“I didn’t think ye would be the sort taecooriedown and cuddle for a wee while.”
“Neither did I, Duchess,” he laughed, softly. “But I rather delight in holding you close.”
21
Curled into Tristan’s chest, Isolde struggled to sort through the emotions flowering like snowdrops in her chest.
Whatwasshe feeling precisely?
Wariness and concern quickly surfaced—both for the abrupt change in her husband’s behavior, as well as questions as to its longevity.
But she was fascinated, too, by the complexity that lay beneath his stern exterior—teasing and gruff honesty.
In turn, this engendered a desire to know that complex man further.
But most of all, she felt astonishment over his calm declaration—
I thought you the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. I still do.
Isolde would hear the echo of those words on her deathbed. The shock of them—uttered so matter-of-factly in his gravelly, aristocratic voice—had obliterated every other thought from her head.
Impossible.
Impossible he had thought that of her then.
Impossible that every time Tristan had looked at her with judgment and repugnance in his gaze, he had also been pondering her beauty.
Yet, he held her now as if she were treasured.
He cradled her gently, her forehead tucked into the hollow between his shoulder and his throat, the worn wool of his borrowed homespun jacket soft under her cheek.
It had been an unusual day, the two of them focused solely on each other and what they must do to survive. And yet, Isolde could not remember when she had last enjoyed the passing hours so thoroughly. Perhaps Christmas Day with her family?
It had been bizarre to see Tristan without the trappings of his dukedom. Instead of frowning judgmentally at the humble fare she cooked or complaining about the spartan nature of their surroundings, he had rolled up his sleeves and set to. As if they were a team. Or a . . . couple.
Aye, he had been quiet. She doubted Tristan would ever be overly-talkative, like Allie’s husband, Ethan Penn-Leith.
Instead, he strangely reminded her of Ethan’s older brother, Mr. Malcolm Penn-Leith. The sort of man who said little but exuded calm and competence in equal measure.
Though in Tristan’s case, that calm and competence were intertwined with the commanding power of a dukedom. After all, one did rather anticipate him throwing open a door and barking commands at a small regiment.
Yet, if he thought her beautiful . . . well, then she could be ruthlessly honest with herself—
She found Tristan devastatingly attractive. Any woman with a beating pulse would find him so—enigmatic, brooding, and swathed in authority. It was a potent combination.
Isolde felt as if she had ensorcelled a lion. And though delightful to have tamed a menacing beast, she was also wary of said enchantment’s duration.
“If ye have always found me so lovely, why were yecrabbitwith myself, particularly after our marriage?” She adjusted her head on his shoulder, soaking in the strength of his body, the delicious feel of his muscled arm around her.
“I was ill-tempered over our situation, not yourself specifically.”
Skepticism rose along with her eyebrows. She wasn’t quite sure she believed him, but she let the explanation pass.
“And before our marriage?” she asked. “Yeloathedme. Those were your precise words.”
A long sigh rattled his chest beneath her ear. His arm around her waist tightened and his other hand came to rest atop her legs, just above her knees. His thumb absently drew circles on her thigh, sparking electrical currents with each sweep.
Surely Newtonian law could describe the sensation mathematically, but Tristan’s touch scattered her wits so thoroughly, she currently struggled to remember her own name.
