“If we are to be friends,” she said, “then we must have a better way of communicating. If someone else had found your note to me . . .”
“Aye. What do ye propose?” Because even if he didn’t know this lass that well, he guessed she might have a knack for planning.
“My governess spoke of ciphers last week as we were discussing Caesar’s campaign against the Gauls. Perhaps we could devise one of our own.”
“ACaesar cipher—the sort where you merely shift the letters of the alphabet by three letters or so, like A becomes D and so on?”
“Or perhaps we create one that is more random. Any learned person would see the scrambled text and assume it to be a Caesar cipher. We can be more intelligent than that.”
“Agreed.” Tavish grinned. Bloody hell, but he adored the quick turn of her mind.
They spent the next hour deciding what their cipher would be. Something simple, but complex—each letter of the alphabet substituted with another letter, seemingly at random. They wrote it out with a bit of charcoal on the muslin cloth of the clootie dumpling.
And Tavish did make her laugh in the end—a rollicking story about Callum getting drunk off sour whisky and tumbling into Farmer McLeod’s pig sty.
The sound of Lady Isla’s giggles twined through the trees of Cairnfell and filled Tavish’s heart with such happiness, he feared the organ would burst.
5
July 19, 1817
Pettercairn, Scotland
Isla sat immaculately still as Reverend Stronach preached on the certain damnation of liars and deceivers—every word flying like a barbed arrow straight to her heart.
She bore it all without a hint of a blush or a telltale clutch of her reticule. Given the weight of her guilty conscience, it was an acting performance worthy of Drury Lane.
Isla felt inordinately proud of herself.
Another sin to repent of, no doubt. The good reverend would assuredly have strong opinions on the evil of feeling pride over one’s ability to hide iniquity.
Voices whispered behind her, followed by a giggle. Gray scowled and shifted in his seat at her side, gaze remaining militantly forward.
The Balfours were seated one pew behind them to the left. If Isla canted her head the tiniest bit, she could see the graying head of Lord Northcairn seated beside Lord Cairnfell and Lady Mariah. Captain Balfour sat closer to the aisle between the twins, Master Edmund and Lady Elsie.
The twins giggled again. A muscle in Gray’s jaw twitched.
Isla resisted the urge to fidget.
Sheneededto tell Gray about her illicit marriage. Every day she delayed was one more nail in her coffin.
And yet . . .
Fear was a powerful motivator, she pondered for not the first time. Gray burned hot when it came to the Balfours.
Another giggle sounded, chased by a loud shush.
Gray took in a slow breath at her side, his hands flexing where they held the brim of his hat.
Isla could feel the leashed energy in him. Just sitting in the same room as Tavish had Gray itching to toss the entire Balfour clan out of the kirk. And that was without knowing Isla had married the man. How incandescent would her brother be once he learned the truth?
She could imagine Gray rising to his feet and shouting her perfidy from the rafters, denouncing her before pointing a finger at the Balfours and demanding justice. Tossing her to the wolves without so much as a scathing look in her direction.
Unbidden, a memory rose. The three of them—herself, Matt, and Piers—lounging in the drawing room together on a lazy July afternoon.
Piers was maybe sixteen and down from school. As ever when with family, he wore only loose breeches and shirtsleeves. Even then, he had seized any opportunity to discard as many layers as possible.
Matthias, at fifteen, was the opposite. He was always immaculately attired, his right sleeve neatly folded and pinned. With every passing year, he had become quieter and, more often than not, refused to leave the house.Everyone stares, he had whispered to Isla.
