Page 1 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

Ember Hall, Northumberland

“Why shouldn’t I marry for love? Our parents did—and our eldest sister, as well.”

Although delivered with passion, Tristan’s pronouncement was met by little more than raised eyebrows and the odd polite nod.

The de Neville siblings were gathered around the long banqueting table at Ember Hall, having just finished a light meal washed down with a wonderfully refreshing wine.

Many of them—Tristan included—had imbibed more wine than was wise.

The day had been unrelentingly hot and his thirst was not easily slaked after the long ride north from Wolvesley Castle.

Mercifully, the sun had started to set whilst they were eating. But on this midsummer day, a stifling warmth still hung in the air, accentuated by the final rays of dappled sunlight which blazed through the tall windows.

“It’s dastardly hot.” His brother Jonah made a show of pulling the neck of his finely embroidered tunic away from his neck whilst fanning himself vigorously with the other hand.

A chorus of ‘ayes’ met this declaration. Little Flora, Tristan’s four-year-old niece, slid from her chair and walked boldly over to Jonah.

“You can have this, Uncle Jonah.” Her chubby hands held out a small white object studded with white feathers.

“But that’s the fan I brought you back from France,” Tristan objected, leaning closer to the golden-haired girl.

Flora nodded and wrapped her warm fingers around Tristan’s wrist to urge him to lean down closer.

“Mother told me it’s kind to share,” she whispered in Tristan’s ear. With her eyes fixed on her mother, she added in louder tones, “Even with Christopher, who never shares back.”

“Especially with Christoper,” Frida agreed solemnly.

“He is your little brother and as such, you must always look out for him.” The eldest de Neville sibling sat at the end of the table, silvery-white hair pinned elegantly atop her head, displaying all her usual poise despite having a chubby toddler bouncing on her knee.

Young Christopher pulled at the beads around his mother’s neck and burbled happily as his father, Callum, looked on proudly from the opposite end of the narrow table.

They were the perfect, contented little family.

Tristan’s heart contracted with envy.

Why is this vision of domestic bliss to be denied to me?

He was about to take another swig of wine when he realised that Flora was still gazing entreatingly up at him, her earnest expression so reminiscent of her mother at that age. Frida was only one year older than Tristan and for much of their childhood, they had been the closest of friends.

Tristan ducked down so his face was level with Flora’s again.

“Does Uncle Jonah share back?”

Flora bit down on her lip, a smile playing about her big blue eyes. “Not always,” she whispered confidingly, shaking back her long blonde plait.

Callum guffawed with laughter and Tristan sat back, satisfied.

“’Tis just as I suspected.” He picked up his goblet and sipped.

“I will try to do better in the future,” Jonah declared.

Though he shared in the family’s golden good looks, he was a head shorter than Tristan and narrower about the shoulders.

He led an active life, but he was not a warrior.

Being born with a club foot meant he had been spared many of the rigours expected of the heirs to the de Neville line.

Most likely, when the time came, Jonah would be allowed to marry for love.

The delicious wine soured in Tristan’s throat at the thought.

“There’s no point in trying to change, Jonah,” their youngest sister, Esme, chimed in airily.

She had positioned her chair strategically so as to catch the faint breeze coming through the open window, and even been so bold as to remove her shoes and stockings.

But still the day’s heat had flushed her cheeks brighter than her gaily trimmed gown. “We are who we are and that’s it.”

“How very philosophical.” Jonah reached for a red grape, tossed it into the air and caught it neatly in his mouth, prompting little Flora to clap with delight.

“Let us follow that thought to its natural conclusion. His piercing eyes roved across the table. “Tristan, therefore, will always be rash and impulsive. And darling Mirrie, here, will forever be waiting upon him.” At this point, Jonah reached out his hand to grasp Mirrie’s arm before she could take away the now-empty trencher in Tristan’s place.

Tristan hadn’t even realised that Mirrie had stood up to clear the table.

He turned towards the pretty young woman he had known since childhood.

She was dressed modestly in a pale grey gown that contrasted with the brightness of her eyes and the shining waves of her long, light brown hair.

Tristan had always thought of Mirrie with the same unstinting affection he felt for his sisters.

