Page 13 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

Tristan could see that Mirrie was shocked to see Juliana riding in front of him. In truth, he was as surprised as she was. And he wanted to shout his victory from the rooftops. Against all the odds, he had succeeded.

He’d galloped through dense woodland towards the druid camp, fuelled more by desperation than any real hope for success.

He knew not if any healer of renown still resided amongst the druids, nor what welcome he might receive from people who were, by nature, private and secretive.

His way was lit only by the light of the moon and with every springing step his horse took, a mantra beat through his mind. You will fail. You will fail.

But you have to try.

He wasn’t ready to live without his father. Not yet. Not for many years. That was why he rode through darkness and exhaustion and the sharp sting of his mother’s disapproval. Because Angus himself had taught him to never give up.

Tristan wasn’t sure how he would be received by the druids.

Angus allowed them safe passage throughout the Wolvesley estate and turned a willing blind eye to the home they had created some miles from the castle, but Tristan had never had dealings with them.

He guessed they might not take kindly to his sudden arrival, mud-splattered and frantic, in the dead of the night.

So be it. I’ll beg, if I have to.

A healer to visit his father. That was not too much to ask of those who would have been persecuted without the protection of a man who now needed their help.

As it happened, he did not have to even enter their camp.

Juliana was waiting for him, calm and unperturbed, in the centre of a wide grassy path.

She carried a torch which called to him like a beacon, flickering light banishing the black of night.

Her pale skin glowed and he wondered if she was a figment of his flailing imagination. But then she smiled and spoke his name.

“Tristan de Neville,” she said, and his horse slowed as if of his own accord.

For a moment he had stared at her, recognising the glossy black mane of hair and shrewd, all-seeing green eyes that hid their intelligence behind a veneer of amusement.

“How did you know I would come?”

He half expected her to claim second sight, but she merely shrugged. “We have lookouts. You were spotted some time since. We do not encourage visitors, especially in the dark of night, but the Elder said you should not be harmed.”

Tristan told himself not to smile at this. He did not fear ambush by the druids. “I thought you had left these lands long ago.”

“And yet you came in search of me?” She lifted her eyebrows and stepped forward to run her hands over his horse’s head. The animal heaved out a sigh and leaned against her, willingly accepting her touch.

“I came in search of a healer,” he corrected her and then thought better of it. “But I hoped I would find you.”

“Your mother all but banished me from Wolvesley Castle,” she countered smoothly.

“And now my father is grievously ill.” His words burst into the warm night air and immediately, he wanted to call them back. To speak of his father’s fading strength was to utter a heresy.

Her eyes showed a flicker of distress, but whether this was for the earl’s wellbeing or for some other reason, Tristan could not guess.

“The Countess of Wolvesley is a wise woman. I would not go against her wishes.” Juliana rhythmically stroked his horse’s neck.

“I am here with my mother’s blessing.” It was a lie, but only a small one. Morwenna knew his intentions and had given no order against them. “Her consent, at least,” he amended, seeing Juliana’s sceptical smile.

The druid healer pressed her dusky pink lips together. “How goes your sister, Frida?”

“Well, thank you.” He did not wish to speak of Frida now.

“Frida welcomed me to Wolvesley as a kindred spirit, but the countess correctly divined that my presence there would bring turbulence to the lands and people she holds dear.”

Tristan gritted his teeth. “My mother would move heaven and earth to save my father.”

It was the right thing to say. He saw something shift in her face. “The earl is a just and fair man. I have been instructed to help you in any way I can.”

“Then come back with me to Wolvesley. He has been bled near to death by the castle physician.”

“If that is so, it may already be too late.” Her soft words sliced him like the sharpest blade.

“I will pay you for your troubles.” His horse sensed his mounting distress and shied to one side. Juliana raised her torch so her whole face was illuminated.

“I do not seek your coin, Tristan de Neville.”

“I will pay in cattle or cloth or anything your people need.” There was no price that was too high.

Juliana nodded slowly. “Then help me up, my lord. We have no time to lose.” She put out the torch in a bucket of earth before reaching up to clasp his arms.

Her long hair smelled faintly of woodsmoke and wild flowers, and the warmth of her body pressing against him seemed to lull him into a state of relaxation. By the time they glimpsed the granite battlements of home, Tristan’s earlier fears had all but evaporated.

