The doctor came and went, Gray on his heels. Gray even went so far as to place a warm hand on her forehead, his own brow furrowed.
She didn’t care.
Let him watch me die, she thought. Let him see what he has wrought.
The housekeeper asked her questions that she didn’t hear.
It was Matt—dear, kind Matt—in the end, who reached a hand into the darkness and tugged her toward the barest hint of light.
Sitting beside her bed, he laid his single palm on hers.
“Come, Isla,” he said. “I cannot bear another moment of this. Neither can Gray. He has said we can away, just you and I. Somewhere free of memories. A new place. One ready to nurture our happiness.”
The next day, a footman lifted Isla into a carriage heading south to Malton Hill.
21
August 6, 1817
Kingswell House
Aberdeenshire, Scotland
Tavish stared out the library window of Kingswell House, trying to recall another time in his life when he had felt so lost, so helpless.
After his mother’s death, perhaps. Definitely that first year in the Rifles following his break with Isla.
Regardless, for a man who had spent the past seven years avoiding death through a combination of quick thinking and decisive action, such bafflement was unwelcome.
The cause of his dazed state currently sat on the back terrace, her head bent over a book, oblivious to Tavish watching her through the window.
After an afternoon and evening spent in her room, Isla had reemergedthis morning for breakfast, fresh-faced and no worse for wear after her unexpecteddookingin the lake.
She had smiled warmly at Fletch, answered the flurry of questions from the Misses Forsyth, and aside from thanking him once more for helping her from the lake, had all but ignored Tavish.
It was as things must be. He knew this.
Fletch offered Isla a life that Tavish could not . . . and that was before factoring in her substantial dowry. Fletch was the man she wanted, not Tavish.
But as he stood at the library window, staring as she turned a page, he could scarcely suppress his longing.
Aye, she had been lovely as a lass.
But now . . .
The gentle arch of her spine reminded him of tulips bending on a May breeze. Her lips moved, mouthing soundless words that might as well have been an incantation. He certainly felt ensorcelled as his gaze traced the smooth column of her throat and that one recalcitrant tendril of hair beside her chin, slipping defiantly from its curl.
But it was more than her physical beauty that arrested him. Tavish knew her soul, the tumble and turn of her mind. Every last atom of her blazing with fire and life and—
“I would recommend not letting Grayburn or Fletch see you staring at Lady Isla like that.”
The sudden voice at Tavish’s elbow caused him to start.
“Damnation, Ross!” Tavish placed a hand over his pounding heart.
Ross laughed. “I’m in earnest. Ye know better than to even glance Lady Isla’s way after Grayburn’s reaction yesterday, much less stare as if she hangs the sun and moon. Ye might have saved her life—and both of us know that can forge a powerful bond—but you will be horsewhipped or challenged to a duel if ye don’t beat a hasty retreat.”
“Aye.” Tavish swallowed around the boulder lodged in his chest—the one with the wordsI don’t want youchiseled upon it.
