Page 24 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

She knew what was about to happen, but she felt powerless to stop it.

In that moment, she didn’t even want to stop it.

With one swift step, Tristan came to stand before her, placed his warm hands on either side of her face, and pressed his lips to hers.

His kiss was soft at first, but when she didn’t pull away, he stroked one palm down the length of her spine and drew her closer, simultaneously increasing the pressure of his kiss.

Mirrie was lost to the sensation of his hands holding her firmly and his mouth angled against her.

Tristan’s body was a wall of muscle, but his touch was gentle, easing away any tension inside her.

Unable to help herself, she ran her hands up and over his broad shoulders.

That seemed all the invitation he needed to brush the tip of his tongue against hers.

Desire fizzed in her belly, making her feel both heavier and more alive than she had ever been before.

It was good and right to stand in the circle of his arms, safe from any storm. She raised herself on her tiptoes to press even closer, and Tristan made a noise at the back of his throat as his grip on her tightened.

That was when she came to her senses.

It took a massive effort of will to pull away from him. She staggered backwards, her breathing ragged and uneven.

“We mustn’t,” she said.

She didn’t want to look at him, but her eyes moved upwards as if of their own accord.

Tristan’s bronzed face was flushed, his blue eyes dark with wanting.

It was the first time she had ever seen him like this—as a man caught up in desire.

The sight was powerfully arousing, but also a little frightening.

She didn’t know this version of him. But then he took a breath and the old Tristan returned.

“You are right, no doubt. Though it seems a shame.”

Mirrie could hardly catch her breath. “I shall go back downstairs.” She crossed her arms to stop herself from trembling.

“Nay, do not go.” He pushed back a shock of golden hair and stood with one hand cupped around his neck. “I had the idea we were both enjoying it.”

Darn him and his unshakable confidence.

“Was I mistaken?” he asked softly, his eyes holding her in a trap.

Mirrie bit down on her lip and tried to gather her thoughts.

Nay, he is not mistaken.

She could kiss him again, feel his hands upon her. Mayhap more besides. The prospect was powerfully tempting, especially when his full lips twitched upwards into a smile as if he could read the thoughts running through her mind.

But where would that lead them? To Tristan, Mirrie would be no more than another of his conquests. He would enjoy her and then leave her behind without another thought while he moved on to win over the next maiden. Whilst her heart would shatter into shards and never again heal.

She grasped for the right words to remedy this spiralling situation. “We risk too much.”

“We do, for certain. You are right once again.” He nodded as if in serious agreement. “I would not do aught to risk our friendship, Mirrie.” He paused and sighed. “Though in truth, I cannot help but wonder if the risk might be worth the reward.”

“Tristan, stop it.” Her patience was at an end. “This is me you’re talking to.”

“I know right well who you are, Mirrie.”

“Do you?” She was cross now. “You don’t know that I once waited all day for you to return from Lindum. I had on my nicest dress and hardly dared to move from the front steps in case it crumpled. But you arrived with some sister of a friend on your arm, and you didn’t even notice me.”

She was as surprised as Tristan at the force of this memory, bursting up from where she had buried it many years ago.

Tristan’s eyes widened, but she wasn’t finished.

“You don’t know that every time you rode off to battle, I would spend hour after hour on my knees in the chapel, praying for your safe return.”

You don’t know that the main reason I accompanied Frida to Ember Hall was to get away from you. Because I realised long ago that you would never feel the same way about me. And it hurts. It hurts too much.

This last outburst went unspoken. She swallowed the words just in the nick of time, keeping them locked inside.

“You’re right, I never knew those things.” The glow of mischief left his eyes. “I feel I should apologise.”

She tossed her head. “There is naught to apologise for. I know right well who you are. I have always known.”

“And you have always held faith in me.” It was a statement.

She pressed her lips together. “Almost always.”

“Until now?” His tone was playful, but as soon as the words were spoken he held up his hands in apology. “Forgive me.”

Mirrie resisted the urge to stamp her foot in anger. “My faith in you is challenged for good reason. It seems you have taken leave of your senses.”

