He didn’t often think in Italian, but occasionally phrases surfaced, particularly when there wasn’t a similar word in English. In this case, the Italian verb—bramare.
To him,bramarefelt akin toyearningin English but more intense. It meant to long for something with a wild ferocity. An agony of yearning that was nearly all-consuming.
The verb summed up his current state with sharp accuracy.
Ti bramo.
I yearn for you.
Bramo noi.
I yearn for us.
He shifted against the door jamb and she turned.
“Good morning,” Isolde smiled. “Did ye sleep well?”
“Yes.” He wanted to cross the small space between them, slide a hand around her waist, andkiss that beautiful smile in greeting.
Instead, he settled for motioning toward the cupboard. “Will we starve, do you think?”
She shrugged, setting turnips beside the flour. “The owners were certainly low on stores. It might be why they are not here at present—the need tae restock food supplies before the autumn harvests. But look!” She beckoned him forward to peer out the window. “Chickens!”
Sure enough, six hens huddled in a small coop in the rear courtyard, trying to find shelter from the wind and rain that pummeled the landscape.
“Where there are chickens, there should be eggs.” Isolde grinned at him.
Tristan cataloged that image—the delight in her blue eyes, the window light accentuating the freckles on her nose and cheeks, the dainty point of her chin.
It filled his heart to overflowing.
As the day progressed, he added more images to those first ones, amassing an impressive collection.
Isolde kneading bread, a worn apron around her waist and flour smudges dotting her cheeks.
Isolde holding her stomach and laughing as he braved the pelting rain, trying to coax a hen off her roost to collect eggs for their lunch.
Isolde licking the side of her finger, catching warm honey as it dribbled from the crust of bread she had baked.
Tristan wished to capture the day in pictures—a series of paintings titled “An Ode to Love.” Perhaps he would even hire the famous Sir Ewan Campbell himself to paint them.
He had sensed Isolde’s eyes on him, as well.
When he turned away to complete a task—fill the heavy cooking pot with water or reach a cutting board on a high shelf—her gaze lingered. She had even watched rather brazenly as he shed his coat and stacked a supply of peat in the cold larder. Afterward, Tristan regretted not making a bigger show of flexing his muscles and bending low to pick up the weighty blocks of turf.
But all was not bliss and simplicity.
Their stores of peat and coal were sparse. If they were stranded here too many days, they would likely exhaust their ability to cook meals and heat the house. It might be summer, but isles of the Hebrides were rarely warm.
The available food was hardly plentiful—some flour, oats, onions, mealy potatoes, and a few old neeps. For meat, there was the bit of cured ham, a crock of salted mackerel, and eggs from the six chickens.
Their own clothing was still wet, specifically their shoes. The homeowners had a pair of old boots that he and Isolde took turns wearing outside, but they both required footwear. And Tristan’s watch hadn’t dried out enough to resume working. In the meantime, he kept dabbing at the gears, hoping to prevent salt water from corroding the whole. Granted, knowing the precise hour mattered little. The wee house felt like a space outside of Time.
Then it was evening once more, and they were seated before the fire, each sipping whisky in their appointed chair. Wind still battered the small cottage, but the rain appeared to be on the wane.
“When do ye ken theSS Statesmanwill return for us?” Isolde asked.Tristan leaned out of his chair, but he could only see her feet draped in a blanket for warmth and her fingers wrapped around her mug.
“As soon as she is able,” he replied, pulling a blanket atop his own legs. “The captain and crew will have sought a sheltered harbor to ride out this storm. But once it passes, they should return to collect us.”
