Gathering them, she spread the papers atop the map table. TheGazettehelpfully supplied the general movement of regiments, rank advancements, as well as lists of the officers who were wounded, captured, or killed in each battle.
All this time, Isla had thought Tavish to be in the 92nd—a regiment she had followed with an almost unholy attention. After all, a lady needed to know if she had become a widow.
With every new special issue, she had searched for Tavish’s name—heart a pulse on her tongue.
But she had never once found him. Certainly not among the woundedor dead. No rank advancements, but also no mention of him in battle, either. Based on this, she had assumed that he had simply done his duty and nothing more. That he had never seen any true action and, instead, spent his time rusticating in a barrack well away from the fighting.
On occasion, though, she would wonder if he had ever journeyed to the front line. And if he had—if he spent long nights under a quiet sky of stars, fellow soldiers sleeping around him—did he ever look upward and think of her sleeping under the same heaven?
But, as it turned out, she had been looking in the wrong place.
Flipping through the pages of theGazette, she charted the fortunes of the 95th regiment. The Rifle Brigade.
Even Isla had heard of the Rifles. Their bravery and brilliance in battle were a common topic. No soldier could enlist directly into the Rifles. A man had to prove his mettle and marksmanship and only then would he be asked to join their distinguished ranks.
And Tavish had become one of them. Had he even known how to shoot a rifle when they married?
It was only a matter of minutes before she discovered his name in theGazette.
Lieutenant Tavish Balfour had fought in the Peninsular War and had been lightly wounded in the Battle of Badajoz. In 1813, he had advanced from Lieutenant to Captain. There was no mention of him at the Battle of Waterloo.
Sparse facts.
But more than she had known before this moment.
His face from earlier today rose before her, the white scar stretching beneath his right eye. Was that the “light” wound he had received in Badajoz? She could scarcely stop herself from imagining it. Tavish in a military uniform, covered in blood and gore, jaw set, rifle lifted to fire and defend himself. Or, perhaps, to be used as a club to bludgeon an enemy assailant.
She had seen such a thing once. Not a true battle, of course. But a pair of farm hands at Malton Hill, bared to the waist and attempting to bloody each other with their fists. It had been brutal and violent, and then to imagine Tavish in a similar situation, face twisted in rage, bayonet raised to—
Snick.
The library door opened.
“There you are.” Matt nodded in greeting.
Unlike Gray, who saturated a room with the importance of his august person, Matt had a gentler energy.
Though nearly of a height with Gray, her brothers were only vaguely similar in looks. Where Gray was sandy-haired and hazel-eyed, Matt’s hair was darker with matching soft brown eyes. Where Gray held his head like a general about to bark orders at troops, Matt had the mien of a monk—quiet and contemplative and set on retiring from the world. He rarely left the grounds of Dunmore, no matter Isla or Gray’s pleading. Only once, when Isla had needed rescuing after Tavish’s abandonment, had Matt asserted his will, bundled her into a carriage, and set forth.
It had taken Isla a long while to understand that Mattneededto control how he interacted with the world. Or, rather, how the world saw him.
The source of his discomfort was obvious—the bottom half of his right arm was missing from the elbow down. The same birth deformity that had resulted in Gray being born with his right leg slightly shorter than his left had denied Matt a right forearm and hand entirely.
Today, like every day, saw him with his right coat sleeve pinned up. Both Isla and Gray had pestered Matt to simply have his tailor cuff his right sleeve at the elbow, but their brother wouldn’t hear of it.
“My appearance is already odd enough. Allow me the normality of seeing what my arm could have been,” Matt had said on more than one occasion.
Unfortunately, Isla rather thought that summed up how Matt saw his life in general—what could have been.
“Matt,” she nodded.
“Taking in some light reading, I see.” He glanced meaningfully at theGazette. His sharp gaze missed nothing. “Gray told me about Captain Balfour. Ranted, rather. I assume you are merely verifying the evidence.”
“Yes. Rather.”
They never spoke of this, she and her brothers. Matt and Gray had never asked for specific details about her tempestuous relationship with Tavish Balfour, and she had certainly never volunteered anything. Thewhole was all very English and stuffy, but Isla was glad of their silence. Her brothers only knew that there had been some brief attachment between herself and Tavish—an attachment that Gray had successfully disrupted. Matt likely understood the depth of that attachment, but she doubted his mind had ever leapt to matrimony.
“What have you discovered?”
