“Nonsense. Your enemy is my enemy. That is how friendship works, Balfour. Besides, you are more likely to get answers from Grayburn with me at your side. His Grace will hesitate to lash out at me, not wanting to anger my father.”
“True.”
“I would never let a fellow officer race into danger without guarding his back. Once a Rifle, always a Rifle. We go in pairs.”
Tavish and Fletchdid take the precaution of stopping by Castle Balfour and telling Mariah their plans.
“Just so ye know where I have disappeared to,” he said.
“That is hardly comforting.” His sister kissed his cheek, nodding hello to Fletch. “I hope ye return with your lady love. Father will be away to Aberdeen next week, so the two of ye can come stay at the castle here, if ye’d like. I look forward to getting to know your Isla better.”
Tavish thanked her and then rode toward Dunmore, Fletch at his side. They arrived just after luncheon.
They approached the house from Cairnfell rather than along one of the primary routes that would pass by a gatehouse with its keeper. In all truthfulness, Tavish had only seen Dunmore once or twice in his life. And that was as a lad with Callum when they would dare one another to sneak as close to the place as possible.
In the light of day, the honey stone facade shone, and the acres of glass panes gleamed. A grand palace for the daughter of a duke.
Why hadn’t Isla written? Had Grayburn detained her, trying to force her into compliance? Or had he silenced her with some threat against Tavish?
Either option curdled his stomach.
Fletch and Tavish discussed whether or not to knock on the door with their rifles in hand.
“Though it goes against the grain, I suggest we begin with diplomacy,” Fletch said. “Grayburn is surely the magistrate in these parts. No need to threaten the man with a firearm and give him reason to charge us with a crime before we have completed our reconnaissance.”
Though Fletch made excellent sense, for once, Tavish deplored his friend’s level head. He wanted to storm through the front door, gun cocked and ready to fire.
But Fletch won in this.
Dismounting, Tavish and Fletch handed their horses’ reins to a waiting groom. The boy’s eyes took in Fletch’s expensive clothing—everything about the man proclaimed him an aristocrat—before widening in recognition when they touched on Tavish. Thankfully, the boy said nothing.
So far, so good.
Tavish rang the front bell.
A stuffy butler answered the door.
The man gave Tavish a thorough up and down before his eyes flickered to Fletch.
“Captain Tavish Balfour to see my wife.” Tavish put the steely command of an army officer into his voice. The tone he used with underlings when he wished them to cower in fear.
Grayburn’s butler was made of stern stuff because the man didn’t so much as twitch. “I do not think your wife to be on these premises, Mr. Balfour. I bid you good da—”
The butler broke off as Tavish pushed his way into the house.
It appeared diplomacy was at an end.
“Sirrah!” the man gasped in outrage.
“Isla!” Tavish called.
The butler tried to grab his sleeve.
On a growl, Fletch pulled the man loose and placed himself between the butler and Tavish.
“Isla, love, where are ye?!” Tavish yelled up the stairs.
He scarcely noticed the gilt mirrors and elegant busts and acres of marble on display. In his periphery, Fletch grappled with the butler.
