Page 30 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

Mirrie awoke feeling that she could not face the morn.

’Twas another beautiful day; she could see the sun peaking behind the shutters.

But every bit of her body ached with a pain that was not only physical.

A deep weariness, sadness even, had taken root in her soul; a weariness that was better suited to the shadows of her bedchamber, than to the brightness outside of it.

She would languish in here for as long as she could get away with.

Mirrie pulled the covers over her head and sighed, willing sleep to come and reclaim her so she did not have to replay the events of last night in her head.

I slapped Tristan.

And David all but asked for my hand.

She could not help but groan out loud at the mess of it all.

How had such tangles formed around her, so quickly?

As a child, she had once become caught in vine weed whilst swimming in the lake.

One moment all had been well, the next, she felt her ankle ensnared in something rope-like that she could not escape, no matter how she twisted and tugged.

’Twas Tristan who saved her, diving down beneath the surface with a sharp stone to cut her free.

She shook away the memory. It would certainly not be Tristan who saved her from this particular tangle. He was the root cause of most of it.

A knock sounded on her bedchamber door and Mirrie held herself still and quiet, hoping that whoever it was would simply walk away. She closed her eyes as the door swung open and tentative footsteps approached the bed.

“Miss Mirrie?”

Was she to be denied any peace at all?

“Yes,” she croaked.

“I have a message for you, miss.”

Mirrie opened her eyes to find Molly standing by her bed. “Who is it from?” she mumbled.

If it is from Tristan, I want naught to do with it.

“I dunno, miss, ’twas waiting for you in the hall. I thought I would bring it up, together with something to break your fast.” She gestured to the night stand behind her, which bore a tray of foodstuffs and a pitcher of ale.

“My insistence on not having a maid assigned to me has caused your own workload to increase.” Mirrie shook her head regretfully, then winced at the pain.

“Never mind that, miss. Will you read the message now?”

“I’ll take it.” She held out her hand for the parchment, but the rest of her stayed resolutely under the covers.

“Let me just open the shutters,” the maid said, comfortably.

“Nay, please do not.” Mirrie saw Molly’s surprise and added, “I have a headache.”

Molly tutted. “A headache which will only worsen if you try to read in such poor light.”

Mirrie could not argue with that. She pushed herself up onto the pillows and shaded her eyes as brightness streamed into the chamber. Molly stood almost exactly where Mirrie had been when she refused to tell Tristan she had faith in him as a man.

She swallowed down a rising swell of grief. “Thank you, Molly.”

The experienced maid took the hint. “I’ll leave you now then, miss.”

Mirrie unfolded the parchment and recognised Jonah’s hand with a burst of emotion she told herself was relief.

Dearest Mirrie,

Is this all my fault? I fear it may be. Come and talk to me. Please. I’ll be waiting in the old bakehouse.

J

Mirrie sighed with exasperation and crumpled the parchment in her hand. The last thing she needed to be tasked with was assuaging Jonah’s conscience.

She swung her legs down to the floor, averting her gaze from hairpins scattered on the dresser; mementos of the ill-fated ball. The last time she’d dressed in this chamber, she had needed the assistance of two maids to make her as elegant and feminine as possible.

Looking elegant and feminine hadn’t worked out too well.

She decided against ringing the bell for Molly or one of the other maids to come and help her dress.

Instead, she rummaged in the closet until she located the shapeless woollen gown she’d worn for that long-ago ride from Ember Hall.

’Twas not really that long ago, she ruminated.

It only felt like it. Next came braccae, which she’d worn to ward off the cold several winters past. Her hair, she made an attempt at combing, but then left loose to tumble wilfully over her shoulders.

By all that was holy, it felt good to abandon her pretence at airs and graces and go about Wolvesley dressed as her true self.

Mirrie didn’t pause to break her fast. Her stomach was still in knots from last night, and any food or drink would only increase her nausea.

But she held her head high as she tripped down the stairs and out into the freshness of another midsummer morn.

Servants nodded to her as she passed; not one of them seemed to stare at her outfit or giggle behind her back.

She should have done this long ago.

She passed the fountain, noticing that the almost unbearable glare of bright sunlight in its foaming waters had, this morn, softened into something paler. Overhead, fluffy white clouds were gathering around the sun. Mayhap they would finally have some rain.

Rain would match my mood.

