Page 74 of A Heart Devoted
Slipping into the cottage’s second bedroom, he fumbled to the window and pulled the curtains open. Moonlight flooded the room and illuminated Beatrice curled into her own tiny box bed.
“P-Papa!” Bea raised her hands to him, tears leaving shining trails down her cheeks. “Up!”
“Hush, darling girl.” Tristan lifted her into his arms. As usual, Beatrice melted against his chest, giving her entire weight to him with unwavering trust.
He rubbed a soothing hand up her spine. Red-haired and every whit as mischievous and daring as her mother, the tiny girl shone like a rare comet.
Tristan loved her with staggering force. Some days, it felt as if every particle that made up his soul had been created to care for her. Perhaps his most astonishing revelation over the two years since his marriage had been just that—the heart’s capacity to love, his heart specifically, appeared endless.
Pacing, he walked Beatrice back to sleep, crooning a soft lullaby he remembered his Italian mother singing. For just a brief moment, he pondered the man he had been three years before. A man without friends or love in his life. A man who thought power and revenge would bring him joy.
What a fool he had been.
He doubted a day would ever pass that he didn’t thank God for sending Isolde into his life. The blessing of her continued to multiply, day after day, year after year.
A few minutes later, Beatrice sank back into sleep, but Tristan continued to hold her, standing before the window.
This.
This moment right here . . . right now. Another gift from Isolde.
The simple joy of holding their sleeping daughter in the silver moonlight.
This was the truest purpose of life—to give love and receive it in return.
Epilogue II
A Letter from the Duke of Kendall to His Duchess on the Occasion of Their 10th Wedding Anniversary
Heart of my heart,
My love, how the years have flown. As well you know, I generally do not heap praise upon Ethan Penn-Leith. The man will always remain too saccharine for my tastes. However, today of all days, I wish my pen held a thimble’s worth of his knack for poetry. (Please do not tell Allie I described her husband so lavishly. Her teasing would be merciless.)
Had I the gift of words, I would spill them all attempting to capture the vivid joy of you, my Isolde. I would choose light-bringer and beloved—soulmate, life-friend.
I would string together descriptions like “the scarlet beauty of a winter rose against snow” or “the honey warmth of a mulled-wine kiss.”
But such phrases would frustrate me with their insufficiency. The impossibility of confining the depth of my love to vowels and consonants.
So I merely say this—
All that I am. All that I will ever be. Every last atom of my being.
There will only, always, be you.
Yours will be the last syllable on my dying lips. The last image, feather-light, behind my eyes.
Isolde.
My love.
My forever.
Your Tristan
