—article inThe London Times
Isolde clutched the side of the masted fishing boat, staring as the port of Oban drew near. Rows of fishing cottages ringed the horseshoe-shaped harbor, the slopes of Ben Cruachan rising behind.
Most importantly, the tall smoke-stack of theSS Statesmanloomed over the fishing boats clustered against the wooden pier.
She had felt more than heard Tristan’s sigh of relief upon spotting his ship.
Positioned at the bottomof the Great Glen with the large Isle of Mull between it and the open sea, Oban’s sheltered waters ensured it was a bustling stop for boats plying the canals of the Great Glen to Inverness or merely a way-station for fishing vessels, like the Loch Fyne skiff in which Isolde currently sat beside her husband.
“Nearly there,” she murmured to Tristan.
Her husband nodded, stiff and straight-backed. Like herself, he appeared rumpled, unkempt, and anxious.
The sails overhead snapped in the breeze.
The caretakers of the island had been astonished to find the Duke and Duchess of Kendall inhabiting their home.
“We were attending my sister’s wedding on Skye,” the woman, Mrs. Thorburn, had said, red hair gleaming from underneath her bonnet as she bobbed an awkward curtsy to Isolde. “’Twas only yesterday, as we were leaving, that we heard an English duke and duchess had drowned north of Oban.”
“Aye,” Mr. Thorburn added. “We never suspected that ye would have found shelter in our home. I imagine they be rightworritabout yous back in London.”
Almost mutely, Isolde and Tristan had changed into their own clothing, Mrs. Thorburn helping Isolde with her corset strings.
“Such fine fabric,” the woman had murmured, running a hand down the wrinkled superfine of Isolde’s voluminous skirt. Without her layers of stiffened horsehair petticoats, the material dragged on the floor.
Isolde made a mental note to dispatch Mrs. Thorburn an entire wardrobe’s worth of muslins and soft wool as a thank-you for their hospitality.
Once dressed, Mr. Thorburn had sailed them to Tobermory, a small fishing village on the east coast of the Isle of Mull. From there, Tristan had secured a fishing boat to sail them into Oban, where they understood his steamship had berthed for repairs.
The closer they drew to Oban, the quieter Tristan became. Was this his Kendall-self rising up, Isolde had to wonder.
But he held her hand tightly. And when their fishing boat docked, he scrambled onto the pier and reached to help her ashore.
Heads turned their way and fingers pointed as they made their way across the dusty road and to the only hotel in sight—the creatively named Oban Inn.
Tristan greeted the innkeep and requested their finest suite of rooms. “For the Duke and Duchess of Kendall,” he intoned, sounding every inch the powerful duke he was.
The innkeep’s eyes widened into saucers, and he hastened to lead them to their rooms.
Surely by nightfall, every living soul within a ten-mile radius would know that the missing duke and duchess had not drowned but were instead bedraggled and warming their toes before a fire in the inn’s nicest suite.
The suite of rooms was indeed large—a sitting room, dressing room, and bedchamber with an imposing tester bed. The furnishings were typical of the Highlands—utilitarian, spare, and at least a hundred years old. But the rooms appeared brightly scrubbed, the linens crisp and white.
“I have ordered a bath drawn for you, followed by a warm dinner in the private dining room downstairs,” Tristan declared, his tone stern and aloof.
Her husband pulled his pocket-watch from his waistcoat pocket. With a frown, he checked the clock ticking on the fireplace mantel.
“Are ye not staying with me?” Isolde glanced out the window toward the evening sun. “At least tae dine?”
“No,” he said, eyes on his watch, fingers spinning the dial to set the time. “I must consult with Captain Woodbury immediately and understand the state of affairs aboard theSS Statesman. I am sure my cook will prepare dinner on ship. Of course, I shall send over your ladies’ maid immediately to attend to you.”
“Very well. I shall join ye aboard ship as soon as I am bathed and more properly dress—”
“No, I should prefer you to remain here.” Snapping the watch case closed, he returned it to his pocket and finally lifted his head to look at her.
“Tristan,” Isolde began, reproach in her tone. “I should like tae be with ye. To know what has occurred with your ship.”
He visibly softened, face turning tender and his shoulders losing their military sharpness.
