But to what end? His Isolde was gone.
He would never beTristanto her.
Not in this life.
But perhaps in the next. Perhaps he could find her there . . . as he had in Montacute’s garden, sunlit and laughing, teasing in her blue eyes.
His lungs howled for air, the pressure unforgiving.
Tristan! Don’t ye dare!
Something snagged on his hair. Then his elbow.
He opened his eyes in astonishment.
A flash of pale arm dragged him upward.
He kicked, breaking the surface.
And met the blue gaze of his furious wife.
“Tristan! Yeeejit!” she called. “Don’t ye dare drown!”
Hand firmly around his wrist, she began dragging him toward shore, kicking her legs and paddling with one arm.
Strong. So strong.
She was alive.
Alive.
So very alive!
He wanted to weep for the sheer joy of it.
For the relief of seeing her bedraggled red head.
Isolde. Isolde.
Her name sang through his blood.
He wanted to shouthallelujah, to chant hosannas of gratitude.
Instead, he summoned the strength remaining in his cold limbs and joined his wife in swimming for the beach.
Theeejithadalmost drowned.
Isolde was furious as she methodically stroked for shore, Kendall swimming weakly at her side.
Why had he not saved himself? Why had he remained in the waves? To find her?
She hadtoldhim she was a strong swimmer. How typical of his arrogance to doubt her! To stubbornly search for her.
But why had Kendall behaved so recklessly? Had he no care for his person?
Selflesswas not a word she ever expected to associate with the Duke of Kendall. Nor the word’s kinsmen—concern, empathy, warmth. . .
The rowboat had flipped, and she had surfaced underneath it, finding a wee pocket of air protected from the battering storm. Treading water, she had taken advantage of the reprieve.