All would be well, now that Juliana was here.

But Mirrie’s stricken face was a reminder there was much still to be done, and he sprang from his horse’s back before lifting the healer down beside him.

“You remember Juliana?” he asked, brushing down his breeches and ignoring the sharp ache in his calves. He had spent the greater part of the last three days in the saddle, but now was not the time to admit to weakness.

“I do.” Mirrie’s voice was unusually tart.

He recalled her opposition to his plan and shot her a beseeching look. “She is here to heal my father.”

“I am come to see if I am able to heal your father,” Juliana corrected him. She scarcely glanced in Mirrie’s direction before taking his arm and urging him forwards. “Let us go to him.”

They walked under the archway and through the gardens, with Juliana notably uncowed by the grandeur of her surroundings.

She looked neither right nor left, not even at the sparkling fountain or the uniformed guard who stood to attention as they ascended the front steps.

She had seen it all before, he recalled, but not for a number of years.

Inside the marbled entrance hall, Tristan paused, conscious of his dishevelled appearance. He turned, wanting to ask Mirrie her opinion on entering his father’s chamber before changing his attire, but he and Juliana were all alone. Mirrie must have remained in the stable yard.

Juliana seemed to sense the path of his thoughts. “I must wash the dust from my hands before visiting a sick room,” she said.

He looked at her properly. The filtered light streaming in through the high windows showed the precise needlework of her dark-coloured gown and a small satchel tied about her waist. About her shoulders, she wore a thin woollen shawl.

Her clothing was clean and neat, but her appearance was altogether different to the usual ladies of his acquaintance.

The difference lay in the cut and tailoring of the fabric, as well as in her hair, which was long, loose and unadorned.

He cleared his throat. “I will have someone show you to a guest chamber.”

“I would prefer to go straight to your father.”

Tristan considered this and then nodded to the guard. “Fetch us warm water and towels.”

Juliana raised the shawl over her head and threw him a small smile. “I will show modesty in your mother’s home.”

“There is no need to hide,” he said, his eyes drawn to the fullness of her pink lips.

She inclined her head. “I am an uninvited guest.”

“You are here at my invitation,” he countered quickly. She stood tall and proud, but he could not shake the idea that she may yet flee like a gazelle.

Juliana took a step closer to him, her eyes locking with his so he was drawn into their smoky depths. “But you are not Earl of Wolvesley.” She paused. “Yet.”

A commotion at the door released him from the spell. Mirrie stood at the top of the steps, looking unaccountably cross.

“Tristan, will you appear before your father in such disarray?” she demanded, sounding so like his elder sister Frida that Tristan’s lip quirked.

At that moment, Alfred hurried forward with a basin of water and a folded towel. Behind him tripped Molly, carrying the same utensils and looking up at Juliana with wide eyes.

Tristan splashed water onto his face, realising only then how thickly his cheeks were coated with stubble. He should go upstairs to change his clothes and drag a comb through his tangled hair, but the thought of such tasks made his skin prickle with impatience.

“Enough dallying.” He waved the servants away and switched his gaze to Juliana, who was drying her hands with all the poise of a visiting lady. “Are you ready?” Renewed urgency flowed through his veins. His father was just steps away and Juliana’s presence could change everything.

She smiled in reply and preceded him up the wide stairway as if she knew exactly where she was going. Tristan was aware of Mirrie behind him, but then her tentative footsteps ceased.

He looked back. “Will you not come with us?”

She shook her head as she pulled away from him, into the shadows. “I was going to, but now I think not. We should not crowd him.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but changed his mind. Wolvesley was Mirrie’s home and she could make her own decisions, but part of him bristled with some unspecified annoyance.

I want her by my side at this difficult time.

There, it was not unspecified. He knew exactly the root cause. What he did not understand was why Mirrie, usually so sensitive to his thoughts and needs, should choose this moment to abandon him.

But there was no time to examine this. Juliana was already sweeping down the torch-lit corridor, pausing by the correct door and turning to him with a half questioning face.

“Is this your father’s chamber?”

He gave his head a little shake. “How did you know?”

“I can sense the sickness within.”