After fifteen minutes, he took a small break to drink water and pull off his shirt.
A cool breeze wound down the stone-fenced streets and into the mews, cooling his skin.
Time slowed to a blur, his world descending to the sound of the axe and the satisfaction of watching the pile of split logs grow.
He had just tossed several splintered bits into a pile for kindling when he felt eyes on him.
Turning, he noticed Isolde standing just inside the courtyard door, her arms crossed, gaze appreciative. Like on Canna, shewas dressed simply in a well-worn gown that spoke more of comfort than fashion.
“Duchess.” He inclined his head.
“Duke.” Closing the door, she walked toward him with hips swaying and a smile curving her lips.
Gratitude swelled his lungs. How many times had he longed to see just such an expression on her face—welcoming and joyful? To know, with a bone-deep surety, that she loved him?
And now . . .
Tristan watched her approach, heat firing in his veins. Bloody hell but she was delectable—the graceful arch of her long neck, the coppery glint of her hair against her fair skin, the stubborn point of her chin that he longed to kiss.
Maybe hewouldkidnap her and whisk her away to that very island cottage.
She stopped two feet short of touching him. “I heard the tell-tale sound of your axe from our bedchamber and couldn’t resist changing into more homely attire and coming down for a peek.”
“Ah.” Tristan rested the butt of the axe on the ground, putting his weight into the top. “And has that peek been sufficient?”
“Not particularly.” She dragged her eyes up and down his body, lingering appreciatively on his bare chest. “I think I should like to see more of the show if ye don’t mind.”
Chuckling, he dropped his hold on the axe and snatched her around the waist, pulling her body tight against his.
“I didn’t mean this show,” she laughed. “Ye be sweaty.”
“Hush, love. You adore me like this. Don’t deny it.”
She looped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his ear. “Guilty.”
Tristan buried his face in her neck, his lips hungrily nipping at her throat.
And though she melted into him, something wasn’t quite right. There was a tension in her spine. Or a hesitance in her capitulation. Something.
He pulled back. “What is wrong? Fredericks said your at home was well attended. Did something go amiss?”
Part of him expected her to deny it. To insist that all was well, as she had been saying for days now.
But not this time. Instead, she looked upwards on a sigh.
His pulse sped up. “Isolde?”
Finally, she dropped her gaze back to his, fingers skimming over his chest. “I would prefer not to say, but as ye will hear soon enough, there’s no help for it. Yes, my first at home was well attended. However, someone swapped sugar for salt in the sugar bowl. The Duchess of Montacute took a sip of her sea-water tea and nearly coughed up her intestines.”
Tristan swore.
“I have no proof,” Isolde continued, “but I am sure it was Lady Lavinia who made the switch. She visited the kitchens both last night and earlier today.”
Rage momentarily fogged Tristan’s vision. “How dare that harpy!” He dropped his arms and moved to walk around his wife. “She and my idiot of a cousin will be gone by morning, I promise you!”
Isolde wrapped both hands around his elbow and dug in with her heels, forcing him back to her. “Tristan, ye can’t toss them out.”
“I can and I will.”
