Page 28 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

Tristan felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. Though he was usually proud of his quick wit, it was taking a darned long time for him to make sense of anything he had just seen.

Mirrie, his Mirrie, standing by the fountain, kissing the dratted physician Jonah had brought from Ember Hall.

Tristan dragged a hand through his hair, shocked to find he was trembling.

He could not deny the truth of his own eyes.

Though, the more he thought on it, the more he seized on the notion that he had not actually seen them kissing.

He’d seen the man, David Bryce, lean in for a kiss, and at that very second Tristan had wheeled away from his position on the front steps and careered back inside the keep, as unsteady as a drunkard.

Mayhap the maids thought him well into his cups, for none of them approached him. He was left alone to replay the conversation he had not wanted to hear.

“I would devote the rest of my life to pleasing you, Mirabel, if you will allow me.”

Tristan leaned back against the frescoed wall, hoping that by steadying his breathing he might tame the pounding in his head.

How did this happen?

One moment, she had been dancing with him, quite happily he’d thought. The next, she was walking from the great hall in a huff.

“Methinks your friend is jealous from the loss of your attention,” Susannah had said, snidely.

He’d been ready with some quip about Mirrie’s sweet temper, but then he realised that she was quickly disappearing down the corridor. Realization dawned; Mirrie had walked out on his mother’s ball. All because he had turned his back on her for a moment to talk with some friends.

He was struck abruptly with awareness that in walking away from Mirrie, he had been rude, plain and simple.

But it had been a shock to see Susannah.

And not a nice one. Especially when his attention and intentions had been so thoroughly focused on Mirrie.

In the heat of the moment, he had reacted impulsively in the hopes of keeping the situation from getting out of hand.

Susannah was not a woman who would tolerate coming second. And so, to deal with her more efficiently, he had made of show of treating her like the most important person in the room.

’Twas only a pretence. And only for a moment. Had Mirrie waited, as he’d expected her to, he’d have been back at her side before the next dance began.

“Bloody women,” he muttered.

It was then he heard hurried footsteps and he looked up in time to see Mirrie speaking in a lowered voice to Molly, his mother’s maid. Mirrie then ascended the stairs, whilst Molly trotted off to the great hall.

Tristan didn’t wait long before he started after Mirrie, his long legs taking the familiar steps two at a time. He didn’t care that people were watching him from the entrance hall.

He would not be made a cuckold in his own castle.

He caught up with her just before she turned the corner into the corridor that led to her bedchamber. Up here, the noise of the ball hardly permeated. It was as if they had entered a small, private world, where candles emitted a flickering light and peace prevailed.

“Mirrie,” he called.

She paused for a moment, before ploughing on without even glancing behind her.

Tristan increased his pace, sensing instinctively that if she reached her bedchamber, she would bolt her door against him, and there would be no chance to speak with her before morning.

Mirrie also broke into a run, but she was hampered by long skirts and he was more determined to meet his goal.

“Why are you running from me?” He put a hand on her door handle to prevent her from turning it. His breathing was fast and heavy, which only increased his exasperation.

Mirrie was also breathing hard. Her eyes were pink, he noted, as if she had been crying.

“I am running because I hoped to avoid this conversation.” She folded her arms and took a step away from him.

“And why have you been crying?” he asked steadily.

She looked away and tightened her lips, causing his frustrations to give way entirely to concern. Nothing mattered more than Mirrie’s happiness.

“Because I am a fool.”

A beat of silence fell between them. Tristan shook his head. “Nay, you are no such thing.”

Mirrie glanced up at him and the pain in her hazel eyes made him wince.

“I am sorry if I was the one to make you feel that way,” he added, in a rush. “Why did you leave the ball? I thought we were going to talk.”

Mirrie’s laugh was the last thing he was expecting to hear. “I apologise, Tristan. I should have been more specific.”

“What do you mean?” He fought against lowering his brows, choosing instead to flatten his back against the smooth wood of Mirrie’s door and stretch his legs in front of him. “Tell me,” he prompted.

She chewed on her lip, gazing at the floor to the left of his booted feet. “When you asked if we could talk, I thought you meant straight away.”

