Lifting a hand, he traced the air over each vulnerable bump, his finger only half an inch above them.
So delicate.
So fragile.
So tenuous.
A testament to how close they both had come to death.
I would have died for her.
The very thought rocked him back on his heels.
But . . . it was truth.
He would have died to save her life.
He nearlyhaddied.
Because . . . it would be simply unbearable . . . living in a world where her light—her bright, joyous light—no longer existed.
Worse than losing power in Lords.
Worse than failing to expunge his father from history.
Tristan had already suffered both of those calamities, and they paled in comparison to the imagined prospect of losing Isolde.
Forcing his hands back to the task, he continued to loosen the Gordian knot of the laces.
His mind traveled a similar path, thoughts untangling into vivid clarity.
What a bloody fool he had been.
Winning her affection would prove a difficult road.
Impossible, perhaps.
But if he were willing to die for her . . .
Then surely he could fight to prove himself a gentleman worthy of her love.
Like the frigid Atlantic churning outside the window, another tidal wave swept overtop him.
Metaphorical but no less powerful.
It cascaded through his veins, invading muscle and bone, shattering the rigid control that a lifetime of Old Kendall’s cruelty had wrought.
And behind that cleansing water . . . swirling and eddying in its wake . . .
He felt chaotic and messy and fervent and . . . and wanting.
So. Much. Want.
It swamped him. A vast sea ofwantwishdesireso wide and so deep it was all he could do to breathe through the rushing tide.
Eyes closing, he swayed forward, his hands stilling in their task, a knuckle pressing against the corset cover.
Like that long ago day of their first meeting, he wanted a lifetime with her.
