Isolde found it nearly bizarre, receiving the entirety of his attention. He had not lied about his disposition. He could be intense and obsessive, and she was now in the cross-hairs of it.
The emotions he stirred within her were not full-blown, capital-LLoveobviously. Not yet. Such a powerful sentiment required more time to develop.
However,giddy infatuationwould not be far off the mark.
And given the import Tristan placed on love, she would not say the words to him until she was utterly sure of her affections, no matter her own impetuous nature. He merited her honesty.
Eventually, they would escape this island sanctuary and rejoin the world. Would Tristan manage the adjustment? Or would he find it too difficult to be gentle Tristan and the mighty Duke of Kendall at once?
Pulling back, she ran her hands over his chest. “We’ll make a Scot of ye yet.”
“I consider that highly unlikely, Duchess,” he intoned in his deepestKendallvoice. “However, if it earns me such a reward, I will indulge your . . . fetish? . . . from time to time.”
She laughed and kissed him.
But she did insist he wear the kilt. “Just for the day.”
They had settled into a bit of a routine on the island.
She made breakfast.
He chopped driftwood for the fire.
She ogled him as he swung the axe.
He demanded kisses in payment for her ogling.
They argued John Locke and the writings of modern economists, like John Stuart Mill, as they collected eggs from the chickens for lunch.And then debated the sagacity of the philosopher Carl Marx as the eggs cooked over the fire.
Isolde had never really pondered what a perfect day would be, but passing the hours like this . . .
Well, it was nigh upon perfection.
They had been on Canna for four days now.
The proprietors of the cottage would return eventually. There were sheep to herd and crops to manage. Isolde and Tristan had already discussed ensuring monies were delivered to the owners to cover the cost of the stores they had used, as well as rent for their sojourn.
But most importantly . . . where was theSS Statesman?
Unless the ship had been severely damaged, or worse, why hadn’t Captain Woodbury returned for them?
Tristan didn’t wish to speak of it. “Either she will return for us, or she will not. Worrying will solve nothing.”
But Isolde could feel the anxious tension in his arms and noted how often his gaze strayed to the sea.
While walking along the beach, Tristan’s glorious kilt snapping in the wind, they did happen to see a wee sail boat skimming by the island.
Laughing, Isolde raised her hands, jumping in excitement.
The sailors waved heartily in return, spinning their caps overhead in greeting. But they did not venture close enough to hear her calls for help.
“Well, that was rather disappointing,” Isolde declared as the boat sailed from view. “Why did they not stop? We were beckoning them toward us.”
Tristan made a show of looking down at his kilt. “We are wearing the clothing of the island residents. I wonder if they assumed we were old friends calling hello.”
Hours later, Isoldefound herself before the fire, curled into her husband’s lap once more. The sun had set and twilight painted the clouds in daubs of peach and violet.
She had shown Tristan how to pull the top half of the great kilt around his shoulders, wearing it like a cloak. The plaid was long enough, he could even expand it to cover herself.
