Finally, Isla crested the hill and strode into the clearing of Cairnfell Castle, lungs heaving with her exertion.
And there he was. Tavish. Her friend.
Herbestfriend, if she were honest with herself.
His clothing appeared dashed together—a loose coat and wrinkled waistcoat over a pleated kilt, neckcloth carelessly tied. As if Tavish had been in a rush to reach her and hadn’t cared to fuss about with his attire.
Though Gray always tossed off his coat and neckcloth as soon as he returned home, her ducal brother wouldn’t dream of appearing in public without being properly starched and pressed within an inch of his valet’s life. Matt . . . well, he never left Dunmore, and hestilldressed immaculately every day.
Tavish, however, seemed more . . . oh, how could Isla explain it? More comfortable in his skin, perhaps? A man would have to be to wear a kilt with such insouciance.
For Gray, close-cut superfine coats and embroidered waistcoats were akin to armor—a layer of protection between himself and the world. He might despise the feel of them on his body—too tight and uncomfortable, he had once told her—but he would never forsake them in public. In a certain sense, the clothing wore him, not the other way around. Or, maybe, better expressed—without his expensive tailoring, who wouldthe Duke of Grayburn be? It was as much a part of his ducal persona as impeccable manners and stern orders.
But Tavish . . . his clothing seemed almost an afterthought. Not that he wasn’t well-dressed as befitted an earl’s son. No, it was more that you would notice a hundred things about him before caring what he was wearing. The wide brilliance of his smile and the warm openness of his gaze. The soft timbre of his voice and rolling hum of his Scottish brogue. The quick leap of his thoughts and kindness in his manner. If anything, his coat served the purpose of highlighting the breadth of his shoulders while the blue of his waistcoat brought out the silver flecks in his eyes.
At sixteen, Isla was rapidly realizing that members of the opposite sex found her attractive. She had initially attributed that attraction to her status as Lady Isla Kinsey, sister to the wealthy and powerful Duke of Grayburn. But she was observant enough to recognize that such attention might have another source. Boys, and even some men, stammered when introduced, blushing and staring before bowing over her hand with reverence. They handled her with hushed tones and deferential care as if she were made of Venetian glass.
But never Tavish. He never saw her as anything other than Isla.
Waving, he jogged across the clearing to her, kilt snapping behind him.
“There ye be, lass.” He took her hands in his. “I was beginning to be rightworrit.”
“I am . . . well . . .” she gasped, trying to catch her breath.
“I’ve lit us a wee fire. As large as I dare without anyone seeing the smoke. Come.”
Glancing around to ensure no one was about, he tugged her through the large door of the tower house and up a short spiral staircase to the ancient great hall. She had only been inside a handful of times, finding the place dark and unwelcoming. But today, a fire popped in the hearth. The hall was rudimentary at best—stone damp with small panes of glass in the three windows, one for each wall but the fireplace. The furnishings weren’t much better—an aging table in one corner and a pair of wooden chairs set before the fire. There was a second room through a door to the left of the fireplace that appeared to house a bed with a moldering straw mattress.
Isla sat in one of the chairs, pulling off her gloves and stretching her chilled fingers toward the flames.
“You must tell me the news,” she said without preamble. “Something dreadful has happened, has it not?”
“How do ye know?”
“Please! I can practically feel the tension radiating from your shoulders.”
It was the truth. He sat stiffly in his chair, spine straight. But even without seeing him, she would have heard the bleakness in his voice.
“Am I that easily understood?”
“By me, you are.”
He narrowed his eyes at her.
“Also, my brother sports a broken nose that I overheard a footman blame on your brother.” Isla rolled a hand. “Please, talk to me.”
Tavish’s expression turned desolate, like a chill wind stealing one’s breath. He pressed his palms into his eyes, rubbing. “I can scarcely countenance what has happened.”
“Then tell me!”
He stared into the fire for a moment. Trying to decide how much to tell her, Isla was sure. Sometimes, reading his thoughts was as easy as understanding her own.
“Tell me all,” she urged.
“I’m sure ye recall that Mariah became betrothed to Lord Stafford in August.”
“Of course. You are all eager for the match. Lord Stafford is a decent-enough fellow. He is one of Gray’s old school friends and has visited Dunmore once or twice.”
