Weak sun drifted through the half-open door, the only source of illumination. Kendall loomed, cast into sinister planes of light and dark.
“You would prefer that gaggle of title-hunting ladies see us together?”
Isolde ignored the thread of truth in his words. “I would prefer your head on a pike.”
“Is that so?” he asked on a low rumble.
“Aye. Give me another week tae arrange it.”
Voices rose again outside, female and excited.
Isolde stilled. Kendall turned his head toward the door, light rimming the stern lines of his profile.
“Did . . . see . . . he go?” drifted on the breeze.
After what felt like an eternity, the voices faded up the path.
Glaring up at the duke, Isolde shook her head. “This war is not yet finished, Your Grace. Ye shall not win.”
“I believe I already have, my lady.” The pomposity of his bass voice abraded Isolde’s nerves.
Och. The blackguard.
“Enough, Your Grace!” Her words emerged in white-capping syllables. “Ye torment my family, ye accuse my father falsely—”
“Nonsense! I will lead this country through tradition and decorum and serve justice to those who—”
“I tire of your delusions. I’m leaving.”
“Running away, you mean?”
“Devil take y—”
Crash!
They both jumped as a strong gust of wind clanged the thick oaken door shut.
Isolde barely stifled a screech.
Hand at her heaving bosom, she glared at the duke.
“Good day, Your Grace,” she spat. “May you rot in Hell!”
His soft rolling laugh reverberated off the damp bricks, sending gooseflesh chasing her spine.
Fumbling in the dark, Isolde found the door handle and pulled.
It was to be her dramatic exit.
Instead, the door didn’t move.
10
. . . what I know of her. Hair the color of sunset, blue eyes. A smile that rivals the sun. Smells of Tuscany in spring. The daughter of a Scottish earl or duke. Clever and educated. Has set my heart to beating once more.
—note penned seven hours after Tristan’s encounter with the mysterious beauty in Montacute’s garden— written, studied, and then cast upon the fire.
No.
