The flash of her shapely ankles as she scrambled over the ruins of Iona Abbey.
The giddy delight of her awestruck expression as they stood in Fingal’s Cave on the Isle of Staffa, waves rumbling the ground under their feet and crashing into the geometric columns stacked like giant’s blocks.
The glowing happiness on her face as they walked the glittering white sand beaches of Vatersay, racing over the narrow isthmus separating the east of the isle from the west—the water so achingly blue, it felt sky-kissed.
Isolde plucking wind-blown strands of copper hair from her lips as they climbed over boulders, hiking to reach Loch Coruisk at the bottom of Skye, the Black Cuillin mountains looming overhead. The landscape was so varied, Tristan could scarcely believe he was still within the country of Great Britain.
Isolde’s smoldering look at him from across the dining room table of Dunvegan Castle, promising all sorts of wickedness once they were alone, completely distracting Tristan’s thoughts as he attempted to converse with their host—the Laird of Clan MacLeod.
Swimming beside Isolde in the glassy-still depths of Loch Shieldaig in the shadow of Ben Alligin, quietly recalling the terror of their own shipwreck and allowing the frigid waters to soothe the edge of the memory of how close they had both come to not being here at all.
Isolde still hadn’t said she loved him, but Tristan cataloged her attachment in places outside words.
Surely there was devotion in the urgency of her kisses in the dark of night, tucked into their bed aboard the ship, the shushing of waves swallowing their moans.
Surely it was friendship that took his hand and ran through themachairdunes on the west coast of the Isle of Uist.
And surely it was fondness that stroked his hair in the dawn hours and held him close, listening attentively as he told of his plans for his estates.
Every day, his own affections for her deepened, morphing from the obsessive, desperate feeling he had labeled asloveat the beginning of their marriage into an intense ocean of adoration swelling beneath his sternum.
That wherever Isolde was, there he would belong for as long as she would have him.
The only dark cloud came when they docked in Ullapool, the northernmost village of any size along the west coast of Scotland, and the only town with a direct, well-maintained road to Inverness.
There, Tristan discovered correspondence waiting for him—missives from estate stewards, a long list of questions from his man-of-business, and most significantly, a stack of letters from Ledger.
Lords were still arguing over when to hold Hadley’s trial—at the end of July right before Parliament recessed for the year, or wait until the next parliamentary session in February.
But one bit of information sent Tristan’s stomach plummeting in his abdominal cavity.
Despite my best efforts, Your Grace, several newspapers have uncovered that you provided information implicating Hadley after your marriage to his daughter. Naturally, the public have seized on the drama of the story. It feels like no matter where I go, I hear people discussing the matter. I fear I have failed you in my . . .
Tristan tossed the rest of the letter aside, anxiety churning in his chest.
Damnation.
He paced his small study aboard ship.
What was he to do?
Sooner or later, Isolde would learn of his behavior, and she would rightly see his actions as a betrayal.
Theywerea betrayal. He had promised that he would recuse himself from the impeachment case against Hadley, and Tristan had deliberately broken that promise. A broken promise that would destroy the fragile, barely-grown trust between them.
Isolde would be justifiably wounded and furious. She would see him for the vindictive blackguard that he was.
His heart already ached for the hurt he would cause her.
After everything he had done, how could he expect her to forgive this, too? At a certain point, her goodwill would wear out.
And without love tethering her, why would she remain with him instead of fleeing back to her parents’ loyal arms?
As ever, he had needed more time. More time to learn how to kindle her love. More time to grow and change and prove his trustworthiness.
But this . . . he feared it would be the final nail in his coffin.
Tristan paused before the porthole window, trying to breathe through the despair banding his lungs.
