“Well, for science then . . .”
Isolde was rather sure a smile wove through his words.
The mattress dipped beside her, and she heard theshushof bed drapes being pulled shut.
Her last memory was his voice at her back—
“Sleep, Wife. I shall keep you warm.”
22
Another day.
Another visit to Tristan’s own personal Hell.
He awoke slowly, daylight a gentle hum against his eyelids.
The sun is shining, was his first thought.
Mmm, I’m curled around a delectable woman, was his second.
Both of those thoughts sat happily in his brain until their import sank in.
A sunny day meant calmer seas. TheSS Statesmanwould be returning soon.
And woman?
He tipped his chin to the head that nestled against him.
Isolde.
She was tucked against him in spoon-fashion—her back to his chest, his nose touching her neck. His arm lay over her waist, holding her fast.
Daylight slipped through the drapes behind him, bouncing a shaft of cheery sun off the walls of the bed box.
Heaven help him.
The whole was such sweet torture.
He should haverefused when she asked him to stay. A man could only resist so much temptation before succumbing.
But this . . .
To awake in her bed, the one place he would choose over any other on Planet Earth . . .
He stored yet another image of Isolde for his catalog, this one entirely sensory. The press of her shoulder blades against his chest, the rise and fall of her ribs under his palm, the smell of her sleep-warmed skin.
He breathed her in.
It was simply . . . too much.
The feel of her, the longing choking his lungs.
His heart beat a staccato tattoo in his chest.
Powerless to resist, he dragged his nose across the freckles at her nape.
Soft. So soft.
