for Isla, every night alone in her large bed became more difficult to tolerate, particularly if she thought of him suffering and cold.
A true wife would ensure his comfort.
