A dent appeared between Ross’s brows. “Why so glum?”
Tavish tried to smile, to summon a quip that would assure Ross of Tavish’s indifference toward Isla.
Instead, he grimaced and looked away before Ross could see the misery etched into his face. His friend knew him well enough to logic his way to the truth.
And even then, Tavish couldn’t stop his gaze from drifting back to Isla once more.
In his periphery, Ross’s eyes widened to the size of saucers.
“No.” His friend’s chin went up.
Tavish said nothing.
“No, no, no.” Ross shook his head before glancing to Isla and then back to Tavish. “Surely, what I’m thinking cannot be true.”
Tavish managed a deep breath, but no more. He feared he couldn’t speak without the yearning in his chest erupting outward.
And maybe, just maybe, he was tired of no one else knowing the reality of his pain.
Ross grabbed his arm, forcibly turning him away from the window and Isla, brow furrowed as he dragged Tavish back into the gloom of the library.
“Ye forget how well I know ye. I can tell when you be keeping a secret, ye bawbag,” Ross hissed. “Ye must tell me I’m wrong. Because my brain has drawn a straight line between several facts. One, ye grew up on lands adjacent to Grayburn’s. Two, ye seem to be a wee bit preoccupied with Lady Isla. Three, ye be secretly married. And four, ye don’t want anyone to know of your secret marriage to protect your lady wife. Tell me, Tavish Balfour, that there are no links between these four things. I need to be assured that the mind-numbing revelation I am experiencing is ludicrous.”
Unable to summon words, Tavish merely looked at his friend, letting all the misery of his soul flood his face.
Ross staggered back a step, jaw flapping open for a solid six seconds. Again, his eyes darted from Tavish to Isla and then back to Tavish.
“Ye bloodyeejit!” Ross hissed. “Do ye want to die?!”
Tavish sighed and crossed back to the window. Ross followed.
Isla had loosened her bonnet ribbons to reveal a wee strip of skin between the bottom of the bonnet and the collar of her dress—a delectable two inches of her nape that Tavish longed to kiss.
“Grayburn is going to kill ye,” Ross said.
“He will try.”
“Ye still love her.”
“Aye.” Tavish lifted a helpless hand in her direction, as if to say,How could any man resistthat?
“Why aren’t ye fighting to preserve your marriage?”
“And how would I do that, Ross? Spirit her away to live in a cabin in rural Pennsylvania? I don’t have the means to support a highborn lady. Besides, she doesn’t want me.”
“How do you know that?”
Tavish gave Ross alook. “Because she said, and I quote, ‘I don’t want you.’”
Ross winced. “Och, but you love her.”
“Aye. More than life. But when ye truly love someone, ye want their happiness. And if that happiness doesn’t involve yourself, then ye give them the happiness they do want. I love Isla enough to grant her freedom. I want her to find the sort of love I feel for her.”
Ross snorted, scrubbing a hand over his face. “And just when we all thought ye couldn’t possibly be any more bloody noble. Fletch is . . .Och, bollocking hell! Fletch!”
“Aye. Fletch.” Tavish shot Ross a side-eye. “Isla made me promise not to tell him. She wishes to control when and how he learns of this.”
Silence for a long beat.
