The red and blue of the wool wrapped around his lean hips, the whole cinched tight with a belt and a sporran hanging front and center. He currently only wore his shirtsleeves and one of the mysterious owner’s homespun waistcoats. Instead of using a brooch to secure the top half of the kilt at his shoulder, Isolde left the long tails to hang behind, ending at the top of his boots.
Neither of them had gone back to wearing their own attire. Isolde’s corset and bodice were too tight-fitting to easily knead bread and gathereggs. And the fine fabric of Tristan’s trousers would not withstand the rigors of their island existence.
And so they both continued to wear borrowed clothing.
“You have been staring for far too long, Wife.” Tristan glared at her. “And there is no mirror, so I cannot say if I look presentable or, the more probable scenario, utterly ridiculous—like an Englishman being attacked by tartan.” He twisted trying to see the entirety of the kilt.
“Ye don’t look ridiculous.”
“Isolde.”
“Tristan.”
“How do I appear then?”
Mmm. Delicious? Edible?
She went with, “Magnificent. It truly is a disservice tae Scottish lassies everywhere that ye were born aSassenach.”
She gave a coquettish purse of her lips and pretended to fan herself.
“Is that so?”
“Aye.”
“Come here, then,” he ordered in that demandingKendallvoice he knew rendered her weak in the knees. “I need more convincing that you truthfully appreciate the kilt.”
Och, he was a quick study, she would give him that.
He had been ordering her about for the past day in that voice.
Sit,while patting his knee.
Eat,setting a well-honeyed slice of bread before her.
Kiss me, pointing at his lips.
Sometimes mere minutes apart.
And in each instance, Isolde hastened to obey like a child scampering down the stairs on Christmas morning.
Now, she saucily approached him, extra sway in her hips, knowing it would earn her a thorough kiss.
Tristan did not disappoint, pulling her into his arms and bending his head to hers.
As ever, she melted into him, hands circling his waist and fisting his shirt.
Every kiss felt like the first with him—electric and thrilling.Intoxicating.
And with each one, something warm and lush unfolded in her chest.
This man.
Oh, how she could come to love him. Domineering and demanding, but gentle and warm. Clever, witty, and hard-working.
Isolde knew herself to be strong-willed. It was one of the reasons she had assumed she would not marry. For her, any true marriage would require a man strong enough to match her will. One who would not be intimidated or overrun by her brash personality.
Tristan met her as an equal.
