Something had happened to his ship. Too much time had passed for her not to return if she were seaworthy. The ship itself was replaceable. But the crew . ..
Tristan could not even contemplate the loss of life if theSS Statesmanhad gone down in the storm.
And still, anytime he ventured outdoors, he couldn’t help but scour the horizon for a telltale plume of smoke.
If she was with him, Isolde would take his hand and quietly wait, saying nothing. No platitudes or hollow comfort.
Just her calm, understanding strength.
One of a hundred reasons why he adored her.
They had spent the day roaming the section of the island they hadn’t yet explored, trying to find a boat or something they could use to cross to the mainland, but the abandoned buildings yielded little.
“If our supplies run too low,” Tristan had said, “we may need to dispatch a sheep for food.”
“I sincerely hope it does not come tae that.”
“Me, too. I can wield an axe, but acting the butcher might be a bit beyond my skills.”
They were quieter that evening, cuddled together before the fire.
Again, Tristan unpinned her glorious hair. It was a husband’s delight, to see his wife’s hair loose and tumbled. He ran his fingers through the mass with hypnotic repetition, admiring how the fiery strands shimmered in the firelight.
Isolde stirred against his chest.
“Tell me of Rafe,” she murmured.
He let her hair drop.
She traced her fingertips down his throat.
“I struggle to understand your antipathy toward your brother,” she continued. “Yourself and Allie would not exist were it not for Uncle Rafe’s actions, uncovering your father’s bigamy. Both you and Rafe loathe your sire, and both wish tae see his memory eradicated. Ye are similar in manner and temperament.”
“You know him much better than I.”
“Perhaps, but why do ye dislike him so? Is it due to Rafe’s close friendship with my father?”
“That certainly doesn’t help.” Tristan wrapped his hand around hers, trapping it against his chest.
She said nothing, waiting patiently.
Yes.He needed to tell her.
Taking in a deep breath, Tristan freed the words.
“Six months after my mother and Allie left, my father sent me to Eton,” he began quietly. “He had finally noticed my melancholia and wished to see it remedied.”
Eton will form you into a man, not the disappointing milksop I endure at present, Old Kendall had sneered.
“I know for many Eton is a trial,” Tristan continued. “But for me . . . it was revolutionary freedom. I had never been around so many boys at one time. They were rambunctious and loud but so full of life. My first day there, I saw a man in the visitors’ area who, at a distance, appeared to be my father.”
“Uncle Rafe,” Isolde breathed.
“Yes, but it took me a few long moments of staring to piece it together. At first, I was merely puzzled, as my father would never come to Eton to fetch me, and I worried what terror awaited me at his hand. And then I remembered. I knew my father had two sons from his bigamous marriage—George, who was the heir, and his younger brother, Lord Rafe. George perished of drunkenness when I was about six or seven. I overheard the butler whispering to the housekeeper about it . . . how George died in squalor, penniless and friendless. But Sir Rafe, as he is now known, had moved to Scotland and embraced his Scottish mother’s family.”
“Aye, his mother was a daughter of the Earl of Ayr, if I remember correctly. A lovely, Scottish lady whom Rafe adored. She passed away about a decade ago.”
“Well, I knew some of this at age eleven. And so deduced that the man who eerily resembled my father, though a bit younger, had to be my illegitimate half-brother. As I approached, I realized he was speaking with a boy my age.”
