Page 32 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

Frida’s bedchamber was a haven of peace. The polished wooden furniture seemed to glow in the sunshine whilst a warm breeze brought the fragrance of summer grass in through the open window. Frida sat up in bed, looking tired but happy.

“She’s such a dear little thing.” Mirrie hovered over the walnut cradle and gazed into the sleeping face of Frida’s new baby.

“Aye, but she has a good pair of lungs on her. You mark my words, you’ll be wanting to head back to Wolvesley Castle for a bit of peace before the sun rises on the morrow.”

Callum’s ready smile belied his words. He stood by Frida’s side, one hand on her shoulder, beaming down at his little daughter, born on midsummer’s eve.

While Mirrie had been arguing with Tristan, Frida had been far more fruitfully engaged. And now that Mirrie was back at Ember Hall, enmeshed once more into the daily fabric of domestic life, she had trouble convincing herself that the whole Wolvesley interlude had not been some dangerous dream.

“What will you call her?” Mirrie extended a gentle finger and stroked the baby’s small, rounded cheek.

Frida and Callum exchanged glances.

“We thought we might call her Mirabel,” Frida said, tentatively.

Mirrie knew a rush of joy, a marked contrast to the self-flagellation and despair she’d known recently. “Truly?” She put a hand to her heart, unsure if she had heard correctly.

“Truly.” Frida nodded emphatically and reached for Mirrie’s hand. “After my dearest friend.”

“Oh, Frida.” Happy tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes.

“But we’ll call her Merry for short, so as not to confuse folk.” Callum twinkled at her.

“Perfect,” Mirrie breathed. She summoned a smile, determined to keep at bay any strong emotions which might threaten her hard-won composure. “Are you sure this is not some ruse to ensure I take my turn in caring for the babe?”

“Of course not.” Frida’s blue eyes opened wide with denial.

Mirrie squeezed her hand. “Good. Because it is not necessary. I would be honoured to share in her up-bringing, whatever she was named.”

Especially as I am unlikely to have any babies of my own.

Pushing the intrusive thought away, Mirrie leaned over and kissed her friend. “I should let you rest.”

“I’ll come with you, Mirrie.” Callum patted his wife’s arm. “You will call me if you need anything, dearest?”

“I will.” Frida smiled serenely at both of them, as they picked their way out of the bedchamber.

They walked down the wide staircase together. The hall was quiet around them, as if giving Mirrie time and space to think.

“Callum, may I speak with you a moment?” she asked, seizing the moment.

“Aye, lass. Whatever is it?” The big highlander looked at her in concern.

“Nothing ails me,” she reassured him. They had reached the bottom of the stairs and she checked to ensure the great hall was empty.

It was, bar a familiar hound slumbering in a patch of sunlight.

“Shall we sit, for a moment?” she suggested.

“Whatever you wish.” He followed her into the hall and lowered himself into an adjacent chair. “You have me apprehensive.”

“There is no need.” She smoothed her skirts over her knees, thinking again how much more comfortable she was in the plain woollen work gowns which she habitually wore at Ember Hall.

It had not suited her to be dressed in finery; a doll masquerading as the prospective bride of Lord Tristan de Neville.

She sat up straight in the tapestried chair and met Callum’s enquiring gaze.

“I would like to take on more responsibility in the running of the estate.”

His brown eyes widened with surprise. Mirrie swallowed down her nerves and spoke on before he could react further.

“Frida will be increasingly taken up with the children, as is only right. And there is more I could do, out on the land, I’m sure of it. I know I’m only a woman—”

She trailed off as Callum’s face broke into a broad smile. “You mistake me, lass. What you saw then was relief. I thought you might be after telling me that you wanted to return to Wolvesley Castle.”

“Nay.” She pursed her lips and shook her head firmly. “That is the last thing I want.”

“Very well.” Callum linked his hands together and cleared his throat. “Your request is timely, as it happens. I’ve recently received word that my father is ailing.” He paused and put a hand to his head, but not before she had seen his kind brown eyes awash with emotion.

Mirrie looked away to give him time to recover. Through the open windows she could spy the blushing pink petals of climbing roses. If she concentrated, she could even discern their heady perfume wafting through the hall.

But that only put her in mind of her conversation with Tristan, by the rose gardens at Wolvesley, and she fixed her gaze on the wooden floor instead.

“Your father is the Laird of Kielder, is he not?” she prompted, gently.

