Hallelujah.
Isla grasped onto that thought with both hands, holding it as the lifeline it was.
She didn’t have to stay here and endure the edge of Gray’s bitterness. His vitriol for their mother’s heartless betrayal of the old duke. The humiliations that Isla’s very existence caused.
Tavish would save her. He would enfold her in his arms and promise all would be well, vowing she never had to see Gray again. Together, they would steal away, leaving her brother and all his terrible words far behind.
Isla merely had to reach her husband.
16
August 5, 1817
Kingswell House
Aberdeenshire, Scotland
Two hours later, the guests convened on a long stretch of grass behind the house.
Isla found herself walking beside the other young ladies, all of whom bounced with excitement over the impending shooting competition.
Miss Crowley was in particular alt. “Look! My hands tremble from exhilaration, and the gentlemen have yet to begin.”
Isla stood to one side as the former soldiers sat on stools, assessing and preparing their weapons and shot. In addition to the three officers, both Gray and Lord Milmouth intended to try their hands at shooting targets. Sir John Forsyth had begged off participating, claiming a dodgy shoulder, but still appeared eager to watch the contest.
Lord Milmouth was directing servants to set up the shooting range.
Gray watched everything with equanimity, hands clasped behind his back as he spoke with Sir John. A footman stood behind the gentlemen, a rifle for the duke leaning against his shoulder. Heaven forfend that Isla’s brother dirty his person with the mechanics of preparing a weapon. That was a job for servants.
She longed to roll her eyes.
The three officers had changed into their uniforms. Isla had never seen the uniform of the 95th Rifles. She was unsure what she had expected, but the somber green of their attire was not it. The entire uniform was green—from trousers to coat to trim to the top of their tall, conical hats.
Didn’t British soldiers typically wear red-and-white uniforms? They were called “redcoats” for a reason, after all.
Miss Forsyth had the same question, which Captain Ross happily answered.
“Aye, ye do have the right of it, Miss Forsyth. Generally, army soldiers do wear red.” He sighted down his rifle. “But we Rifles creep in advance of the main body of troops and disable enemy officers before engaging in the field. The green of our uniforms helps us blend into the forest and shrubs, aiding our stealth.”
Oh.
That sounded . . .
Isla swallowed.
Disable? Surely, he meanteliminate. Andaiding our stealthseemed a more pleasant way of saying,ensuring we were difficult to see and kill.
Her eyes strayed to Captain Balfour. The uniform was close-cut, accentuating the ridiculous breadth of his shoulders and the strength of his arms. He lifted his rifle to his eye, sighting down the barrel with practiced ease. As if he had done so a thousand times or more. Which . . . he probably had.
She hated this—witnessing the actions that had changed her Tavish into Captain Balfour. She hated knowing the suffering and terror and slaughter—the repetitive actions, again and again—that formed him into this aloof, stern soldier.
Most importantly, she hated that he hadchosenthis. He chose to leave her and enlist in the army. He chose to join the Rifles. He chose to become this . . . this calculating warrior.
Isla looked away to the surrounding trees before Gray caught her staring.
Like its grand counterparts south of the border, the landscape of Kingswell House was an elegant combination of natural beauty and deliberately curated wilderness. The lawn stretched into the distance, a long rectangular strip. To the left, a row of pine trees rimmed the grass. To the right, the lawn ran into a lake of deliberate design. The water’s even bank and charming center island—complete with a miniature gothic-arched folly—proclaimed the whole to be man-made. The architect, likely some protégé of Inigo Jones, had even constructed a lovely wooden bridge to connect the bank with the island. The bridge arched high over the water, its picturesque wooden railing covered in clinging moss.
But despite borrowing elements from estates farther south, no one would mistake this for English scenery. The mountains quickly rose to the west, looming over the small glen. Instead of oaks or beech, Scots pines with prickly needles and wide-spreading branches towered overhead. If England’s hills and valleys murmured a polite “How do you do?”, Scotland’s glens and granite cliffs brandished a dirk and barked, “Och, what ye be doin’ on ma land?!”
