She ignored his insult. “I will pack my things, say my goodbyes to Matthias, and be gone by morning. I anticipate that you and I will never speak again. Goodbye.”
“Isla.”
She paused with her hand on the doorknob and looked back at Gray. He stood rimmed in window light, half his face cast into shadow, eyes glittering gold. A towering thundercloud of a man. A tawny lion eager to pounce.
“You think to disobey me?” He walked toward her, steps slow. “But I assure you, you will not like the consequences that—”
“Go to hell, Gray.”
She slammed the door behind her with a deafening crash.
31
Isla had promised Tavish that she would send word by morning.
However, he had experienced nearly a full twenty-four hours of incessant worry because his lovely wife had not, in point of fact, sent word.
Not a damn syllable.
Even one night away from Isla had proved difficult. Tavish refused to spend another.
The soldier in him clinically plotted his options.
One, he could rally Callum and a few grooms and storm the gates of Dunmore, as Isla had suggested.
Two, he could lie in wait until Grayburn left Dunmore and then harass the man by shooting objects around him until he gave up Isla’s location.
Both options had merit.
Tavish was cleaning his rifle in preparation when a knock sounded.
At last! A message from Isla!
He took the stairs two at a time and wrenched open the door.
Fletch’s handsome face greeted him.
Tavish froze.
Edward Archer was the last person he expected to see.
“Fletch!”
“May I come in?”
They spoke over the top of one another.
“Of course.” Tavish waved Fletch inside and up the stairs.
As ever, his friend appeared a gentleman of wealth—tailored greatcoat over a superfine tailcoat and gold-threaded waistcoat, buckskin breeches tucked into polished Hessians.
“I must say, I am surprised to see ye,” Tavish said as they stepped into the great hall. “I wrote ye earlier this week to apprise ye of my situation with Isla but didn’t expect a personal visit.”
“Yes, well . . . I had stopped by Castle Balfour and was directed here.”
“I see,” Tavish said, when in fact, he did notsee. “And ye took the time to stop by because . . . ?” He left the question dangling off ellipses.
Fletch walked the perimeter of the room, top hat twirling in his hands, poking his nose into every corner with typical Fletch-like enthusiasm. His gaze lingered on the rifle resting on a side table, mid-cleaning.