He didn’t follow. “We were about to dance.”

Mirrie’s face screwed up with impatience. “After the dance.”

“You are cross because I took a moment to say hello to an old friend?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I am cross because you left my side to keep company with your mistress.”

Her words struck him like an arrow through the heart. He opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again.

Mirrie knows more of the world than I realised.

Mayhap she knows more of me than I would like.

“Heaven help me.” She sank to her knees, hugging herself as if she had been wounded. Her voice wobbled. “I was right.”

Tristan was filled with contrition. He sank to the floor beside her. “Susannah was once my mistress, that is correct,” he said, humbly. “But not for some time now.”

Mirrie sniffed, keeping her face turned resolutely away from him. “I believe she would like to be reinstated.”

He couldn’t keep from chuckling at her dry tone, but he quickly sobered. “That may be true. But these things require the consent of both parties.” Greatly daring, he reached out and ran a finger down the curve of her cheek, causing her to turn to face him.

“And you do not give your consent?”

“I do not. Not to her. Not ever again.” He shuffled closer to her, finding her hands amidst her rumpled skirts and intertwining their fingers. As always, a frisson of connection fizzed through him as his skin made contact with hers.

Mirrie’s gaze held him steady. “Why not?”

“Because of you.” ’Twas a relief to say it. “Because of you dear, sweet Mirrie. You are all I can think of now.”

It no longer mattered that she had allowed another man to pay court to her. He cared naught for Mr David Bryce, physician. All that mattered was that he speak the truth of his heart.

But with her parted lips hovering inches from his own, Tristan would have had to be a saint to resist leaning in for a kiss. And Tristan had ne’er pretended to be a saint.

Placing one hand firmly behind her head, he leaned closer and claimed her mouth with his own.

As before, the rightness of it flooded his senses.

Mirrie moved against him, causing new flames of desire to ignite inside his belly.

She smelled of lavender and something wild and sweet that he couldn’t place.

He closed his eyes and allowed the sensation of their lips brushing against each other to take over.

It was all he needed. All he wanted. Until the moment he felt her hands stealing around his shoulders, then he wanted more.

Tristan wrapped his free arm around her waist and pulled her closer, slanting his mouth against hers and delving deeper.

With every stroke of his tongue, he felt her yielding, until she was heavy and languorous against him, half sitting on his lap.

Her hips brushed against the hardness of his desire.

He ran his hands down her sides, pausing briefly at the undersides of her breasts and he ached to explore them without her dress in the way.

But it would not do to undress a lady out here in the corridor.

He pulled back, with effort. His hands were still dancing over her body. “Shall we go inside your chamber?”

Mirrie looked at him. From her position, her head was almost on a level with his. He thought he could see through her beautiful eyes right into her soul.

So busy was he, looking into her eyes, that he did not see her hand coming towards him until it was too late. Mirrie delivered a stinging slap across his cheek, before struggling to her feet.

“What was that for?” he demanded, more surprised than angry.

Mirrie shook her head violently. “I cannot talk to you.” She lunged for the door.

“Oh yes, you damn well can.” He sprang to his feet with the reflexes of a trained warrior and slipped inside the door before she could slam it shut.

“What is this now?” She flung her hands, palms facing upwards, towards him. “Will you ravish me against my will?”

“Of course I will not.” He wanted to shout, but he forced himself to hiss the words instead, not wishing to cause her further embarrassment by risking them being overheard.

Mirrie’s eyes blazed. “You should not have followed me in here. But you care for no one but yourself and the immediate pleasure of the moment.”

He blinked, not understanding. His cheek stung. “I don’t know where I am with you, Mirrie. One moment you kiss me, as if you want me. The next you turn me away.”

“And you are not used to being turned away.”

For a moment her voice broke, and he thought her tears would be his final undoing. But then she straightened, staring him down with a type of hardened resolve he was more accustomed to seeing on a battlefield than in a woman’s eyes.

“That is the only reason you take such an interest in me, Tristan. Because I am perchance the only woman you have ever wanted, who you have not had.”

“God’s blood, Mirabel. How will we ever know what we could be, if you will not allow us to try?”