His eyebrows drew down. “And you . . . appreciate this voice?”
“When ye be ordering me tae kiss yourself? Aye. I like it very much.” She ran her fingertips over the night whiskers stubbling his jaw. “Think of all the delightful things ye could order me tae do.”
A faint blush tinged his cheeks. “You will be the death of me, woman.”
She laughed and gently kissed his throat.
He sighed, his shoulders relaxing under her hands. And when he spoke next, she heard Tristan.
“As I said last night, Isolde, I wish us to have a true marriage. A love match, as it were.” Once more, he braced an elbow above her head, his other hand gently cupping her cheek. “I want us to forge something genuine and lasting. So I will wait until you are ready to meet me where I am.”
“Ye be asking me tae trust yourself.”
“I suppose that I am.”
He pressed the tenderest kiss to her lips before pushing off the wall and walking into the parlor.
Isolde blinked. Her mind could scarcely process the flood of new information.
Again, she followed him, leaning a shoulder into the door jamb and watching as he pulled his shirt over his head.
“I should like such a marriage, Tristan. But as I believe we touched on last night, creating a true relationship between us—a deep connection as friends—will take time.”
“I am painfully aware of that.” He was back to using hisKendallvoice again.
He tucked in his shirt with brisk jabs, pulling his braces over his shoulders. His eyes did not meet hers.
As if . . .
Ah.
Of course.
He had been emotionally vulnerable and now felt unsettled and embarrassed, acutely conscious that he had handed her a great degree of power.
She needed to tread gently.
Moving out of the doorway, Isolde picked up his jacket and held it open for him. It felt a rather wifely thing to do.
He slid his arms into the sleeves and then turned around to face her. She pressed a soft kiss to his mouth.
On a sigh, he tucked her against the length of his body, his arms holding her with reverence.
They stood like that for a long while, her cheek resting in the crook of his shoulder, gently swaying back and forth to thethumpof his heart.
Finally, Isolde stirred and lifted her palms to his lapels, peering up at him.
His brown eyes met hers, unguarded and tentative.
“Will it . . .” he began and then paused before continuing on a swallow. “Will it be possible, do you suppose? For you to ever . . .”
“Love ye? Aye, Tristan Gilbert.”
“Truly?”
Foolish man.
“The husband I have seen here in the cottage . . . attentive and candid and listening . . .thatman would be easy tae love.”