Only Mirrie’s nature was so much gentler than either Frida, Isabella or Esme—all of whom exhibited the strong will and steely determination of the mighty de Nevilles.

Sure enough, Mirrie’s face was calm and composed even now, when Jonah’s words caused everyone to stare. Only her flaring hazel eyes betrayed any sense of irritation. She shook Jonah’s hand away and moved from the table without a word.

“I’m sorry,” Jonah called after her, his face creasing with regret.

“Is it the heat that makes you so peevish, brother?” Esme enquired, liberally replenishing her goblet of wine from the pitcher.

“Steady with that,” Frida spoke up.

“I am not a child.” Esme took a long, pointed drink and plonked her bare feet onto the chair recently vacated by Mirrie. “In fact, I am near enough the age you were when you married Callum.”

Frida and Callum exchanged another dreamy-eyed smile, which had Tristan swinging up from the table to stride towards the large, mercifully empty fireplace. He half thought of walking after Mirrie, but for the first time he was unsure of what welcome he might receive from her.

It was not true that she always waited upon him.

Was it?

Tristan pursed his lips as he gazed unseeingly into the dark grate, one hand shading his eyes from the glare of the stubbornly bright evening sunlight pouring through the tall windows.

Mirrie possessed a kind and generous spirit.

Surely that was the only reason why she so often brought him refreshments and enquired after his wellbeing.

They had grown up so closely, with Mirrie as his father’s ward, raised alongside them, that it would have been stranger if she hadn’t been solicitous of him.

“Methinks the heat is making fools of us all,” Callum observed as he ushered his family away from the trestle table and towards the tapestried chairs spread out by the fireplace. “Let us sit more comfortably and remember that we are all friends here.”

“This year, at least.” Jonah shrugged his shoulders as he limped down from the dais, oblivious to—or mayhap even enjoying—the stifled gasps of the ladies.

“Why must you always be so awful?” Esme snatched Flora’s fan from her brother and swiped at him.

Tristan spoke up over the hubbub, his resonant voice easily carrying around the vast hall. “Callum and I have put all of that behind us now.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly at his brother-in-law, and received a firm nod in reply.

“Aye. What’s past is past,” Callum said, good-naturedly. He leaned with one hand against a stone pillar as he waited for the de Nevilles to promenade from the table.

For a moment, their gazes clashed across the room.

Callum was dark while Tristan was fair, but both were equally matched for height and strength.

To say nothing of their shared experience in feats of arms. As young men, they had trained together at Lindum.

But then, five years earlier, whilst working in the service of Robert the Bruce, Sir Callum Baine, a warrior from the Scottish highlands, had received orders to assassinate Lord Tristan de Neville.

What no one could have anticipated was that this quest would bring Callum back to Tristan’s sister, Frida, who he had fallen headlong in love with years earlier.

Thus, Callum ne’er made any move on Tristan. However, when Tristan found him living at Ember Hall under false pretences, his retaliation had been swift and severe.

Tristan still felt a twinge of guilt at the memory of Callum, feet and hands bound, laying in a bloodied heap upon this very wooden floor.

He deliberately turned his gaze upwards, to the vaulted ceiling and smoke-blackened beams. They had all come a long way since then.

In truth, Tristan couldn’t be happier with Frida’s match.

Callum was a loyal husband and an attentive father.

And his long past as a warrior of the highest calibre meant that Tristan could sleep easy without worrying of his sister’s wellbeing up here, in a fortified manor so close to the Scottish border.

Still, an awkwardness hung over the assembled party at the memories Jonah had so carelessly evoked. Even little Flora pouted, whilst the usually frivolous Esme had turned away from them all and was talking gently to a panting hound.

Tristan cast around for a change of subject, and landed back on the complaint that had been on his lips for nigh three days now.

“Will none of you support me against Father’s new dictates? E’en you, Callum? I would have thought you and Frida would be first to speak out in defence of love.” He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Are you not living proof of the theory that love conquers all?”

Callum guffawed before looking deferentially towards his wife. “I will not interfere in a family matter.” He put an arm on Frida’s waist to help her to a chair.

Like Jonah, Frida walked with a limp, although hers was due to a riding accident some years past rather than a defect at birth. Right now, she was further hampered by pregnancy, the swell of her belly visible beneath her deep blue gown.