Tristan simply couldn’t permit that to happen.
They needed to find a solution, a compromise they both accepted.
Looking at her across the small dining table, the morning light haloing her head, firmed his resolve.
He loved this woman.
And he would fight for the future that—
An enormous cheering roar went up from the harbor.
Frowning, Tristan looked to the window.
Isolde rose. He followed, peering out to the pier over her shoulder.
A newly-arrived clipper ship was anchored in the bay—a sleek, modern boat built for speed. Passengers from the boat were being welcomed onto the pier amid clapping and shouts.
“Whatever is going on?” Tristan groused.
“I can’t say.” Isolde popped onto her tiptoes, squinting through the windowpane. “Perhaps, some sailor or soldier has returned—”
His wife broke off on a keening cry.
She whirled for the door, wrenching it open.
“Isolde!” Tristan called after her.
He exited the private dining room just in time to see her race out the front door of the inn.
“Isolde!” he yelled.
But she heeded him not, sprinting decidedly un-duchess-like across the road and pushing into the gathered crowd.
What the devil!
Scowling, Tristan followed, his heart beating in his throat.
Had she no sense?! She could be hurt—
However, the crowd parted for her, like Moses commanding the Red Sea, an undulating wave of people cheering and celebrating.
Above it, Tristan heard Isolde’s wailing cry—“Papa! Papa!”
Hadley’s tall, graying head separated from the throng.
“Isolde? Izzy?!” the Scot gasped, eyes rapt. A gusting sob left him. “Praise God! Izzy! You’re alive!”
Isolde launched herself into her father’s arms. Hadley wrapped her against him with fierce emotion, burying his face in her hair.
Even at a distance, Tristan could hear the earl’s wrenching sobs.
The surrounding villagers reached for handkerchiefs, wives collapsing on husbands’ chests, weeping. A pair of young boys raced in and out, whooping as if welcoming a conquering hero.
It was all rather . . .
Well.
Trust Hadley to make a scene.
