Isolde frowned. “So soon?”
Tristan offered her his arm again. “We set the trends, remember? I think arriving early for one of our renowned entertainments might be a new one.”
Together, they strode into the entryway, smiling as Fredericks and two footmen helped a group of lords and ladies with their coats and hats.
Beyond their shoulders, a string of opulent carriages disappeared around the corner of Grosvenor Square, coachmen patiently waiting to discharge their passengers.
“What did I say?” Tristan murmured. “The toast of London.”
Taking in a deep breath, Isolde turned to their guests, a wide smile on her lips and the warm press of Tristan’s palm against her spine.
“Good evening!” She strode forward, hands outstretched. “Welcome to our home. We are so glad you could join us this evening.”
Epilogue I
Two Years Later
July 17, 1851
Canna, Scotland
Tristan blew out the candle and slipped into bed, pulling the heavy bed curtains closed and tugging Isolde’s spine against his chest.
His wife sighed and relaxed into the curve of his body, the dark of the bed box enclosing them. The box bed was constructed into the eaves of the roof, with pine planks lining three sides, leaving just one curtained side exposed to the room.
“Mmm.” Isolde slid her chilly feet against his calves. “Thank ye for warming me, Husband.”
“My pleasure, Wife.” Tristan could feel her grin in the sinking of her ribs under his palm.
He nuzzled her braided hair, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck. His lovely wife already knew this was his favorite place on the planet—snuggled into their bed in their tiny cottage on the Isle of Canna . . . or rather,theirIsle of Canna.
He would never regret this purchase.
“I have dreamed of this moment for nearly a year,” she said.
“Have you, now?”
“Aye. Almost every day some memory of last August gleams in my mind.”
Last summer had been their first on the island as a family with four-month-old Beatrice, their tiny daughter. Given Beatrice’s age, they had only stayed a week before heading on to visit Dunhelm Castle and Sir Rafe just north of Inverness. But the weather that week had been heaven-kissed—endless hours of light with a gentle warmth in the ever-present wind, the striking blue water of the bay glittering in the sun.
Yesterday, they had arrived on their steamship, theSS Statesman.Tristan’s spirits had lifted to see the small house with its fresh coat of white harling nestled into the dunes of the protected bay. Over the winter, he had hired local workers to carry out needed repairs on the house to ensure it was comfortably appointed for his family. This year—given that their Honey Bea was toddling around, babbling words, and loved nothing more than being outside—they intended to stay for a month.
“Perhaps, we should celebrate our return,” Tristan whispered.
Isolde turned in his arms. “Mmm, I like the sound of that. What did you have in mind?”
“Well—”
The sound of Bea’s broken-hearted wail interrupted Tristan’s thoughts.
Isolde sighed. “Och, she’sgerningagain.”
“Growing teeth is hard business.” Tristan kissed Isolde. “I’ll see to her.”
Pushing out of the bed, he crossed the small landing, pausing to glance out the gabled window there. TheSS Statesmanrocked at anchor in the bay, bobbing in the moonlight.
Ledger remained aboard ship with his wife, the former Elizabeth Bertram. The pair had married in a simple ceremonyat Hawthorn six months after that day in Thorton Heath, Tristan standing as best man for his secretary-turned-friend. Having a friend had been an illuminating experience. Of course, Isolde would always be his best friend, and Allie, as his twin, claimed a distinct portion of his heart. But Ledger had filled a place in Tristan’s affections he hadn’t realized was lacking. There was just something about a male friend—the ability to be gruff and jest and tease as men did. Maybe Tristan was becoming more like Hadley than he suspected.
