Yet alongside the wonder and reverence, a sense of desperate terror lurked.
Making love to his wife had profoundly deepened his adoration of her. Even now, he trembled at the thought that she may never return his affections.
She had said she could perhaps come to love him . . . that day of their first kiss on the island.
But if she never did—if she never came to love him fully—could he continue to adore her? Or was hope so intertwined with love that, without one, the other would wither and die?
Please let her learn to love me in truth, he silently pleaded.Just this one person. Just this once. Please let her become fully mine.
Another sob ripped from his chest, emerging from a churning wellspring of anguish and heartache. Of terror and hope.
Damn and blast.
He needed to stop, to cease these unmanly tears and—
Isolde turned in his arms.
He expected her to say something. To ask if all was well. To express consternation at his weeping.
Instead, she gathered him close, her arms coming round his shoulders, pressing his head into the crook of her neck and running her fingers soothingly through his hair.
She uttered not a sound.
Clutching her, he released the dam of emotion constricting his lungs, the whole emerging as terrible, gusting sobs.
Fear that he may never earn her love.
Fury for his father’s abusive behavior that robbed him of love.
Anguish for the lonely, abandoned boy he had been.
Heartache for the young man, unloved and unwanted.
Anger at all those who watched Kendall’s savagery and did nothing.
And finally—it arrived as a quiet pin-prick of light—forgiveness forhimself. For being unable to break free from Kendall. For permitting his father’s cruelty to continue in some measure in Tristan’s own behavior.
And his wife—his glorious, extraordinary wife—held him through it all.
Until her tears joined his.
As if she bore silent witness to his grief, understanding without a word spoken.
It couldn’t be love on her part. Not yet.
But in that moment, it felt close enough.
The following daysand weeks were the happiest of Tristan’s life.
Despite his lingering fear that he might never earn Isolde’s heart, a bond had clicked together in their marriage—like a belt buckle snapping into place, holding two separate halves together.
As he and Isolde had nowhere to be and time to spare, they decided to linger on their journey, declaring it a honeymoon in truth. He rather forgot he even owned a pocket-watch.
It took them three days to finally leave their suite in Oban and board theSS Statesman.
From there, they plotted a meandering course northward, exploring whatever they wished.
And with each stop, Tristan collected more images of his duchess.