Tristan’s voice rose to match hers. “On the contrary. It seems to me that I have just now learned what my senses must have been telling me for years.”

I shouldn’t ask. I definitely shouldn’t ask.

“Which is what?” she demanded, knowing she played into his hands.

“That you are a beautiful woman, Mirrie.” He made no move to come nearer, and somehow his words were more intimate precisely because of the physical distance between the two of them.

But she would not let him be her undoing. She had been protecting herself from Tristan’s charms for years. One proper kiss could not break through her carefully constructed barriers.

“And you are a handsome man, Tristan,” she echoed calmly. “But you don’t need me to tell you that.”

She had wounded him. She saw the flash of it in his eyes.

“Why are you so cross with me?”

Mirrie took a deep breath. “As I told you by the lake, you treat women like playthings.” She held up a hand when he began to interject. “And I will not be one of them.”

“You never would be,” he protested.

“I am cross precisely because you don’t see this for yourself.” She wagged her finger at him. “You would risk all our years of friendship, and for what?” Despite her best efforts, her cheeks coloured as she thought about how she might finish that sentence.

“For the chance to see if we could be anything more. Whether that enquiry takes the form of another kiss, or perchance the courtship that rightly should have preceded this betrothal.” Tristan leaned against the wall, his eyes fixed on hers.

His sincerity delivered a hammer blow to the barriers around her heart.

“Or am I truly too late? Do you no longer wait so keenly for my arrival, or pray for my safety?” He raised his eyebrows, questioningly.

“I will always pray for your safety.” Mirrie’s voice began to wobble. “And I anticipate your visits to Ember Hall with nothing but pleasure.” She swallowed. “In the same way that Frida does.”

“I see.” Tristan smiled sadly, breaking the tension that had sprung up between them. “So you no longer believe yourself a little in love with me?”

“And Jonah no longer carves our initials into the furniture.” She deliberately made her voice light. “We all outgrow our childhood selves, sooner or later.”

“That is a great pity.” Tristan gave a dramatic sigh. “But if we cannot leave this room as lovers, we must depart it as friends.” He held out a hand towards her, silently daring her to take it.

Mirrie did so, ignoring the jolt of awareness that struck her as soon as her fingers touched his.

“Friends,” she repeated, with an emphatic nod.

“Unless you change your mind.”

She tried to fix him with a scolding stare but saw immediately that he was teasing her. An impish smile chased across his chiselled features and his eyes were once again bluer than a summer sky.

“I shall let you know,” she said, as breezily as she could manage.

He rewarded her with a grin before turning to close and fasten the shutters, returning the school room to darkness. Mirrie tried not to stare at his muscular arms reaching for the latch.

“Do you want to go down first?” he asked, his head turned away from her. “Before we lose the light.”

It was a relief to walk away from temptation.

At least, that was what Mirrie told herself as she crossed the bare wooden boards of the school room.

It felt as if she descended to a colder, gloomier world.

Every step down the stone staircase took her further from the memory of standing in Tristan’s arms, his lips pressing against hers.

He desired me. She could not help but shiver at the thought. Whether she was right to rebuff his advances, she might never know. Part of her regretted it, wondering what might be happening to her at this very moment had she not backed out of his embrace.

And for what? Some misplaced notion of propriety? Or reputation? What value did her reputation hold for her when she would likely live the rest of her life as a spinster?

Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Mirrie was seized by a reckless impulse to run back up and throw herself into his arms. But it was too late. Tristan was already coming down behind her. He fastened the door and brushed the dust from his breeches.

“What a mess,” he exclaimed ruefully. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise how dusty it would be up there.”

She put a hand to her hair. “Do I look a state?” She dimly realised that it would not do to appear before the servants looking dishevelled.

The radiance of his smile was enough to make her knees weaken. “I told you just minutes ago that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

She pursed her lips and shook her head, even as her heart galloped beneath her kirtle. “You certainly did not.”

“Well, words to that effect,” he amended.

Mirrie dug her nails into her palms. “It would make me very happy, Tristan, if we never mentioned that conversation again.”

