The scene was even better from here.
The same arms that had held her so tenderly the night before now swung an axe with brutal efficiency, the motion smooth and practiced.
Why had a duke learned to use an axe? Surely Tristan had an army of woodsmen to do such tasks. And yet, the motion was too practiced, too fluid to be anything but the result of years of muscle memory.
Ropy sinews snaked down his arms, and the straps of his braces framed his pectorals as if they were a painting hung in the National Gallery. All the man lacked was a kilt to be considered a proper Highlander. Perhaps she could coax him into one. Hadn’t she seen a length of tartan in the chest upstairs, just waiting to be folded into afeileadh mòr—a great kilt?
And this beautifully-formed man was her husband! For the first time, she felt a wave of gratitude thathewas the man she had married in the end.
Isolde intended to boil some porridge and summon him for breakfast.
Instead, she fetched a wee bit of vinegar and a rag to clean the glass windowpanes. Just . . . to ensure the vista was as clear as possible.
Perhaps . . . bread would be a better option for breaking their fast.
Yes.
And if she had a view while kneading the dough . . . well, so much the better.
Bloody hell.
Tristan had needed this.
The steady repetition of swinging the axe, the satisfyingthunkof steel cutting into wood, the aching burn in his muscles.
As usual, the exertion focused his thinking while the cool breeze and warm sun soothed his fevered skin. Invigorating and cleansing.
Over and over he swung the axe, feeling like a madman. As if only by exhausting himself, he might purge the worst of his longing.
Swing.Thunk.
Swing.Thunk.
He demolished one log and traipsed down to the beach for another. And then another. When thirsty, he drank from the rock-lined spring off the back door, even dumping the cold water over his head at one point.
As usual, the physical labor quieted his mind, rendering the world a far-off buzz. Nothing intruded.
No thoughts ofwhat iforif only.
Just the sound of wind and waves and the bite of the axe.
Eventually, something flickered in the corner of his eye, a flash of white.
“Tristan!” a voice called, breaking through his trance.
He paused, resting the butt of his axe on the ground, chest heaving with exertion.
Isolde.
Waving a white handkerchief to get his attention.
His hungry eyes drank her in, as if he hadn’t seen her in days instead of hours. Her hair looped her head in a crown, the same blue gown hugging her curves, the same eighteen inches of calf and ankle on delectable display.
And yet, as ever, she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.
The yearning within him surged to the surface, uncaring that he had just spent half a day working himself to exhaustion.
Would it never end? This dumbstruck sense of amazement and awe whenever he saw her?
