Isolde trailed her fingertips across Tristan’s shoulder before resting her palm over his heart.
“I hate the hurt I feel within ye,” she whispered, kissing his chest beside her hand. “I hate that ye were left alone with that monster.”
“It is in the past. I thank God every day that my father is finally dead and gone.”
“Aye, but the wounds he inflicted fester still.”
Tristan said nothing; she was correct, as usual.
She kissed the place above his heart again. “We will heal them together, Husband.”
He latched onto the hope of her words.
Perhaps through the light of her care—her understanding heart—he could repair his own bruised soul.
Seven days.
An entire week.
That was how long they had been on the island.
Rain pattered against the window once more, drizzling and calm. So unlike the raging squalls of the week before.
Isolde touched her fingertips to the chilled glass panes, peering out to the beach.
Tristan was dragging more driftwood up to the cottage, his head ducked to avoid the worst of the rain.
Once more, she marveled at the change in him.
She had to press the heel of her hand to her breastbone every time she recalled his story of Rafe.
No wonder Tristan was so cold to his brother.
She could scarcely blame him, and sheknewRafe and considered him family. She knew that he had never intended the consequences of his words.
And yet, to imagine the vast well of hurt within Tristan’s heart. The boy who wasn’t loved. Who was abandoned by his mother and sister. The boy who ached for connection, for family. For the kind of adoration Isolde’s own family felt for each other.
Perhaps Tristan didn’t see it, but she did.
Out on the beach, Tristan dropped a particularly large log atop the rocks before the cottage and then turned to retrieve more.
Watching him . . . she could feel it creeping in—a fierce, possessive, adoring sort of emotion.
Abruptly she was glad he insisted they wait to fully consummate their marriage. Because she wanted to fall purposefully for him.
To know that the change in her own heart toward him was just as real as the change in his behavior toward herself, and not the product of lust or a false sense of physical connection.
Isolde turned to go heat some porridge for lunch, but something caught her eye.
She looked back at the window, squinting into the mist.
Was that . . .
Was that a boat approaching their beach?
25
DEATH IN SCOTLAND! It has been reported that the Duke and Duchess of Kendall drowned on Tuesday last in a boating accident off the west coast of Scotland. The Duke married Lady Isolde Langston not even two weeks past, and the couple were celebrating their honeymoon when a tempest overturned their rowboat. Rescuers were unable to reach them.
