Page 20 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

She folded her arms and fixed him with a level stare. “I have ne’er feared any challenge from you, Tristan de Neville.”

“Then race me to the lake.” He lowered his face to hers. “I’ll give you ten seconds head start.”

“Ten!” Her eyebrows disappeared under her hair.

Tristan took a step back and started counting. “One, two—” He got no further before Mirrie picked up her skirts and launched herself down the path.

She had always been quick, like a leggy colt just let out in the paddocks.

Young Tristan could easily out-run his older sister Frida, but Mirrie would beat him every time, no matter how hard he tried.

He recalled their last race down to the lake.

They had been running so fast he thought he might stumble and fall.

Mirrie had been pink-cheeked and euphoric in her victory.

“You will never be faster than me,” she had crowed.

But by the next summer, he was a whole head and shoulders above her and by unspoken agreement, they no longer raced one another around the grounds of Wolvesley.

Overcome with nostalgia, Tristan had forgotten what he was about and Mirrie had disappeared between the trees before he came back to himself and began to give chase.

He had thought he might let her win, for old times’ sake.

But so fast did he have to move to make up for his mistake, that the boyish spirit of competition entirely took him over.

He pounded down the slight incline towards the lake, his eyes fixed on the slight figure of his target, moving at a blur of speed towards the shimmering expanse of water.

Tristan’s arms pumped and his long legs ate up the ground, but he could not catch her. Laughing, he congratulated her on her victory.

“You have beaten me again,” he wheezed, putting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath.

“’Twas never in doubt,” she replied airily. But Mirrie could not cloak the fact that she was also panting for breath, and soon she was laughing in turn as she leaned on the upper rung of a wooden gate.

“I gave you too great a head start,” he reflected, running a hand through hair that had become damp with effort.

The morning sunshine shone down like a blessing on the blue lake whilst the tall trees around them provided welcome shade.

Down here, they were screened from the castle and Tristan felt the same way he had as a child, that they had escaped all rules and had claimed the authority to do exactly as they pleased.

If only that were true.

He stood by Mirrie at the gate and together they gazed over the water. Birds called and tentative waves rolled onto the shingle shore. His heart was strangely full and he busied himself by rolling up his sleeves.

“My father is much recovered,” he announced.

Mirrie put a hand to her heart. “I have never been gladder of anything.”

Tristan kept his eyes fixed on the lake. “He has asked to see us, together, before noon.” He cleared his throat. “He was pleased to hear of our betrothal.”

Seconds passed before Mirrie swung around to face him. “Do you not feel guilty, Tris?”

It was a simple question that demanded an honest answer. He nodded. “Aye. Right now, I do.”

“Good.” Mirrie scuffed at the soft earth with her boots. “So do I.”

He did not want her to feel guilty. She did not deserve that burden when the whole betrothal farce had been at his urging.

“Seeing my father so close to death was a shock. If I had known how ill he was, perchance I would ne’er have conceived of this plan.”

Aware of her searching gaze, Tristan lowered his head.

“It is not too late to tell them we have changed our minds,” she suggested, softly.

“But the root problem still exists.” His hand curled into a fist. “My parents see me as little more than an instrument for breeding.”

Mirrie made a strange sound and when he looked down, he found her shoulders shaking with laughter.

“Like a stallion?” she suggested. “Or a prize bull?”

“It is not funny,” he said reproachfully.

“Oh, but it is.” She shook her head. “What’s funnier is that you have no notion of the power you have.”

Tristan frowned but Mirrie ploughed on before he could say anything.

“’Tis in your power to change the way your parents see you. You’ve already shown all of England that you are a skilled warrior and more besides. Now you need only prove to your parents that you can do more than fight and—” she ground to a halt.

“Provide heirs?” he suggested.

“Exactly.” Mirrie made a visible effort to recover her composure. “You spoke to me about introducing a covered market. Why not put that plan in motion? You are quick, I believe, to take the initiative in battle. You could do the same at home.”

“Aye.” He nodded slowly, as his mind turned over her words. “You are not wrong.” He recalled Juliana’s words from just yesterday.

“A man who has not yet come to realise the full extent of the power he wields.”

“What is it?” Mirrie was watching him closely.

“Juliana said much the same thing to me,” he answered carelessly. But when Mirrie turned away from him, he reached out to grasp her wrist. “You cannot blame me for speaking to the woman when you shared details of our betrothal with her.”

Mirrie gaped at him like a fish. “I ne’er spoke of that to Juliana.”

He released her wrist. “Then how did she find out?” He frowned. “I thought you told her.”

Mirrie shook her head. “I thought you did.”

For some reason this struck Tristan as funny. “Mayhap she looked into my palm and foresaw our actual wedding?”

“Do not be a fool,” Mirrie answered calmly. “You are the future Earl of Wolvesley. You cannot marry me.”

Tristan pushed at the gate and was pleased to find it unbolted. He held it open and ushered Mirrie through. “I think you will find I can do exactly as I please—as I intend to prove right now.”

“Where are we going?” She looked up at him with wide, hazel eyes.

Tristan grinned. “We’re going bathing.”