Tavish clenched his jaw. The dishonor that had fallen upon Mariah had its origins with Grayburn. And if his father was to be believed, Grayburn had deliberately led Callum down the primrose path to destruction. Yes, both his siblings had made mistakes, but the root of those mistakes lay at Grayburn’s feet.
Therefore, I offer you a reprieve. I am prepared to purchase you a commission in the 92nd Regiment. It is far better than you deserve, but I cannot have you here, sniffing around my sister. Take my offer. Leave and never return.
But know this: If I ever see you again—if you so much as breathe the same air Lady Isla breathes—I will put a bullet through your heart, damn the consequences.
Grayburn
That was it.
Tavish’s legs gave way, and he slumped to his knees on the floor. A supplicant, pleading for some glimmer of hope.
What am I to do?
The question spun in his mind, a child’s top whirring, granting him no surcease.
Whichever way he examined the situation, there was no solution. No route for him to provide for Isla without pursuing a career. The military was the best—and, possibly, his only—solution.
But . . . it would mean a separation from Isla for a time. Until he could get his feet under him and come for her. Despite Grayburn’s demands, Tavish would not agree to never return. He would forswear himself in that oath. Promising to never see Isla would be akin to pledging to hold one’s breath indefinitely—an impossible task.
No.
Grayburn could threaten all he wished, but unlike the devastation the duke had wreaked on the Balfour family, His Grace would never come between Tavish and the woman he loved.
19
August 5, 1817
Kingswell House
Aberdeenshire, Scotland
Isla stared into the fire, desperate to reorder her thoughts after her impromptu swim in the lake.
She snuggled into the warmth of a blanket around her shoulders and sipped a cup of tea. Her wet hair spilled loose, cascading down the back of her armchair and slowly drying. The housekeeper and a maid had left Isla to rest.
“Recover your strength, ye poor lamb,” the housekeeper had said.
A hot bath and a change of clothing had done wonders to restore Isla physically.
Emotionally, however . . .
She didn’t think a nap was going to cure what ailed her.
It didn’t helpmatters that Miss Crowley had talked for nine minutes without taking a breath—Isla had timed the girl—about Captain Balfour’s heroism.
“Oh, Lady Isla, you should have seen it,” she had rhapsodized, eyes glowing with hearts as Isla stood dripping in the entry hall, Lady Milmouth and the housekeeper fussing to fetch towels and arrange a bath. “The way Captain Balfour reacted when you went under. He was like an arrow flying to the mark, tossing his rifle, his hat tearing from his head. Like . . . like a hero of legend, bolting into the breach to rescue a fellow soldier from enemy fire. But instead, he raced to save the sister of his sworn enemy. ’Tis a nobleness of spirit my poor heart can scarcely fathom. Look—” She extended a shaking hand. “I tremble still. How shall I ever sleep?”
Isla wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.
But then, she could hardly fault Miss Crowley for her enthusiasm. Regardless of the boy Tavish had been or the imposing Captain Balfour he was now, the man commanded attention.
His displayhadbeen astonishing. And Isla knew him well enough to understand that if Miss Crowley had been the one to tumble into the lake, Tavish would have acted just as quickly.
I have ye, lass. Ye be safe with me.
Just remembering his rumbled words sent gooseflesh pebbling Isla’s upper arms.
For the smallest fraction of a second, when he had tugged her skirts free and surfaced to ensure she was well, he had felt likeherTavish. Wry and gentle. Open and concerned. As if the past seven years had never happened.
