Page 19 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

Whilst he was perusing the offerings of the long table, his name was hollered across the bustling room. Tristan turned to see Jakob, a red-headed knight who had trained alongside him at Lindum, waving frantically from a small table set below the dais.

Grabbing a fistful of red berries, Tristan walked over to the group of men.

Jakob was dining with two recent recruits.

He did not know their names, which meant he must learn them at the first opportunity.

Tristan did not like to be at a disadvantage, even amongst his own men.

And he had always believed that soldiers would more willingly follow a leader who gave them the time of day.

“Good morn,” he greeted them.

“Especially for you, I hear.” Jakob grinned up at him cheekily. Tristan remembered Jakob’s many teasing taunts in their more youthful days. He was always the first to laugh and quick to celebrate any trifling success.

Tristan picked an empty cup from the table, sloshed ale into it from a nearby jug and raised it in a toast. “Well said, Jakob. I am just come from my father’s bedchamber. He is on the road to recovery.”

The men readily raised their cups to his and voiced their pleasure at this news.

“That is indeed something to celebrate. Although I was not at first talking of the earl,” Jakob added, unexpectedly. “Congratulations on your betrothal. You did not tell me you were courting Miss Mirabel.”

Tristan took a breath, telling himself that the length of his and Jakob’s friendship would forgive the impertinence of such a statement.

Usually it would not be impertinent at all to compliment a man on his betrothal to a beautiful woman.

But he had not yet readied himself for such dialogue. Events seemed to be spiralling out of his control, which was ridiculous as this ruse was entirely of his own making.

“Thank you.” He took a mouthful of ale to negate the need for further conversation.

“I am only sorry I missed last night’s announcement.” Jakob’s gaze was trained on Tristan. A lesser acquaintance would have thought the exchange to be innocent, but Tristan could see the calculations taking place behind the man’s eyes.

Jakob was wondering if this sudden betrothal was brought about by necessity. He would wager a bagful of coin that the knight was counting back the weeks since Tristan’s last visit to Ember Hall.

Tristan recalled Mirrie’s insistence that he leave her chamber last night before they could be seen together. Until she had spoken up, he had not spared a thought to how careless he was being with her reputation.

A reputation that was already being questioned. Because of him.

He grimaced behind his cup, before banging it back down on the table.

“Fear not, Jakob, you will have full opportunity to celebrate with us at the midsummer ball. And perchance thereafter, for we are in no rush to set a wedding date.” Whilst Jakob’s jaw worked to formulate a response, Tristan looked for a change of subject.

“How is your new squire working out? The lad that I sent over to you at Beltane.”

Jakob flashed him a genuine smile. “As you know, I had my doubts, but he is progressing better by far than I predicted. He is a quick study, good with the horses and brave to boot. I readily admit that you were right about him.”

Tristan was pleased. “I sensed the lad’s potential.” He turned his attention to Jakob’s companions. “I do not believe we have been introduced.”

“Edward Byers, milord,” spoke up the oldest of the two; a muscular youth with freckles across his nose. “My father served yours, under Sir Henry de Gaunt.”

Tristan nodded in recognition of the loyal knight who had led the Wolvesley army for more than two decades. “Sir Henry was a great man.”

Edward Byers nodded enthusiastically, while the young man at his side turned a shade of beetroot red.

“I am new to Wolvesley, milord.”

“And what is your name?” Tristan was instinctively cautious of newcomers, although ’twas far from easy to join the ranks at Wolvesley. No man could claim so much as a trial without a seal of recommendation.

“’Tis Thomas. I travelled here from Darkmoor, milord.”

Tristan was reassured. Darkmoor was the province of one of his father’s oldest friends. Otto Sarragnac was unlikely to send spies into their midst.

“You are both welcome.” He smiled widely at them all, even Jakob. “Forgive me, I have business to attend to.”

All three rose up from the table as Tristan swept away.

He must find Mirrie. If only he’d taken the time to pick up more than berries to break his fast. His stomach growled audibly, but he did not want to waste another moment in the great hall.

The front door to the keep stood open, inviting the warm breeze to bring the melody of bird song into the marbled hallway.

He stood for a moment, looking out at the deep blue sky and the hues of sunlight reflected in the sparkling fountain.

