Predictably, Mac and James made loud kissing noises, teasing their older sister. Tristan gave the brothers his most ducal stare, waiting until they stuttered into silence.
Idioti, the both of them.
Holding their gaze, he leaned in and kissed his wife again, simply because he could.
That sorted, he turned back to the chained stone with a sigh. Motioning for everyone to stand back, he bent down and grasped the iron chain with both hands, sucking in a deep breath. Spinning in a tight circle, bonnet ribbons smacking his face, he grunted with the weight of the stone. With each turn of his body, questions whirled in his mind—How would he fare in London? What could he do to protect Isolde from cruel tongues? And how quickly could they quit Town for Wiltshire?
Unfortunately, his mind was distracted and, at the last moment, the fruit on his bonnet lost its war with gravity. The fruit slipped forward on the straw brim, causing the whole thing to sag and block his vision. Startled, Tristan released the stone.
It landed wildly off course.
Naturally, Hadley laughed.
“Och, ye be having a poor run of luck today.” He slapped Tristan’s back yet again before pointing to the bobbing skiff. “Tighten that bonnet. Ye have a boat to row.”
Tristan swallowed.You love Isolde, he thought for the fourteenth time.
Shooting her a long-suffering look, he nodded and trudged down to the water’s edge, praying this run of ill luck didn’t portend worse things for their future.
2
Isolde leaned a shoulder against the door jamb between the bedchamber and bathing room, brazenly watching her husband bathe.
Poor Tristan had only made it halfway across the lake before the wee boat lost its battle with entropy and sank to a watery grave. Thankfully, he was a strong swimmer, but her brothers had teased him mercilessly when he pulled himself from the water—soaking wet with the bonnet plastered to his head and dripping into his eyes.
For her part, Isolde had merely enjoyed the sight of her husband’s white shirt turned transparent and painted over the chiseled planes of his chest. He might be a duke, but Tristan was no stranger to exercise, and it showed.
Now, Isolde took full advantage of their marital state and ogled him freely as he rinsed the lake water from his bare skin.
Ever forward-thinking, her father had installed modern bathing rooms off every bedchamber when he built Muirford House nearly forty years ago. Each room was similarly fitted—a substantial iron clawfoot bathtub with a creamy painted interior sitting in the middle of a tiled floor, a porcelain washing basin to one side, and a commode in one corner.
At the moment, Tristan relaxed against the rear curve of the tub—arms resting on the brim, head tilted back, eyes closed—looking eerily like a Michelangelo sculpture come to life. It was moments like this when his Italian heritage surged to theforefront, acres of bronze Mediterranean skin and prematurely gray hair clinging in curly strands to his forehead.
“What will you do about Her Majesty’s invitation, my love?” Isolde asked into the quiet.
If he heard her, Tristan didn’t show it. Instead, he languidly dipped a hand into the bath and scooped a handful of water onto his chest.
No one would take this man for a pampered English duke. He looked more akin to a Barbary pirate relaxing in a harem’s bath—the taut power of his broad shoulders merely wanting an excuse to spring into action.
“What shall I do?” Tristan said conversationally, eyes still closed. “Well, if you keep looking at me like that, Wife, you will soon find yourself ravished, which will result in us being late for dinner.”
The smooth rumble of his aristocratic vowels rolled over Isolde’s senses.
“Wouldn’t that be a tragedy?”
The faintest smile curved his lips. “It will be when your mother gives us a scolding, and your brothers say something lascivious that I find offensive. I should hate to have to challenge one of them to a duel.”
“Choose Mac. He’s a terrible shot.”
Tristan’s smile morphed into a low chuckle. “I was thinking more rapiers by moonlight, not pistols at dawn.”
“How very romantic of ye.”
“Romance, eh?” Tristan opened his dark eyes—pools of melting chocolate . . . Isolde’s favorite treat. “I appreciate the direction of your thoughts, but my original concern still stands.” His eyes flitted up and down, openly admiring her dressing gown and the loose chemise underneath. A low warmth gathered in Isolde’s belly. She could practically see all the delightful activities his look portended.
“Ye be misdirecting, my love,” she said.
“It’s working.”
