This time, however, she squarely met his gaze.
Tavish had been a friendly, tender-hearted boy. The sort to wear his proverbial heart on his sleeve. An idealist and a romantic. Attributes she had loved with a mad passion.
But the man before her . . . gaze cold and expression withdrawn. He appeared as hard and unyielding as the granite of the Cairngorms themselves.
It felt as if Tavish—her Tavish—had died long ago. And now this strange man had appeared, wearing Tavish’s face and speaking with his voice, but displaying not an ounce of the open warmth of the boy she had loved. Gone were his easy smiles and clear-eyed happiness.
This man had seen horrors. Likely even committed them.
HadherTavish reappeared, Isla might have worried that her heart would again succumb to his allure. That she would once more tumble into reckless love with him and, in the process, lose Malton Hill and the woman she was there, abandoning her people to an uncertain fate.
But, no. She had no fear that any ounce of her would pine for this stony-faced soldier.
Captain Balfour . . . not Tavish.
Isla’s only desire was to sever every tie that bound them.
“You wished to speak with me?” she said, forcing herself to work through niceties before demanding answers to her questions.
“Aye.” He motioned for them to walk toward the cairn. “There is much to discuss, I ken.”
Isla nodded. Nothing in his demeanor tipped his hand as to his thoughts.
He proffered her his arm. No matter what had befallen him, his manners did not falter.
She shook her head.
Touching Captain Balfour in any capacity would be ill-advised. And given the faint flicker of relief in his eyes, he felt the same.
Yet, as they walked the uneven ground, the heat of his large body pulled at her senses. As if just his simple presence agitated something deep within. A tug. A whisper of the girl she had been, throwing herself over and over into his arms.
Her body still remembered the animal attraction of him. She grimaced at the thought.
Instead of climbing the cairn itself, he led her around the base to the back side. Unlike the eastern face of Cairnfell with its gradual rise, the western edge plunged down great black-slabbed cliffs to the plain below. A small bench fashioned out of logs rested at the base of the cairn. A place to sit and admire the expansive view.
Isla sat, and Captain Balfour took a seat beside her, leaving a decided two feet of space between their bodies.
She felt the thrum of him anyway. He had never worn fragrance before, but now he smelled of sandalwood and other exotic spices. Scents to lure women who were not her.
How many had there been? It was a terrible thought, but one thathad occupied more than one sleepless night over the years. Surely, he had kissed and wooed and perhaps even bedded other women. His loyalty to her had undoubtedly been short-lived. The thought turned acidic in her throat if she pondered it overlong.
It wasn’t as if she had completely honored their marital vows herself. She had permitted the occasional London swain to claim a kiss during her Seasons in Town. Colonel Archer had been the most recent at just two months past—a very pleasant kiss stolen under a bower in the back garden of his parents’ townhouse.
The tense silence between her and Captain Balfour stretched and pulled, a thread of black treacle dangling from a spoon and waiting for the slightest wobble to snap.
What are your intentions?she longed to shout. Anything to release the nervous pressure in her chest.
He spoke first.
“I have always appreciated the view from here,” he said, voice calm as if this were a social call. “On a clear day like today, ye can even make out the rise of Ben Tirran.” He pointed in the direction of the peak.
“Yes. It is lovely,” she managed to choke.
And it was. The wild landscape of the Angus glens extended before them, lush forest and shrubs, the Falls of Fennimore glittering in the distance.
For Isla, the view had always been a summary of their families. Beyond the waterfall, the shores of Loch Cairnbeg shimmered. The River Cairnbeg rushed out from it, tumbling down the Falls of Fennimore. From there, the river rambled along Glen Cairnbeg until it crashed into the rising might of Cairnfell. There below, the river dashed itself against the fell’s granite base, splitting in two: Northcairn and Southcairn. Running wild around the mass of Cairnfell, the rivers took very different paths to the ocean—the River Northcairn meandered toward Aberdeenshire in the north, while the River Southcairn angled toward Angus and found its way to the ocean near St. Cyrus Beach.
Two rivers, once one, but now divided and forging separate paths. Just as their families had done. Just as she and Tavish—hopefully, prayerfully—would soon, too.
