He appeared . . .
She frowned.
He stared at her with quiet intensity, his dark eyes studying her face as if he feared she would bolt. As if he wanted to pull her back into his arms for safe keeping.
Which as a thought was . . . was . . .
Bizarre.
It was bizarre.
Had the ocean addled his thinking?
Or was the dim light merely playing tricks on her eyesight?
“We need to find dry clothing,” he said. “And then build a fire to warm you.”
Her frown deepened.
What an odd way to phrase that.
Not a fire to warm ‘us,’ but a fire to warm ‘you.’
Where was the terse, unfeeling Kendall she knew?
More to the point, he had yet to utter one recrimination.
Not a single,You hare-brained idiot! You almost killed me!
Instead, as he bustled around the small parlor to the left of the front door, he appeared almost frantic to find blankets or spare clothing.
“Up-upstairs,” she chattered, pointing to the central staircase. “Th-there will be b-bedrooms.”
He started up the stairs, hand on the rail to pull himself upward. But then, he turned back and offered her a hand.
“Can you climb?” The solicitousness in his voice gave Isolde pause.
Because the man currently looking down at her—his hand extended, brown eyes concerned and . . . andworried—only bore a superficial resemblance to the duke she had married eight days past.
Her eyes dropped to his palm, stretched out to her almost in supplication. In pleading.
She lifted her eyes back to his, again noting the concern etched there.
What the hell had happened to him out on that ocean?
19
There were indeed two bedrooms upstairs, Tristan discovered.
Isolde pointed out that it appeared a family of sorts lived here—father, mother, and several older children.
One bedchamber had two single beds and a trunk of adolescent clothing. As was typical of a cottage so far north, the bed frames were actually floor-to-ceiling boxes built into the eaves. Three sides of each bed were wood panels with the fourth side—the one facing the room—covered in heavy wool drapes. On a stormy evening, the sleeper could pull the fabric tight, trapping in heat and keeping out drafts.
The second bedroom had a similar box bed—a larger matrimonial bed for two persons built into the eave opposite a solitary dormer window. Two pine kists flanked the window. One of the trunks held wool trousers, lengths of tartan to wrap a kilt, linen shirts, woolly jumpers, and a spare coat. The other bore petticoats, women’s underthings, and several woolen dresses.
Tristan grabbed trousers, a shirt, wool stockings, and a thick jumper that looked large enough to fit him. He retired to the children’s bedroom, leaving Isolde to change her own clothing in the larger bedchamber.
His poor wife trembled from cold—gray-blue lips and fingers, freckles stark against the pallor of her cheeks.
