Never had Isla felt so alive.
7
July 23, 1817
Cairnfell
Pettercairn, Scotland
Given the momentous occasion of the morning—after all, it wasn’t every day that one spoke with one’s husband after an absence of seven years—Isla felt it rather unfair of the weather to be so amiable. Puffy clouds floated across a blue summer sky, carried on a breeze just strong enough to ensure the heat was delightfully pleasant and not a whit stifling.
It was all decidedly intolerable.
A billowing tempest would be more appropriate to her mood—towering thunderheads and torrential rain. A bit of lightning would not go amiss. The present cheerful sunshine felt like an assault on the crown of her head.
Lifting her skirts, Isla continued to trudge up Cairnfell. How many times over the years had she made this journey? Crossing the fields from Dunmore and traversing the old stone bridge before summiting the fell itself?
Like then, her heart pounded a steady drumbeat in the back of her throat. Once, she would have labeled this emotion as excitement or anticipation. Now, she knew it to be dread.
Unlike then, she no longer had a governess to thwart, and Gray felt Isla’s wandering to be safe, as long as she stayed close to Dunmore. Little did His Grace know.
Isla had slept poorly last night, her nerves refusing to settle in anticipation of meeting Captain Balfour. Shehadto convince him to grant her a divorce, and she wasn’t above employing hysterical tears, if necessary.
It had taken her three years after Tavish’s departure to summon the courage to brave the memories of Cairnfell. Even now, she longed to summit the cairn and scream her frustration and worry to the wind. But like everything else, she refused to permit him to dominate her memories of this place. Even if she did see him peeking out from every hollow and tree as she crested the hill.
Captain Balfour was precisely where she expected him to be, leaning against the side of Cairnfell Castle, arms crossed over his absurdly broad chest, one foot bent at the knee and resting on the stone behind him. His kilt—the blue and yellow of the Balfour tartan—fluttered in the slight breeze.
His head lifted as she stepped into the clearing.
Their first meeting here with Gray, Isla had been too stunned to study him.
During church services, she hadn’t dared.
But now . . . she looked her fill.
Of course, the passage of seven years had only rendered him more handsome, the wretch. His hair had settled into a polite auburn, while his skin still avoided the ruddiness of most redheads. As ever, his chin held that alluring deep vertical dent, and his lips—lips she could still easily recall touching her own—were absurdly full . . . a pair of pillows framing his mouth. Pillow lips, those.
Worse, the scar on his upper right cheek did nothing to detract from his good looks and, instead, made him appear distinguished with a hint of danger. Though he certainly had shaved this morning, his skin already sported night whiskers.
The most striking change, however, was in his height and weight. His chest and shoulders were broader and heavy with muscle. She refused to even contemplate how they would feel wrapped around her. His calves bulged against the garters fastening his woolen stockings just below his knees.
He had to have grown at least an inch or two. Before, Isla hadn’t strained to kiss him. A mere press to her toes would see the job done. But now, she figured she would need to drag his head down to meet hers, even on tiptoe.
He had left a boy.
But this . . . this was a man.
Andwhywhywhywas she eventhinkingabout kissing and Tavish Balfour in the same breath?
He watched her approach, eyes surely cataloging her differences. The cool poise of her head. The militant erectness of her spine. The prim clasp of her hands, reticule dangling from her wrist.
She stopped well in front of him.
“Captain Balfour.” She curtsied.
“Lady Isla.” He bowed.
A repeat of their meeting just a few days ago.
