About his estates, his dreams for Britain as a country, his time at Oxford, his hunt for Allie in Italy and his mistakes with his sister.
He even spoke of his father in the dead of night, voice hoarse in her ear, his arms trembling around her.
She was coming to love him in truth.
The adoration and joy she felt whenever she heard his voice or noticed his handsome gray head after even the shortest absence spoke volumes.
The flutterings inside the chrysalis of her affections became stronger day after day.
How could her heart have changed so quickly? It had been mere weeks since their wedding.
Perhaps that was why she hesitated to say the wordsI love you. How could love arrive so quickly?
Or perhaps she was waiting for . . .och, she wasn’t quite sure what precisely. A flash of illumination? The perfect time and place?
Isolde couldn’t say.
A potential moment came the night after they left Ullapool.
Seated against the headboard of their bed aboard theSS Statesman, she and Tristan talked as the lamplight burned low, his head on her shoulder and an arm thrown over her waist.
Something troubled him still. She could sense it clinging to the edges of his mood, but she had decided to let it be for now. He would tell her when he was ready.
Isolde dragged her fingers through his gray hair.
“I suppose I should finally forgive ye for reading my letters tae Stephen Jarvis,” she said, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
Tristan snorted, a quiet huff of sound.
“I shall forever remain unrepentant of that act.” He nuzzled her throat.
“Husband! When someone forgives ye, it is considered good form tae extend an apology. Particularly when said someone is your wife.”
“Never.” He pushed upright, gazing at her. “The moment I opened those letters and realizedyouwere their author . . . I was powerless to stop myself. The enchanting loops and curls of your handwriting, the clever bite of your wit. I inhaled every word, enthralled by your spell.”
“Now ye be ridiculous!”
“My long-time worship of you is anything but ridiculous, Duchess.”
He kissed her to prove his point and then ran his thumb over her tingling lips.
He continued, “When I awoke that night and saw you rummagingthrough the chest of drawers in my bedchamber . . .” He loosed a long, slow breath. “I was simply undone. You were my every fantasy brought to life.”
“I was in my dressing gown,” Isolde laughed.
“Indeed, you were.” His eyebrows lifted suggestively. “Your bare toes peeking out the bottom, your glorious red hair in a long braid down your back. So enticing I could scarcely breathe.”
“And I was desperate to recover my letters!”
“I realized that immediately. I couldn’t admit it to myself at the time, but I was insane with jealousy and bursting with rage.”
“Over Jarvis?”
“Yes, because that lying, adulterous man had kissed you. He had tasted what I had not. And then, he had thoroughly abused your trust and wounded your affectionate heart. It was not to be borne; he had to be punished. Like the idiot I was, I refused to even consider courting you myself. Instead, I made it my goal to torment Jarvis, to pummel him for his deception and lies.”
“And thus, your investigation into his financial dealings began.”
“Precisely.”
