On a breath, Isla opened her mouth as wide as she could and sank her teeth into the cake.
It was . . .
Gracious!
The taste of brandy, vanilla, and sugar exploded on her tongue.
How did he chew and breathe at the same time?
It scarcely mattered. The whole experience was divine. Like dunking her head in the frigid waters of the River Southcairn on a hot summer’s day.
“There ye go, lass.” He took another bite. “We’ll unearth your Balfour roots yet.”
Isla managed to swallow.
“Ye have a wee bit of cake . . .” He pointed to the edge of his mouth.
“Where?” Isla brushed her fingers across her face. “Here?”
He stared at her lips for a moment. “Allow me.”
Reaching out, he pressed his thumb to the edge of her mouth. It was the briefest of touches, scarcely more than a whisper, but Isla felt it everywhere—in the gooseflesh that flared down her spine, in the burning heat where his thumb had been, in the rabbit-thump of her heart.
Hand dropping, he popped the remaining bit of cake into his mouth and flashed a smile before gazing out over the cemetery.
As if that brief touch had affected him not at all.
Isla’s lungs reminded her to breathe.
“Thank ye.” He glanced at his mother’s grave behind them. “Thank ye for making today a wee bit more bearable.”
“The first birthday without them is the most difficult. It gets easier after that.”
He nodded.
Voices drifted in . . . people walking up the street.
They both turned toward the sound. His body tensed.
Mr. Balfour clearly had the same thought as Isla—no one could see them here together.
Pivoting back, he leaned toward her. “If I never speak with ye again, know that I consider ye a right bonnie lass.”
Her cheeks burned even as she smiled too wide.
“And—” He leaned even closer. Close enough that she could see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes and feel the warmth of his breath. “Happy birthday, Lady Isla.”
“Happy birthday to ye, as well.”
With another wink, he sprang to his feet and vaulted over the stone fence that encircled the kirkyard, disappearing into the trees beyond.
Isla watched him go.
She likelywouldnever speak with him again. Their families wouldn’t permit it, not even an innocent friendship.
But neither her ducal father nor Miss Farnsworth could control Isla’s daydreams. In her own fantasies, she could be asun-timidandnon-compliantas she would like.
And abruptly, Isla knew she would see Tavish Balfour’s face in each one. Every day, she could remember his joyful bite into her cake, envision his laughing eyes, the way his thumb brushed away the crumb on her lip, his voice as his head dipped toward hers with a low,Happy birthday.
