Page 18 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

Tristan woke to bright morning sunlight and a nagging feeling that something was wrong.

His head ached, a sure sign he had imbibed too much fine wine the night before.

But his shoulders also felt stiff and sore, and shooting pains ran up and down his calves when he swung his feet down onto the floor.

In a few seconds, as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his mind supplied the reasoning for all of his ills.

Too much wine, aye, that was at least the half of it.

Too much hard riding explained some of the rest. First to Ember Hall, then back here, then to hunt for Juliana at the druid camp.

But also, he suffered from tension over his father’s health.

And worry over Mirrie.

The last point unsettled him, for Mirrie was fit, healthy and about to attend the Wolvesley midsummer ball—an event which she had always looked forward to.

But Mirrie was displeased with him. He recalled the flash of anger in her hazel eyes as she looked at him over his mother’s greying head, and his belly shrivelled into a tight ball.

It felt wretched to have upset her.

He padded over thick rugs to the shuttered windows, extending a finger to widen the slats rather than flinging them open as was his habit. This morn, he was not quite ready to meet the brightness of the day.

It would not do to continue like this. Mirrie’s friendship and support was as vital as his mother’s smile and his father’s wellbeing. Whatever harm he had caused, he must put it right.

Alas, he had moved too quickly. His tidy chamber heaved from side to side as Tristan leaned his hot forehead against the slatted shutters.

His stomach rolled and he imagined last night’s wine swilling around inside him.

It took all his concentration not to cast up his accounts onto the finely-stitched rug beneath his bare feet.

A knock sounded at the door but Tristan could only grunt in reply. He sensed rather than saw Alfred’s concern as he entered the chamber.

“My lord, are you unwell?”

With one arm extended above him, Tristan clenched his hand into a fist and leaned his head on his forearm.

“’Tis only that the sun is too bright,” he managed.

“I shall fetch the physician.”

From the corner of his eye, Tristan saw his manservant turn to leave.

“Nay,” he shot out, even though the effort made his head spin all the more. “Bring me something to drink. I am parched.”

Tristan closed his eyes against the lilting of the walls, but could hear by his footsteps that Alfred was approaching.

“I have a small ale for you, my lord.”

Tristan reached out. “Put it in my hands.”

His fingers closed around the smoothness of a cup and he drank deeply, knowing from experience that this would sooth the ravages of his head.

“I do not need the services of a physician, Alfred,” he croaked.

“My ill health is a result of my own bad decisions and the passing of the hours shall be my healer.” Feeling slightly better already, he straightened his spine and tentatively peered at his manservant.

“But if I did need a physician, I would counsel you to look elsewhere than he who bled my father half to death.”

Alfred bowed his dark head. “As you wish.”

Tristan took another swig of ale. “I must seek another castle physician. But first, tell me, how fares my father this morn?”

“The earl has already broken his fast.” Relief shone through Alfred’s words. “The countess is with him. She has ordered the next service at chapel should be one of thanksgiving.”

“Aye.” Tristan nodded his approval, ignoring the stab of pain in his temples. “I shall go to him myself, once I am dressed.”

“You are sure you would not prefer to spend the day at rest?” Alfred raised his eyebrows questioningly. “These last days have been most taxing, my lord.”

“I thank you for your concern, but I am my father’s heir and there are jobs to be done.

” Tristan’s vision was clearing. He placed his cup down on Alfred’s silver tray and realised, for the first time, that he was still wearing yesterday’s tunic.

“Pray, fetch me water with which to wash and a change of clothes. Then I shall be about my day.”

Not long later, Tristan was striding along the echoing corridors to his father’s chamber, averting his gaze from the beams of light pouring in through a series of high narrow windows carved into the plastered walls.

He was not prepared to meet the dark-haired maiden waiting for him at a turn of the stairs.

“Milord.” Juliana dropped into a curtsy.

“Juliana.” He touched her elbow to raise her up, ignoring the frisson of connection that rippled through him. He had not seen her since quitting the great hall last night. Did he owe her an apology for all that had occurred?

Juliana smiled as if she could read the maze of thoughts in his mind.

“I have come to wish you farewell.”

“You are leaving?” He steadied himself against a wall, drawing her closer to him to avoid a servant carrying an armful of linens.

“It is time.”