Something flickered across his eyes, but his response was to bow low and take her elbow solicitously. “Can I remind you that when we sat on that window seat, over there”—he pointed as they passed on their way to the main staircase—“I told you that I wanted you to be happy?”

“Aye.” She nodded her head but was not brave enough to meet his eye. “That is permitted.” She came to a halt at the top of the sweeping stairs. “Where are we going?”

“To luncheon. I’m famished.”

She did not think she could hold onto her composure during a long meal in the great hall. Her nerves were in tatters and she longed for some time alone.

“You must excuse me.” She cast about in her mind for a reason to flee. “I had forgotten that I am to have a dress fitting ahead of the ball.”

“That was arranged very quickly.” He folded his arms and looked at her searchingly.

But Mirrie found she did not care if he believed her or not. “Aye. These things often are.” She threw him an uncertain smile and turned tail, deploying all her remaining self-control to prevent herself from running headlong down the passageway.

She must put distance between herself and Tristan if she wanted to leave Wolvesley with her virtue intact.

But she was no longer sure if she cared about that.

*

Some hours later, Mirrie had decided, somewhat regretfully, that it would not do to abandon her scruples.

As a young woman who had made her life in the country these last years, she was no longer unduly concerned by notions of propriety.

But she was very concerned by the condition of her own heart and soul.

Neither would come out of this unscathed, were she not to take steps to protect them, she reflected as she stood by the window in her bedchamber and gazed out over the paddocks.

Her eyes kept focusing on the glinting surface of the lake, no matter how determinedly she turned them towards the trees.

It was impossible for her to stop reliving what had occurred down by the shore.

When I kissed Tristan.

A chaste kiss. Nothing more. But ’twas undoubtedly the forerunner to all that had occurred afterwards, in the school room.

When things grew hot and tempting and decidedly less chaste.

Mirrie dug her nails into her palms and tried to get a hold of her errant thoughts.

Errant thoughts that had got her into this mess.

She wandered over to the dresser, drawn to a pretty vase of cornflowers that must have been placed there whilst she was out. The thoughtful gesture made her smile. Cornflowers had long been a favourite of hers. She loved the intricate detail and deep colour of their petals.

Mayhap because the blue was so close to the colour of Tristan’s eyes.

Mirrie shook her head in frustration. For years she had managed her feelings for Tristan. Building barriers that she thought would last her a lifetime.

They had lasted less than three days.

She put a hand to her warm cheeks and walked purposefully towards her closet.

Though she had lied to Tristan about a dress-fitting, it was true that she needed to find something to wear for the midsummer ball.

Mayhap Molly could work her magic to update one of her old gowns? There were plenty to choose from.

She opened the door and was immediately assaulted by memories of the past. Long gowns of rippling silk trimmed with lace and fur, smooth to the touch and redolent of her youth.

Growing up at Wolvesley meant a regular procession of balls and parties, and as she prepared for each, she would unfailingly think, this is the time he will notice me.

This dress.

This ball.

These jewels. This hairstyle.

So much agonizing hope followed days of devastating disappointment.

All of which had taught her a painful lesson; Tristan would never see her as anything more than a friend.

A good friend, aye. One that he might even profess to love as a sister. But his heart would never beat for Mirrie, the way her heart pounded for him.

She reached out to stroke the soft fur collar of a particularly beautiful gown of dusky pink silk.

She had worn it for Beltane, she recalled.

Tristan had danced with her and told her how pretty she looked.

In those days long past, she had longed for time alone with him.

Now she had such time in abundance, and it was exactly that which had brought her so close to danger.

She could no longer trust herself with him.

Even now, in the midst of her self-chastisement, part of her wondered where he was; what he was doing.

What might happen if she knocked upon his door?

She needed a witness to her actions; someone to keep her honest. Someone who already knew the depths of her feelings.

Or at least suspected them.

Mirrie paused for a moment, one hand on her closet door. If she wished to keep her virtue, nay, her sanity, she must act quickly.

She crossed to her writing desk, took up the quill and began to pen a message to Jonah.