It was another beautiful day. If only he could spend it at leisure.

But Tristan had spent enough time watching his father at work to know that ledgers of accounts would need attention, including matters that were over and above the jurisdiction of his young steward.

The castle court was sitting in two days and Angus must give word if proceedings would go ahead.

All of this and more Tristan had decided to take to his father’s bedside.

It was time to show the Earl of Wolvesley what his eldest son was capable of.

Which meant he must find Mirrie, for he had no hope of concentrating on such mundane tasks if he still itched to make things right with his oldest friend.

First though, the cornflowers by the wall of the keep were calling to him. Tristan strode over and plucked a handful, being careful not to crush the petals in his large hands. He waved to attract the attention of a passing maidservant.

“Would you be so kind as to put these in a vase in Miss Mirabel’s chamber?”

The maid curtsied politely and took the flowers, but Tristan could see that she was puzzled by his choice of bloom.

So be it. He was certain Mirrie had a fondness for the little flowers that were as blue as the sky. Seeing them in her bedchamber would please her, and that thought pleased him in turn.

Something caught his eye down by the fountain—a familiar figure he would recognise anywhere.

Tristran wasted no time in running down the steps, heaving a sigh of relief when he rounded the corner to find Mirrie standing by the carved stone and gazing up at the high jet of foaming water.

On the occasions he had visited Ember Hall, Tristan had grown accustomed to seeing Mirrie in worn work clothes with her shining hair tied into a rough plait.

The Mirrie he knew at Ember Hall was usually found working in the fields or chopping vegetables in the kitchen.

She was capable and kind, quick to bring a blanket or a bowl of broth to anyone in need.

He had forgotten how lovely she could look, simply standing still.

“There you are,” he greeted her. Her hair had once again been expertly braided and pinned about her heart-shaped face. Her slender hands, usually so busily occupied, rested against the damp stone of the fountain’s outer wall.

Mirrie did not break her gaze. “I have always wondered how it can rise so high into the air, with naught to support it.”

He followed the line of her hazel eyes. “The water?”

“It amazes me now, just as it did when we were children.”

Tristan pursed his lips. “’Tis all about the speed with which it ascends.”

She threw him a look that would have been scornful from anyone else. “I did not believe it was the work of fairies.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “I much prefer that idea.” Mirrie was working to hide her smile, he could tell as much from the brightness of her eyes.

“Walk with me,” he entreated, holding out his elbow.

When she hesitated, he merely moved nearer.

“Come, ’tis a shame to waste this beautiful morn being angry with me. ”

“I am not angry with you.”

“Then take my arm.”

Mirrie huffed, sounding annoyed, but she took his arm with an outward display of grace and they began to promenade through the rose gardens. He reached over to pat her hand, carefully keeping his eyes straight ahead of them to ensure no one was near enough to overhear.

“I’m sorry. About last night. You were right.”

“About what, exactly?” She arched her eyebrows.

“About me coming to your chamber. ’Twas not proper and it will not happen again.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

He paused to glance down at her pointed face. “Are you sure you are not angry with me?”

Mirrie let out a sigh. “I am exasperated with you, Tris. I am exasperated of this entire situation. I do not enjoy deceit. And it would seem that I no longer enjoy being laced into fancy gowns which threaten to trip me at every step.”

Laughter bubbled up inside him. “Then pick up your skirts and run,” he dared her.

“Whatever do you mean?” She shaded her eyes from the sunlight and tilted her head to look up at him.

“Let us race to the lake. I seem to recall a time when you oft would beat me there.”

“I am glad you recall such a time.” Her tone had softened. “But those days are gone. You have rather the advantage over me now.”

Of course he had. But he was enjoying teasing her. “In what way?”

“Your height, for one, you buffoon.” She gave him a little push, but merriment had chased the crossness from her brow.

“I will give you a head start.” The idea had seized him and he was reluctant to let it go.

“I cannot go racing about the grounds of Wolvesley Castle.” She lowered her voice. “Whatever will people think?”

“They will think it an example of our young love and exuberance.”

She shook her head at him. “’Twould be more proper for us to stroll around here and admire the roses.”

“Proper be damned,” he let out. Mirrie’s lips twitched and he knew at once what he must do. “Unless, of course, you fear the challenge?”