Mirrie let her arms swing by her side as she walked along the side of the keep to the cluster of low-ceilinged wattle-and-daub outbuildings, that included the old bakehouse.

She came to a halt in the doorway and folded her arms across her chest. “This is a curious place for a meeting.”

Jonah was perched on a little stool which Frida used to sit upon to chop herbs and grind pastes.

The old bakehouse had not been used for its original purpose for many years.

But before her accident and subsequent move to Ember Hall, Frida had taken over the little room and used it as a store for her herbs and healing salves.

The fusty air still carried the tang of comfrey and mint, even though Frida had ensured every last jar was transported along with her other belongings to Ember Hall.

The wooden shelves now stood empty. In fact, Mirrie thought them a little forlorn.

Jonah sat beside the only window, which was rather grimy. Mirrie had no wish to venture further inside and risk getting cobwebs caught in her hair, but Jonah beckoned her with a frantic gesture she could not ignore.

“Close the door behind you,” he insisted. His blue eyes were even wilder than usual.

“What is this about?”

“I want to make sure we’re not overheard.” He shot her a look. “For your sake, Mirrie.”

She leaned back against a cleanish patch of wall and folded her arms again. “I am not aware that I have anything to be ashamed of.”

Despite the steadiness of her words, inside she quailed in case word had gotten out about her and Tristan’s kisses last night. Just about anyone could have seen them.

“I would never suggest otherwise,” he answered smoothly. He dragged a hand through his hair, a gesture horribly reminiscent of his older brother. The two were more alike than they would ever admit. “I meant about David.”

“Oh.” Mirrie was momentarily nonplussed, but this soon turned to exasperation. “Why did you bring him here? Did you not think things were complicated enough?”

“Aye.” Jonah nodded gravely. “That is what I want to apologise for. ’Twas all my idea, after all.”

“It was.” Mirrie nodded as the memories clicked into place.

A surge of anger took hold and she found herself deepening her voice in a mocking parody of Jonah.

“Tell Mother and Father you’ve already found true love.

You’ve missed life at Wolvesley, Mirrie.

Why not return on Tristan’s arm and tell the world you love him? ”

“Well, I never said that,” Jonah commented mildly, arching his eyebrows.

“It’s a mess.” She covered her hot face with her hands.

“I’m sorry.” She could hear sincerity in his voice. “I admit, part of me thought that if you and Tristan spent enough time together—” He left the sentence unfinished.

“You thought wrong,” she said in a small voice. “But then, why bring David here?” She flung her arms wide, flinching when her fingers dislodged a spider.

“I shouldn’t have.” Jonah leaned closer. “But you wrote to me, Mirrie, saying how bad things had become.” He shrugged. “So I thought, why not?”

A beat passed, in which Mirrie tried and failed to control her rising temper. “Why not?” she repeated.

Jonah began to tick things off on his fingers. “You’re a beautiful woman. You’ve always wanted children of your own. And next winter you will be six and twenty.”

“All of that is true, Jonah.” She sighed. “And all of that is irrelevant.”

“David would give you a home and a family.”

Mirrie covered her face with her hands again. “I know that.”

“Mayhap his interest in you was piqued when he learned the identity of your guardian, and mayhap he is more than a little motivated by coin. But such considerations could be said to be a credit to his rationality. His tendency to think things through carefully.” Jonah opened his hands.

“A trait he shares with your good self.”

Her stomach churned as if she might be sick.

“Jonah,” she warned.

“When you calculate the sum of it, David Bryce is a good man. A reliable man.”

“I know that, too,” she shouted. “He is reliable and steady and all of the things that Tristan is not.”

There was a scuffle from outside the window, like footsteps.

Mirrie’s blood ran cold. Was someone listening?

She leaned forward to see, but Jonah held out a hand to keep her back.

“’Tis just a group of stableboys,” he whispered.

But he hauled himself up from the stool, as if their conversation was at a close.

“So you will accept David’s offer?” His tone was matter-of-fact.

Mirrie looked at him as if he was mad. “I will do no such thing.”

“But you just said he was reliable and steady.” Jonah pursed his lips.

Frustration surged inside her. “I don’t want a man who is reliable and steady. I only want Tristan.”

A beat passed, giving Mirrie more than enough time to regret her outburst. Jonah’s gaze went once to the open window, then settled on her face. “Despite all he has done to anger you?”