He wasgreiting, she realized. Weeping silently, a hand pressed to his eyes.
What the devil had happened to make him weep so?
To be so sure she would reject and abandon him?
Trepidation jittered in her limbs.
“Tell me,” she repeated, sitting back.
What the hell had he done?
With a deep, hiccupping breath, he began to speak. “In Oban, Ledger mentioned that Commons had requested . . .”
Silently, Isolde listened as the whole stuttering tale came out. How he had permitted more damning evidence to be given about her father. How he had Ledger obfuscate his perfidy, so she wouldn’t learn of it. His regret that he hadn’t been more loyal to her, that he had been selfishly thinking only of himself, instead of putting her heart and all she loved before anything else.
In the midst of his confession, she felt it—the sting of his betrayal. For the briefest moment, she imagined the scene. Shouting her fury and casting him from their bedchamber, marshaling her wounded spirit to retaliate in kind.
But like April clouds racing off after rain, sunshine warmed her chest.
And in place of fury or betrayal or hurt . . .
A surge of tenderness and adoration rose from the deepest well of her soul.
In its wake, one thought, and one thought alone, swept through her mind.
I love him.
Oh, how I love him.
The truth of it pulsed, a palpable surety thrumming through her veins, fluttery wings at last taking flight.
This was the truest test, she realized.
To love amid joy, when one was content and blissful and swimming in happiness . . .
Such love was simple. Easily bestowed.
But to love in the thick of crisis . . .
When her beloved wept his regret—not expecting forgiveness to be granted but humbly begging for the chance to win her faith once more.
To feel, in her heart, the pain of his sorrow more deeply than the sting of his betrayal.
“I vow to always put you first in my affections going forward.” Tristan’s voice washoarse. “I will work every hour to rebuild the trust I have shattered. I swear this to you. I love—” His voice cracked. “I love you. I love you more than my pride, more than my vanity or ambitions. You may decide that forgiveness is impossible, given my actions, but—”
Isolde stopped him with a finger to his lips before moving her hand to his heart. It beat a desperate prayer under her palm.
“I forgive ye,” she said.
She felt more than heard his stuttered gasp.
“What . . . what did you say?”
“I forgive ye.”
His spine straightened, his head lifting.
“But . . . why?” The choked bafflement in his voice nearly made her smile. “How? How can you? I have failed to—”
