Two footmen barreled into the room, followed by Gray.
“I do believe it is time for Mr. Balfour to leave these premises.” Gray’s voice crackled with authority.
“Never fear, we are leaving.”
Tavish took a step toward the door, but Isla grabbed his arm, staying him. “One moment.”
He turned back to her.
Isla looked into his adoring eyes and smiled.
And then, in front of her disapproving brother and a host of family servants, she kissed Tavish Balfour.
Openly. Thoroughly. Scandalously.
Pulling back, she took in his bemused expression.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, I will marry you.”
It took Tavish a second, and then the most glorious smile spread across his face. He offered Isla his arm, which she happily took.
And with barely a nod at Gray, Isla grinned as Tavish led her out the front door of Dunmore and into the bright sunshine of their future.
Epilogue
Two Years Later
September 14, 1819
Malton Hill, Gloucestershire
England
Baa! Baa!”
Tavish grinned as his son waved a chubby fist at the sheep grazing in the field. The sheep paid him no mind, content to munch on the green grass.
“That’s right,” Tavish said. “A sheep saysbaa.”
Wee Fletch was just past his first birthday and could say a few words, but wasn’t quite walking yet.
The toddler looked up at his father, a frown marring his face. Blue-eyed and blonde, the lad was the image of his mother. They had named him Fletcher Balfour in honor of the man who had, unwittingly, brought Isla and Tavish back together. Fletch had even stood as the lad’s godfather.
“Moo?” Wee Fletch asked, his lips pursing into a perfect O with the sound. He pointed in the direction of the dairy barn.
“I’m sorry, my boy. We have to wait until Mamma is done with Mr. Cranston. Then we can go see the coos.”
Wee Fletch sent a longing look toward the barn.
As today was Monday, Isla remained closeted with her steward, reviewing accounts and discussing tenant issues. Isla enjoyed running her estate, and Tavish adamantly supported her endeavors, despite the occasional busybody who voiced an opinion about Lady Isla Balfour’s indecorous ways. Tavish stared down any detractors.
Just over two years ago, Tavish and Isla had wed in the parish kirk in Pettercairn. A proper marriage this time around, calling the banns for three weeks beforehand.
The first week of the banns, Dr. Sumsion had mounted the pulpit and intoned, “I publish the banns of marriage between Lady Isla Kinsey of Dunmore and Mr. Tavish Balfour of Castle Balfour . . .” The entire congregation had gasped, loudly, before dissolving into hissed talking. Dr. Sumsion had needed to pound the pulpit to regain everyone’s attention.
For the next two weeks, Tavish and Isla’s looming wedding had been a delicious topic of conversation, much to the delight of the nosynebbiesof the county. A Balfour and a Kinsey uniting in marriage. The astonishment! The scandal!
Neither the Duke of Grayburn nor Lord Northcairn attended the actual wedding, marking the first and last time His Grace and his lordship agreed upon anything.
