Suddenly, Grayburn was in front of them, wrapping Isla in his greatcoat to preserve her modesty and lifting her out of the water. But not before Tavish got a glimpse of her lush body from behind, the dripping muslin of her gown quite translucent.
Oof.
Yet one more thing to haunt his dreams.
“Thank you, Balfour,” Fletch said, as Tavish stood in the water to his waist, catching his breath. “Your bravery and abilities know no bounds.”
Grayburn, predictably, snorted as he set his sister on her feet on the grass.
Fletch frowned. “Come now, Grayburn. Even you must admit that we just witnessed a tremendous act of heroism. How many times must we tell you: Balfour isalwayslike this. The finest shot. The first into the breach of danger. The clearest head amid a crisis.”
“’Twas miraculous to witness,” Lord Milmouth added. “Such quick thinking. You saved the lady’s life, Captain Balfour.”
“Indeed, you did.” Fletch turned to Tavish. “Lady Isla appeared stuck, and you freed her. Thank goodness her ladyship knows how to swim.” He shot Grayburn a bright smile. Because who else would have taught the lady to swim?
And still, Grayburn said nothing. Though he did give Tavish a look of such bitter vitriol, it could strip paint. The duke ushered Isla away from the bank, limping as he walked away.
Frown deepening, Fletch turned to follow them, asking after Lady Isla.
It was left to Ross to extend a hand and pull Tavish from the lake.
“Like Fletch said, always the hero,” his friend said with a wry smile.
Tavish stepped onto the grassy bank. Water sluiced off his body,weighing down the wool of his regimentals and squishing between his toes in his boots.
The panic of the moment over, he started to shiver.
Damnation.
Ross grabbed his shoulder. “Are ye well?”
Tavish nodded, bending and bracing his hands on his knees to stem the trembling. Combat had always been like this—a few minutes of tense, calculated action followed by a shaking nervous attack once the danger had passed.
Taking a few more deep breaths, Tavish managed to stand upright.
“It still catches me off-guard, even after all this time,” Ross continued.
“Pardon?”
“Your ability to react instantly to a crisis. It’s almost preternatural. Ye were nearly in the lake by the time the rest of us gentlemen even realized something was amiss. Nothing escapes ye.”
Not where my wife is concerned, at least, Tavish thought, the words sour.
He glanced to where Isla stood, shivering in Grayburn’s coat.
Ross followed his looking. “Lady Isla appears to be in decent spirits. Wet and cold, but no harm done.”
Tavish grunted.
He took a few steps, grimacing as the water squelched in his boots.
Blast.
It was going to take some work to save his footwear. Fortunately, they were sturdy leather. Only an idiot wore boots that couldn’t get wet, given the Scottish weather. But this was a bit extreme.
Granted, focusing on his boots was merely a distraction from everything else. The terror that Isla had been hurt. The sense of their years apart slipping away. The press of her body against his once more.
His hands thrummed with the lingering feel of her. The soft give of her skin, the generous curve of her waist. That was new. The Isla of his memories had been slight, more girl than woman.