“Aye. He has responsibility for a great deal of land and a great many lives within it.” Callum scratched at his bushy beard. “And I am his only heir.”

Mirrie sat silently for a moment, digesting this. “You are returning to Scotland?” She tried hard to keep her voice level.

“Not yet. But I believe that time may come.”

“Does Frida know?” she whispered.

Callum nodded. “We keep no secrets from one another.” He sat forward with a display of fortitude. “Methinks I spoke of this too gravely. ’Tis not all bad. Our countries have known an uneasy peace since the Bruce’s death.”

“But much is still unknown about the intentions of the young king.” Mirrie twisted her hands together, thinking of the innocent baby upstairs along with Flora and Christopher, the babe’s two young siblings.

Callum inclined his head. “I can see your worries, Mirrie. And I can see the sense in them. But you forget one thing.” His tone grew jocular.

“And what is that?” Mirrie smiled in return.

“I am brother-in-law to Tristan de Neville. England’s greatest knight. Scotland’s greatest ally.” Callum sat back in his chair with a chuckle.

“Ah, yes. How could I forget?” Mirrie made a show of tidying her hair until she had her face better under control.

I can ne’er escape Tristan. His name and memory dog my heels.

“As to your wish to take a greater role in the life of Ember Hall, I can only thank you with the greatest sincerity. You have always been a hard worker; ’twas one of the first things I noticed about you.”

They shared a smile, both remembering Callum’s first visit to Ember Hall when he masqueraded as a knight under Tristan’s command—when in fact, his orders had come from Robert the Bruce himself.

Much had changed since then. But Frida and Callum had loved each other passionately, undeniably, from their very first meeting. Loved each other despite all the challenges they faced. And that love, ultimately, had triumphed over all.

Their story was not Mirrie and Tristan’s story.

Mirrie took a breath. “I should like to take on more responsibility with the land. Mayhap with bringing in the harvest.”

Callum looked at her closely. “’Tis hard, physical work. There is much you can do away from the harvest.”

“I need to do something new and different,” she interrupted. She crossed her arms and tried to project strength and resolve. “Do not ask me why.”

“Very well,” he nodded slowly, his long fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. “But allow me to say this, Mirrie?” His voice gentled.

She looked away from him. “What is it?”

“Should your wishes ever change.” He shrugged his muscular shoulders. “Should you decide, perchance, that your happiness lies elsewhere than Ember Hall, you must give me your word that you will grasp that future with both hands.”

A weary smile tugged at her lips. “That is most unlikely.”

“Sir Callum Baine claiming the hand of Lady Frida de Neville was most unlikely,” Callum pointed out. “We none of us know what the good Lord has in store for us. All I ask is that you do not feel beholden to us here. Whatever happens in Kielder, we shall manage.”

She straightened her shoulders and met his concerned gaze. “You have my word.”

“That is all I ask.” He stood up and clasped her shoulder in a brotherly gesture. “We have all missed you, Mirrie.”

She patted his hand, her eyes clouding with tears. “As I have missed all of you.”

And I shall never leave you again, she vowed.

*

Tristan had scarcely noticed the decorations for the midsummer ball being set up, but he seemed unable to escape them now. Whenever he walked down the main staircase, the wild flowers strewn about the marble pillars in the hall made his fists clench in frustration.

“God’s bones, Mother. When will this mess be cleared away?” he burst out one morn.

Morwenna had been on her way to his father’s solar, but now she turned to face him. “I had asked specifically for them to remain in place until the petals begin to wilt.” Her voice was mild. “But as they put you in such a perverse temper, I will order their removal this very day.”

Tristan put a hand over his eyes, immediately contrite but still grappling with waves of frustration. “If the sight of them pleases you, then pay me no heed.”

“You are my beloved son. I pay you every heed.” Morwenna took his arm. “Come, let us not waste the day indoors. Walk with me in the gardens.”

He had little choice but to accompany her out into another lovely day at Wolvesley Castle. The sky was bluer than the sea and the fountain sent up jets of sparkling water which caught the rays of the sun and refracted them back in all the colours of the rainbow.

But Tristan’s temper was not appeased.

“Forgive me, Mother, but I cannot walk with you for long. I have much to do before luncheon.”

“Tell me more. Perchance I can help.” She smiled up at him, the very picture of serenity, robed in a simple gown of pale blue with her blonde hair neatly plaited about her head.