He cleared his throat. “I shall ensure you are properly rewarded for all you have done here. And, of course, one of our guards will see you safely back to the camp.”

Juliana raised her dark eyebrows as if something had amused her. “I do not require a guard.”

“But you will require a horse,” he countered. “Speak with the grooms and all shall be arranged.”

“You are a good man, Tristan de Neville. I know you will do what is right.”

“Will I see you again?” As soon as he had asked the question, he regretted it. Hadn’t he sworn just moments ago to mend his relationship with Mirrie?

Juliana dipped her head. “Who can say, milord? I hope we might see one another in the fullness of time. But for now, our paths must diverge.”

He bowed over her hands. “Thank you.”

She smiled, her dark eyes flashed, and then she turned away and was gone.

Tristan gave his head a little shake. Juliana had represented temptation. Would he have succumbed if she had not taken matters into her own hands?

He didn’t know.

Pushing such thoughts from his mind, he knocked sharply on his father’s door, holding his breath for what he might find within.

His father’s manservant pulled open the door and bowed to Tristan. “Good morn, milord.”

“Good morn.” Tristan nodded his head in return. “Is my father in sufficient health to receive visitors?”

“Come in, my boy.”

It was unmistakably his father’s voice that boomed from the bed. Thinner than usual, but still carrying sufficient force to make a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

Tristan walked into the chamber, noting the open shutters and the prevailing scent of summer grass. His father sat up in bed, propped up by pillows, his golden hair framing a face which looked tired and drawn but was no longer ravaged by illness.

“Father.” He bowed, hiding his emotions by turning his face to the rushes on the floor.

“Tris. Come closer so that I might see you properly.”

He rose to find himself caught in a piercing blue stare.

His father always had the uncanny ability to make Tristan feel he could see all the way into his soul.

He pushed himself to close the distance between the doorframe and the large, canopied bed.

When he was close enough, Angus reached out to grasp his hand in a steely grip and Tristan’s vision clouded with salty tears.

“’Tis good to see you so much recovered, Father,” he managed.

“Aye.” Angus released his hand, but his all-seeing gaze did not lift from his son’s face. “I thought my time had come, Tris. But I am spared. And I am told ’tis all thanks to you.”

Tristan inclined his head to the side, uncomfortable with the praise. “I merely sought a second opinion, sir. As you always taught me. ’Twas your own guidance I followed.”

Angus gave him a small smile. “Your mother has gone to her chamber to rest. I believe she has scarcely left my side these last days.”

“She has not,” Tristan confirmed. His large hands rested on the clean coverlet.

“I am most blessed.” His father settled more comfortably against his pillows. “And I understand that you are soon to enjoy such blessings in a union of your own.”

It took Tristan’s dazed mind a few seconds to piece together his father’s meaning. He then had to take a breath to prevent himself from stuttering like a fool. Instead, he slowly nodded.

“You speak of Mirabel?”

“Aye, this match has your mother beaming from ear to ear. ’Tis joyous news, Tris.”

A flush heated his cheeks. He told himself ’twas the warmth of the chamber.

“I am glad you think so,” he managed.

“Bring her to me.” Angus gripped Tristan’s hand once again. “Let me see the both of you.”

“I will.” Tristan nodded, recalling his resolution to speak to Mirrie and mend the rift between them.

“Before noon.” Angus released his hand. “I would like to witness this love that has sprung up from friendship.”

Tristan’s mouth went dry. Did his father doubt him? The Earl of Wolvesley had always been able to read the truth in a man’s eyes. It was one of the many reasons he was such a great leader.

But when he dared to meet his father’s gaze, Angus’s eyelids were drooping.

“I will let you rest, Father,” he whispered.

Angus half raised his hand. “Come back soon, my boy. With Mirabel at your side.”

Tristan walked quietly from the chamber, closing the panel behind him.

His father was recovering. This much was certain.

And Tristan’s heart was much lighter for it.

Were it not for the risk of being spotted in a moment of weakness, he might have put his hands on his knees and wept with relief.

As it was, he held his head high and marched back along the corridor and down the wide wooden staircase to the great hall.

There, his hungry senses were met with the tempting aromas of freshly-baked bread, glistening ripe fruit and soft cheese cut into wheels.

“Tris!”