Duty and coin in Ledger’s pocket.
Tristan’s corpse would simply be one more matter to address, like ordering coal for the fires of Gilbert House or requesting a contract from a solicitor.
Nothing that involved emotions, certainly.
In stark contrast, Hadley continued to hug Isolde, still weeping openly and touching her hair, her chin, her shoulder . . . as if he could scarcely believe she were real.
“I did send word of your demise to Lady Allegra in Aberdeen,” Ledger continued. “I sincerely hope we can dispatch a message today to assure her of your safe arrival. I anticipate she will be beside herself with grief.”
“I have already seen it done, Ledger.” A letter to his sister had departed at first light, as well as one from Isolde to her family.
“Excellent, Your Grace.”
The villagers lining the dock whooped once more.
“My Izzy lives!” Hadley bellowed to the crowed, his arm around Isolde’s waist. “Let me treat ye all to a dram or four tae celebrate her safe return.”
The throng roared its approval, every one streaming toward the Oban Inn, Hadley and Isolde in their midst.
They swept right past Tristan where he stood with Ledger—sailors hooting and women spinning one another in a jig.
No one looked in their direction. Specifically . . . not Isolde.
Her red head turned left and right, accepting well wishes and congratulations, but not once did she scan as if seeking for him.
Look back, Tristan willed.Look back and see me. Remember the island. Remember that I am here.
But she did not.
Instead, she rested her head on her father’s shoulder, sinking into his love as readily as she had sunk into Tristan’s own just yesterday.
She did not turn to search for him.
No.
But Hadley did.
As the pair reached the door’s inn, the earl swiveled his head, unerringly finding Tristan’s gaze.
Hadley’s eyebrows rose and a faint smile touched his lips, but it was difficult to discern the earl’s expression at a distance. Fury? Gloating? Triumph?
Regardless, Tristan felt it as sharply as a rapier strike. Yet another jab in the never-ending war between himself and the Scot.
For her part, Isolde skipped into the inn, deliriously happy to be in her father’s care once more.
Tristan utterly forgotten.
He knew it was unfair. Melodramatic, even.
Isolde had experienced a shock at Hadley’s unexpected arrival.
Shedidfeel a vague sort of fondness for Tristan himself. He knew this. Even so, her affections paled when held beside the vastness of Tristan’s love forher.
And more significantly, her own tremendous love for her father.
The unevenness stung.
Tristan could feel bitterness and resentment creeping in. The same gnawing emotions that gripped him whenever he watched Sir Rafe interact with his son. The same feeling he had experienced on his wedding day, observing Isolde with her family.
