How, after all his precautions and detailed scenarios, had he not anticipated the worst?
14
August 4, 1817
Kingswell House
Aberdeenshire, Scotland
Touching Lady Isla had been a colossal mistake.
A tactical error that Tavish, as a longtime soldier, should have known to avoid.
Seven years.
Seven years without so much as laying a bare fingertip to a woman’s skin.
And now this . . .
Even hours on, staring at his ceiling in the light of dawn, he recalled the satiny give of her wrist and replayed the wee carnal snatch in her breathing. Evidence that she hadn’t been unaffected. That his touch still meant something to her.
If he thought about it too long, Tavish felt concussed—his head woozy and senses spinning.
And he had definitely thought about it overlong.
I don’t want you.
Och, the other bit from last night that wouldn’t leave him be.
Sitting up, he kicked his legs out of bed and slumped forward, his head between his hands.
Of course, he knew in his rational mind that Isla didn’t want him. What sensible ladywouldwant the poverty and struggle of a life spent with him?
And even if he had funds and a secure future, who was to say Isla wanted the man he had become? Seven years of war had changed him, just as the passage of years had given Isla ample time to regret her youthful indiscretions.
However, knowing a fact and truly accepting it were two rather disparate things.
Tavish knew she didn’t want him. But hearing the words low and harsh from her lips had rattled something inside. Some dormant yearning he had assumed long dead.
She didn’t want him. But he feared a neglected wee corner of his heart still wanted her.
Lifting his head, Tavish stared at the rain lashing the window panes. The maids had been in earlier to open the shutters, light the fire, and leave a pitcher of warm water. A cup of hot chocolate and plate of fresh scones rested on the bedside table.
Small luxuries, but ones Tavish had rarely experienced since . . . well, since Mariah’s ruination, at the very least. Luxuries that Isla surely took for granted and ones Tavish would likely never be able to provide.
Such logic did nothing to soothe his longing for the lass he had left. His wife. The woman he had loved and now understood he would likely love until the day he died. A girl who perhaps had only existed in his adolescent perception and memory.
The Isla of the present didn’t want the man he had become.
He needed to respect her wishes and let her go.
Rain kept theguests indoors.
After breakfast, the ladies retreated with Lady Milmouth and Lady Forsyth to do . . . whatever ladies do. Something about ribbons or embroidery. Tavish was unclear on the particulars.
Grayburn disappeared with Lord Milmouth and Sir John Forsyth.
Tavish played billiards with Ross and Fletch, the three of them talking of everything and nothing. The guilt of Tavish’s secret marriage weighed heavily—smarting with each clack of the billiard balls—yet there was nothing to do but bite his tongue and carry on.
