In a flash, he realized the spare, final truth.
He had fallen.
From the first moment he had turned and laid eyes on Isolde in Montacute’s garden—
That had been the beginning of the end.
He had never stopped falling.
Every claim he had ever made to dislike her had been a lie. Lies upon lies he had told himself to somehow bury the truth—
She was the woman for him.
She always had been and always would be.
He loved her.
Howhe loved her.
Her fire, her intelligence, her vivacity, her strength.
Hallelujahthey were married!
On a deep breath, he continued with his task, tugging a lace free.
He wanted all of her.
Her laughter, her adoration, her heart.
He wanted her face to light with happiness when he entered the room, or every time her eyes opened to his of a morning. He wanted her to run to him after days spent apart, as eager for his company as he was for hers.
He wanted to make her laugh until her sides ached, to bathe her in joy, to keep her safe within the arc of his care.
And for the first time in . . . ever . . . a different future crystallized.
In this future, he and Isolde cuddled together in a warm bed, her face pressed to his chest, shoulders shaking with hilarity. Or they were sitting before the fire of an evening, talking philosophy and reaching for books to support their arguments.
A child intruded on the scene. And then two. And then four . . . girls with ragged red braids, boys with torn trousers and sticky fingers.
Tristan wanted that.
He wanted to drink in love and hope, like a child gulping down limepunch on a hot summer’s day. To drown in adoration of her and the life they would make together. To fill her days with devotion.
A marriage of true minds.
To become one.
The longing for that future burned in his blood, an agony of yearning so acute, he trembled.
Pulling the final lace free, he swayed forward, helpless with the need to press his lips to her nape. To express with his body the hunger scouring his heart.
Thankfully, he paused before actually touching her.
But his lips hovered there, over the first pearl of her spine, aching to taste her skin.
She stilled, surely able to feel the heat of his breath.
And he hated it. The tense wariness she displayed in his presence.
