Tavish had returned.
Returned. Returned.
Isla helplessly replayed the events of the afternoon.
I shan’t be home long,he had said.Just . . . long enough.
What did that mean? Long enough forwhatprecisely?
Panic raced in her veins as she contemplated the options. Tavish could claim Isla as his wife—assert all legal power over her life—and drag her away with him unwillingly. Or, worse, denounce her as his wife and then abandon her to Gray’s fury. Or, perhaps worst of all, simply do nothing and leave Isla in this in-between place for another seven years.
Unable to contain the nervous energy, her feet wandered the quiet rooms of Dunmore, the tap of her boots and the tick of cabinet clocks trailing her steps.
Built around eighty years ago when the family had grown tired of their ancient, drafty castle, Dunmore was a grand palace—the sort of estate more at home in the Wiltshire downs than their corner of northeast Scotland. The famed architect, William Adam, had designed it to impress—a central pedimented block with two wings connected by curving galleries. Enormous symmetrical windows punctuated the gray granite exterior, rendering the interior rooms light and airy on even the most dreary of days.
Seeing Tavish earlier had shaken Isla’s moorings, and now memories echoed off the walls with each footstep.
There was the sofa where Mamma had loved to sit with a needle and thread when she was home. Given that the former duchess was rarely at home, the moment had always been a holy one. Isla would gather her small embroidery basket and curl up beside her mother, content to work in companionable silence and the soothing scent of Mamma’s French perfume.
Ah, and here was the table where Gray had once discovered her hiding. Piers—she had called him by his first name then—had been around fourteen; Isla, eight.
She had found a kitten in the stables and claimed it as her own—much as she had claimed Tavish that fateful first meeting in the cemetery, come to think of it now. She found something to love, and so she loved it.
At the time, it hadn’t even occurred to her to ask for permission to keep the kitten, any more than she had asked for permission to keep Tavish. Her parents were usually gone, and her brothers scarcely paid attention to her.
But the kitten had jumped out at the duke’s feet as he tread the stairs, startling him. Her father’s rage had burned hot. The kitten had been cast back to the stables, and Isla berated—everything from her slovenly manner to the hint of Scotland in her vowels—until she crumbled to sobbing tears.
Piers had found her huddled under a console table in the music room, face splotchy from crying. He crouched on the ground before her—neckcloth missing and shirt unbuttoned, as was his wont.
“Ah, poppet, you look a proper fright,” he had said. “I’m sorry about your kitten. You should have been allowed to keep it.”
He sat on the floor and opened his arms.
Isla crawled from underneath the table, instantly collapsing onto his chest.
She could easily recall it now. The steady thump of his heart. The soothingshush-shushas he quieted her tears. The upswelling of love in her heart for her older brother. Here was a person who cared about her. Who would defend her.
And he was. And he did.
Until Tavish or some other Balfour entered the picture. Then, all semblance of a loving brother disappeared.
That lesson had been bitterly learned.
Now, just as Cairnfell held the memory of Tavish, Dunmore reminded Isla of all the people who had abandoned her in one way or another. Her mother through death. Her father through his coldness. Gray through his deliberate actions and harsh threats.
Only Matthias, her other brother, remained at her side. Matt might never be her advocate, but he at least did no harm. And when she had needed a supporting arm, Matt had lent her his.
Eventually, her pounding heart and anxious feet led her to the library. It was a properly grand room, occupying the entirety of the central floor of the west wing of the house. Three walls boasted bookshelves between large windows. A sitting area, a map table, and a desk dotted the floor. Dust motes hung in the air, breathless in the golden sunlight.
Perhaps Isla should have written Tavish at some point. During their final argument, she had made him swear not to write her, and he had been true in that. Pity, he hadn’t been true in his belief in her and their supposed “love” before that point.
Regardless, writing him had always felt too risky, too fraught. Besides, by the time she had recovered from the pain of their breaking, she was immersed in her work at Malton Hill. She hadn’t wished to encourage his affections when hers had changed so utterly. Her impulsive marriage had been a fatal mistake—the reckless offering of an adolescent’s heart. And therefore, she had buried the weight of it deep inside until it became a small thing—a smooth, light stone easily avoided.
But if she had written him, she might now understand his reasons for returning.
As it was, her heartbeat refused to settle in her chest, preferring instead to mimic theratatatof a military tattoo.
Crossing the soft Axminster carpet, Isla opened a long drawer and stared at its contents—past issues of theLondon Gazette. Seven years’ worth, to be precise.
