Years of arrogant behavior could not be erased with just a few pretty words.
But if he was committed to change—to finding himself as Tristan once more—she would help him in any way she could.
And given what she had seen of Tristan so far . . .
She could tumble headlong into love with him.
“If ye will not speak with me about my father, which”—she held out a hand to stem his protestations—“I ken tae be a trying subject. For now, let us start easier. Tell me about your studies at Oxford, and I shall tell ye about mine at Broadhurst.”
He swallowed and nodded in agreement.
It proved an engaging topic.
He described studying mathematics and physics at Balliol College. She recounted her own studies of engineering.
“Consider engineering tae bephysics in application, if ye must,” she quipped.
That somehow veered off into a conversation about Mr. Charles Darwin and his voyage aboard theH.M.S. Beagle. Apparently, they had both been avidly following Mr. Darwin’s publications about the flora and fauna of the Galapagos.
Three hours passed in a blink, the fire extinguishing entirely and their limbs stiff and sore from sitting in the darkness.
And still, they talked.
Somewhere in Tristan’s description of Mr. Darwin’s thoughts on the geologic structure of coral reefs, Isolde drifted off to sleep.
She woke with a start at the sound of footfalls.
Tristan was carrying her upstairs, cradled against his chest as if she weighed no more than a child.
“I can walk,” she murmured.
“No. Let me carry you.”
Mmm, she liked the sound of that.
The feel of cold sheets under her head shook her awake once more.
“Thank ye.” She burrowed under the counterpane and tucked deeper into the bed box, mourning the loss of his body’s heat.
“My pleasure,” he rumbled in return.
She could scarcely see him, as they had no candles. But still, she sensed him turn to leave.
Unthinking, she reached for his hand, seizing it in her own.
“Stay,” she whispered. “Just tae sleep, nothing more.”
“Isolde . . .”
“Ye needn’t touch me if it’s too difficult, but the night is cold and Fourier’s equation of thermal conductivity needs more testing, I ken.”
“Is that so?”
“Aye. ’Twould be for science.”
“Me sleeping in this bed with you?”
“I do appreciate your intelligence.”
