But this Isla . . .
Tavish closed his eyes, bracing his hands on his knees once more.
Yearning swelled his chest like a sponge soaking up rainwater until it was nigh to bursting.
Dammit all to hell.
He loved her.
He still loved her.
Of all the moments to experience an earth-shattering truth . . . with Grayburn not even ten paces away and Fletch clucking like a mother hen over Isla.
Tavish feared he was going to be sick.
Bloody hell.
He had likely never stopped loving her.
He might have buried the emotion deep within, but she had always held the key to unlock him.
Tavish had loved the girl Isla had been. The wild unconventionality of her. The fierceness with which she met challenges.
Aye, she was no longer that girl.
But now, Tavish was rapidly coming to adore the strong, resilient woman she had become. The sort of woman to stare down the barrel of a rifle and keep her chin high. This new version of Isla might be a stranger in many ways, but Tavish already knew the heart of her. That had never and would never change.
How he loved her!
It was a part of his essence, of the very fragments that made him.
Tavish existed. Therefore, he loved Isla Kinsey.
A truth as sure as any philosopher’s aphorism.
Years. He had spent years slogging through the mud of Portugal and shedding blood in Spain. And he realized now that he had done it all in some small measure to protect her. That as long as he fought and rallied his men and became the deadliest of soldiers, she would be safe at home in Dunmore.
He had lived his life knowing that she existed. That elsewhere on this planet, she breathed and laughed and loved in some joy-filled heaven.
And that had been enough to soothe the beast of his regret.
Until now.
Ross placed a hand on his back.
“Are ye well, Balfour?” he asked, voice low.
Tavish wanted to saynae.
He managed a nod instead.
I don’t want you.
The echo of her words reverberated through him.
Aye, he might yet be sick.
Hehadto let her go.
