But this moment afterward was Tristan’s favorite—the quiet comfort of sitting beside Isolde in the hush of their private bedchamber.
“I can’t cease looking at him,” Tristan murmured, staring at the babe in the crook of his elbow. “I had wondered if it were possible to love a child as much as I love Beatrice.”
“Aye,” Isolde agreed. “How could we ever adore another as deeply?”
“And yet, here we are.” Tristan pressed a kiss to the boy’s forehead, running a finger over the dark hair fuzzing his small, wrinkled head.
Hawthorn scrunched his tiny face and yawned, curling his body and exerting all his strength to open his eyes.
Unlike Beatrice, who had been angry and wailing in the hours after her birth, Hawthorn was quiet and serious. Tristan supposed he himself had likely sported a similar expression at birth—an aged sort of knowing that had led his mother to christen himtriste.
The babe regarded Tristan intently, gaze earnest and fierce. As if Hawthorn already knew the weight of duty that loomed in his future. The dukedom that would one day rest upon his shoulders.
You will not face it alone,Tristan vowed.
Unlike generations past, the next Duke of Kendall would be raised in affection and light.
This, Tristan realized.
This more than anything else would ensure that Old Kendall was forgotten, blotted out in the glowing light of love.
“Thank you,” Tristan murmured, looking at his wife.
“For birthing ye a son? That was more chance and biology than any willful choice on my part.”
“Perhaps. But you didn’t need to love me. You didn’t need to forgive me. You didn’t—”
Isolde captured his mouth with a kiss. “I regret nothing, Husband. I will beforever grateful for the forces that brought us together. For the joy ye give me. The joy of our life together.”
“As will I, Wife.”
And Tristan kissed her again.
1859
Fettermill, Scotland
Thistle Muir, family home of the Penn-Leiths
Six Years Later
Isolde stood justoutside the front door of Thistle Muir—the Penn-Leith childhood home—watching a herd of children race across the front lawn, playing a rambunctious game oftig.
“It’s astonishing how much love and frustration my children can provoke in me,” Allie said conversationally at her side.
“Aye. And how did we all have so many?” Isolde mused.
“Well.” Allie shot her a wry sort of look. “We all know precisely why, don’t we?”
Isolde laughed. “True. It would help if our husbands weren’t quite so alluringly handsome.”
They both looked to Allie’s Ethan. He stood talking with his older brother, Malcolm Penn-Leith, the men casually leaning against the fence separating the garden from a field dotted with fluffy sheep. Allie’s youngest child, Felicity, squealed and scrambled up Ethan’s leg to dodge being tagged, her dark, curly hair escaping its braids. Ethan scarcely broke stride in speaking with Malcolm, hitching the wee girl in his arms.
They had assembled, the Penn-Leiths and Kendalls, for their annual family holiday. Sometimes they gathered at Hawthorn. Other years at Laverloch Castle up Glen Laver where Ethan’s older sister, Leah, lived with her husband, Mr. Fox Carnegie.
But this year, they had decided to congregate at the Penn-Leith family’s place of origin—the modest country house that Ethan’s father, Mr. John Penn, had built for his new bride, Isobel Leith.
Of course, the house was far too small to host the combined number of their offspring. Isolde and her family, along with Allie and Ethan’s brood, were staying at Hadley’s nearby Muirford House.
