After Fletch won twice, they retired to the warm fire in the library, meticulously discussing their plans for Pennsylvania. Tavish and Ross intended to relocate to the United States and begin work there, keeping Fletch up-to-date with frequent letters.
As usual, Fletch became animated as they spoke, hands gesturing and words spilling easily. He was the most gregarious of their wee group, enthusiastic and excitable. A puppy of a person, Ross often described him.
Ross, by contrast, was quick with a dry remark or teasing quip. More of a cat than a puppy, he would say.
Tavish knew himself to be the cool-headed one. The soldier who, the more intense the fighting, the more calm and clear his thinking. Quiet and observing but swift to act when circumstances required it.
“Ye be a bird of prey, Balfour,” Ross had once said. “Silently circling, cataloging every detail before diving into action, like a raptor falling from the sky to snatch up a mouse.”
A far cry from the often brash boy Tavish had been. Years of war and battle had a way of refining a man to steel.
As ever, talking with his friends felt like slipping into a comfortable boot. How many fires had they shared? Divvied up rations, passed around a bottle, discussed their hopes and dreams?
After lunch, the young ladies joined the gentlemen in the library. Thankfully, Grayburn remained absent.
“You gentlemen were quite the topic of conversation earlier,” Miss Forsyth announced.
“Oh, yes!” Miss Crowley clasped her hands before her bosom. “We should dearly love to hear of your time with the Rifles.”
She glanced at Tavish with what could only be described as avid interest. He made a note to do nothing to raise the girl’s expectations. She was lovely, but not for him.
Fletch laughed that easy laugh of his. “I cannot imagine even a fraction of what occurred would be appropriate for a lady’s ears.”
“Surely there is something you can tell us?” Miss Anne Forsyth said.
Lady Isla stood to one side, hands folded at her waist. Nothing indicated she would be adding her voice to the ladies’ enthusiasm, though curiosity danced in her gaze.
Compared to the others, she appeared mature and poised and, to be blunt, expensive. The lace trimming of her rose muslin gown must have cost a small fortune.
As a lad, church had been the only place Tavish witnessed Isla in company. Then, she had always been in motion, expression animated and smile at the ready. Before this house party, he would have supposed her to be unchanged—the vibrant center of any gathering, a bright light drawing all to her flame.
However, like himself, she had become quieter over the years, more observant. Only her hair remained the same—already slipping from its curl, strands dangling straight beside her face.
But there was still an arresting quality to her. A sense of mystery in her composure. A spark in her eyes that promised a quick wit and unusual depth of thought, if only a gentleman could break through the shell of her exterior.
I don’t want you.
Tavish glanced away before anyone realized he had been staring overlong.
“Do ye have maps, Fletch?” Ross asked. “We could show the ladies our movements and describe the sights we saw in Spain and Portugal.”
“Brilliant!” Fletch grinned.
Fletch took charge. He sent a footman to collect tin soldiers from the nursery and flipped through his father’s collection of rolled maps. A fewminutes later, they had a map of the Iberian Peninsula spread out on the table in the middle of the library, tin soldiers sitting in a basket.
“Ross and I were stationed in the Peninsula in 1808, almost from the beginning of Wellington’s action there.” Fletch lifted two soldiers from the basket and placed them atop the town of Óbidos on the Portuguese coast north of Lisbon.
Fletch moved the toy soldiers through the various battles he and Ross had seen. Ross added wry commentary along the way.
“Ah, yes, Corunna, where my first pair of boots disintegrated to dust.”
“It was about then that I decided I didn’t mind the taste of weevil. A bit like mustard.”
“I’m fairly certain we counted the leaves on trees to entertain ourselves over those weeks.”
They spoke of the reputation of the Rifles, the deadly accuracy of their aim over great distances. How theCrapaud—the French soldiers (said with a hint of contempt)—would scatter when they learned that the Rifles would join the attack.
All the while, rain pattered against the windows, and a fire popped in the hearth, attempting to bat away the chill.
