It had been terrifyingly disorienting. The sense of something long dormant shaking awake.
But then she had touched him, and the aura disintegrated. This Tavish was too big, too strong. The hard planes of his chest under her palm had been . . . astonishing.
And now, hours on, Isla felt . . .
Oh, what did she feel?
Confused, certainly. Overwhelmed. Unsure.
The longer she was in his company, the harder it became to separate the Tavish of then from the Tavish of now.
On a sigh, she shifted in her chair, setting down her teacup and tucking her feet underneath her.
Her logical brain knew that a life with Tavish wasn’t what she wanted. She had a crystal-clear vision for her future—Malton Hill with tenants’ needs to address and the resilient woman she was there. A future that didn’t involve living in poverty with a Scot, no matter how physically alluring, compelling, or skilled with a rifle.
But her heart . . .
Her heart was a shambles. The girl she had been longed for him still, for the joy and happiness they had once shared. She probably always would.
And yet, Isla recognized that even her remembered joy and happiness were likely a counterfeit. A replacement for the love lost with her mother’s death. A heady combination of tasting a forbidden fruit and rebelling against Gray’s abrupt cooling in demeanor.
A knock sounded on her bedchamber door.
“Come,” she called.
Her brother stepped into the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Thinking of Gray . . .
“Are you recovered?” he asked without preamble.
As usual, he was dressed to perfection, not a hair out of place. She had soaked through his greatcoat when he lifted her from the lake, dampening his jacket. Surely, he had cursed her name for spotting his attire.
“Yes. I am quite well, simply tired and chilled,” she returned.
He nodded, gaze assessing, his hazel eyes turbulent. His father’s hazel eyes. A color so very different from Isla’s own blue or the green of their mother. A forever reminder that Isla was not a Kinsey in truth.
Gray crossed to the window, limping slightly. The sight did not portend a calm conversation about her health.
Her brother surveyed the late afternoon light, but his hands twitched, tugging ends of his coat sleeves, as if desperate to cast them from his body.
Once, Isla would have fretted over the volatility of his moods. Now, she simply wished to no longer be subjected to them.
Silence stretched.
Gray had come for a purpose. He would get to the point.
“You will do me the courtesy of stating how you learned to swim,” he said at last.
Ah.
So that was his concern.
Not a question or a request, of course. A demand.
“What does it matter how I learned, Gray? The skill saved my life. Every lady should know how to swim.”
Gray whirled on her, fire igniting in his gaze. The setting sun poured through the window beside him, burnishing his hair and turning it into a lion’s mane.
