“Of course,” Tavish lied smoothly. “As long as other guests are comfortable with my presence.”
It was the correct answer, as Fletch’s shoulders relaxed and his smile broadened. “Yes. The other guests are content.”
Tavishhighlydoubted that.
“I am glad.” Fletch clasped Tavish’s shoulder. “The week would be dreary without you, my friend.”
Ross lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Even with so many comely ladies present?”
Fletch snorted. “Two of those ladies are my cousins, I will have you know.”
“People marry their cousins all the time,” Ross countered.
“Hah! Caroline and Anne are more like sisters than cousins. The thought of marrying either—” Fletch shuddered. “But they are fine girls, of course. The finest! Either of you should be so lucky. And Miss Crowley is charming.”
“Indeed,” Ross chuckled. “Why do I feel like ye have no interest there either?”
Fletch laughed and promptly changed the subject. “And you, Balfour? Have you come up with a plan to resolve . . . matters?”
It was an oblique reference to Tavish’s marriage. Aside from those who were present at said wedding, Ross and Fletch were the only two other people who knew of its existence, though even they did not know the identity of the lady.
Tavish hadn’t meant to tell anyone, but Fletch and Ross had caught him deep in his cups after the Battle of Tarbes. Though their own casualties had been relatively light, the slaughter had been great among the French. The loss of life had weighed on Tavish’s soul, for not the first nor the last time.
Usually, Ross and Fletch would leave to find solace elsewhere—Ross in the arms of whatever woman he could find; Fletch with his Spanish paramour.
But that night, his friends had remained at Tavish’s side. Together, they had drunk enough French wine to float a small boat, becoming more loose-lipped with each glass.
“Why don’t you ever touch a woman?” Fletch had asked.
“Aye! I have long held that question.” Ross saluted with his cup.
“Not once have I caught you kissing a lady-bird or even gazing at a comely bosom.” Fletch.
“Do ye not like the lasses, Balfour?” Ross.
The question caught Tavish off guard. Of course, he liked the lasses and had a more than healthy appreciation of a fine bosom.
However, he had made sacred vows to one particular lass, and regardless of her feelings on the matter, he intended to honor their marriage.
Ross and Fletch teased Tavish for nearly thirty minutes before he admitted the whole to them.
“I am married.” He stared into the ruby depths of his glass, as if it could conjure some clarity alongside the headache he would have come morning.
“Married?!” Ross slapped the table. “And we are only now hearing of this?!”
“It’s complicated.” Tavish pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Complicated . . . how?” Fletch asked.
“Our marriage was a handfasting, and her family is unaware of our attachment. We didn’t part on the best of terms.”
“But . . . you are her husband.” Fletch frowned. “She is bound to you.”
“Aye, but she is not pleased with that fact. My death would surely be a relief.”
“Oof! That’s a fine pickle then.” Fletch belched. “So who is this lucky woman?”
“I shan’t be disclosing that information. She is a lady, and I will not harm her good name by uttering it.”
