“Oh, Tristan!” Isolde’s cheerful voice greeted him from the doorway.
He turned to see her clutching a handful of her own correspondence, eagerly scanning the lines of a letter. Sun from the window at his back washed the sprigged muslin of her dress and highlighted the rosy color of her cheeks.
How had he ever convinced such a lovely creature to remain at his side?
“Uncle Rafe has formally invited us tae stay with him at Dunhelm Castle as we make our way down the coast tae Inverness. I know seeing your brother may be difficult for yourself, but I should so enjoy a visit.” She lifted her head, eyes lit with excitement. “Please may we—”
She broke off with a frown, obviously reading something of his distress on his face. Her eyes dropped to the stack of letters atop his desk.
“What is it?” she asked.
He needed to tell her.
He should tell her.
And yet, Tristan simply . . . couldn’t. Could not make his lips form the words that would injure her and shatter his own heart.
Not yet.
Please, give me one more day.
One more day of happiness.
Then he would tell her.
“Nothing,” he replied instead, tongue numb. “Well, not nothing, obviously. Just the weight of hundreds of questions that I would prefer not to have to spend the time answering.”
“Would you like some assistance?”
“No, my love. I shall manage.” He crossed and captured her mouth in a heated kiss. “If you are beside me, I will be far too distracted to focus on anything else.”
“Tristan.” She shook her head on a laugh, looping her arms around his neck.
He managed a smile. “And, yes. Of course, we should visit my brother.”
Though he did not relish the thought of spending days in Rafe’s company, he could not deny Isolde time with a man who was like an uncle to her.
“Thank you! I shall pen a reply immediately.” She kissed him again and then walked back into their bedchamber. Tristan’s gaze devoured her.
His decision had been made.
Damn, but he was a lily-livered coward.
Isolde had not told him that she loved him. And once she learned of his actions—and shewouldlearn of them—she likely never would. In the glaring light of his perfidy, Tristan could scarcely blame her.
But between now and her discovery, he would cling to these precious days of happiness with both hands.
Over the weeksof their honeymoon, Isolde discovered she enjoyed hearing her husband talk about himself. His past. His hopes for the future.
She made an unconscious habit of drawing out his thoughts. Every morning, she would choose a new topic she wished to explore.
“Tell me about your estates,” she asked as they anchored off the jagged cliffs of Ardnamurchan.
“Eager to claim your role as duchess?” he replied, teasing in his tone.
She elbowed his ribs. “Ye ken what I mean. I want tae hear about your plans for them—what your tenants be like and such.”
And so . . . Tristan talked.
