Page 35 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

He knew what she would say in response.

“’Twould not be proper, Tristan.”

So when instead she nodded slowly, surprise caused his heart to still.

“I was thinking the very same thing. The water is so soothing,” she said, closing her hazel eyes once more, her face upturned towards the sun.

Tristan was nonplussed. He put his hands on his hips and watched the waves running up the shore.

He stood a few paces diagonally behind her, still attired in his work boots and breeches.

He had pulled on his shirt before following her to the cove, though he had left it unbuttoned.

A warm breeze buffeted his bare chest, sending whispers of temptation through his body.

But he had come to Ember Hall to talk to Mirrie, not to tease her.

Nor to resurrect the awkwardness that had almost brought their cherished friendship to an end.

He kept his distance for he dared not touch her.

One touch could cause his physical longings to rise up once again and overwhelm his rational self.

Making him the fool she thought him, rather than the worthy man he sought to be.

“I owe you an apology,” he said.

She did not react, not even with a flicker of emotion.

She stood like a woman frozen in time, her simple smock floating out around her calves, her beautiful hair cascading down her back in a loose plait that cried out to be released.

Tendrils had escaped to frame her heart-shaped face, flushed from the sun and her hard work in the fields.

He had scarce believed it when Callum pointed him towards Mirrie: a woman wielding a pitchfork with all the skill and dexterity of a young man.

But then, Tristan had always had faith in Mirrie’s abilities. She was stronger, braver and more capable than she realised.

Although, he could not accuse her of short-sightedness. Not when he had failed to see what had been right before his eyes, ever since their youth.

“I should not have let you leave Wolvesley without saying goodbye.”

She gave the slightest shrug of her slender shoulders.

“I should not have let you leave at all,” he amended.

She turned towards him now. “You do not own me, Tristan. I can leave a place without your permission.” Her eyes skittered over his face, leaving him almost breathless.

He paused to choose his words more carefully. “I only meant that we should not have parted with so much left unsaid between us.”

Her gaze lifted over his shoulders, focusing on the granite cliffs at the edge of the beach. “I am sorry for what I left unsaid. You infuriate me, it’s true. But when all’s said and done, there is no one I trust more.” She sighed. “I have always had faith in you.”

“You have?” His eyebrows climbed beneath his hair.

“Of course. You are a loving son and brother, as well as a mighty warrior. And a peacemaker to boot.”

He was both humbled and surprised by her words. But whereas once he might have made light of her praise, now he was driven to express himself with sincerity.

“Your opinion matters to me, Mirrie. It matters a great deal.”

Her gaze clashed with his, honest and unflinching. “You must know by now how I feel.”

“How must I?” He took a step closer, against all his better judgement, as if he was drawn by a magnet.

When she flinched away, he reached out his hand and softly touched the side of her face.

“Tell me, Mirrie. How can I know this, when you are so eager to discount any tenderness you felt for me in the past—and point out my shortcomings in the present?”

Nay, he should not have touched her. Now he wanted more. But he forced his arm to drop. To stand apart from her and not reach out again.

“Perchance I am aware of your shortcomings, simply because I am aware of you, Tristan. All of you. Good and bad.”

God’s blood, his mother was right; he could see it now. Mirrie loved him. Not because he was heir to the Earl of Wolvesley. Nor for his wealth, not even for his reputation as a knight of the realm. She loved him. Faults and all.

The realisation made him breathless; ’twas a gift he was not sure he deserved.

But one thing he knew for sure. He would not allow it to slip through his fingers.

“As I am aware of you?” he said, closing the gap between them and slowly, carefully, placing his hands about her waist. He stood directly behind her, holding her as gently as if she was made of spun glass.

He wanted her to lean against him, so he could wrap his arms about her and drop kisses on the exposed nape of her neck.

But he would not, could not move. Not until she gave her permission.

She shook her head, letting it drop forward so he had no hope of divining the expression in her eyes. “You have seen me, yet not seen me, for nigh on twenty summers.” Her voice held a tremor.

She spoke the truth.

“I cannot deny it. I have been a fool. But I see you now, Mirrie.”

She made a noise he could not identify.

“I see you when I wake. I see you before I go to sleep. You haunt my every waking moment. I am like a blind man who suddenly can see the light.” He spoke directly from his heart, his words tumbling over one another.

She shook her head again, but he could see some of the tension had gone out of her. “You speak with the legendary charm of the de Nevilles.”

His breath caught as she leaned against him, just as he had wanted. Small waves rushed over his boots, no doubt ruining the leather, but he did not care.

“I must use the gifts God gave me.” Slowly, greatly daring, he moved aside her plait and dropped his lips to where her neck met her shoulder. When she did not resist, he held her tighter, and kissed her there again.

Now she sighed heavily and lolled against him. “I should not allow you to do this.”

He stilled. “If you say the word, I will stop.”

Part of him wanted her to stop him, for he had come here to talk, as his mother had urged and as Mirrie herself had wished. He recalled her words in her bedchamber at Wolvesley.

“Trying, to me, means conversation and getting to know one another, all over again. It must be something finer and deeper than physical desire.”

Back in Wolvesley, he had decided to take his mother’s advice and formally court the young woman who had stolen his heart.

But the trouble was, Tristan’s physical desire for the woman in his arms was finer and deeper than aught he had ever known before.

He traced a line of kisses to her shoulder, nudging his lips beneath the loose material of her tunic.

Then he retraced his path, paying special attention to her jawline and nibbling gently on her earlobe.

Mirrie responded to him with equivalent sensuality to that soaring within him, clutching at his hand as it curved over her belly and bracing her shoulders against his chest as the withdrawing tide pulled at their feet.

He helped her step up the shore, away from the dragging waves, and turned her towards him. Her eyes were half closed with pleasure, her body still pliant in his hands.

“I am falling in love with you,” he said.

Words he had ne’er said to another. A sentiment that had ne’er before come to his mind.

She opened her eyes and tilted her chin so she was looking directly at him. He cupped her cheeks and held her gaze; and he saw doubt written across her lovely face.

“Truly.” He firmed his stance against the shingle. “Mirabel Duval. I believe I am in love with you.”

Her lips parted and he seized the opportunity to claim her mouth with his own, pulling her to him with urgency and running his hands the length of her spine.

He knew a surge of victory when she responded to his kiss, wrapping her hands around his shoulders and pressing herself against the hardness of his bare chest. His tongue probed past her lower lip, delighting in her small gasps of pleasure.

In another moment, he met her tongue with his, exalting in the jolt of connection which reverberated through them both.

He was hardening with desire for her. With the way her slim hips were crushed against him, she must feel it, through the thin fabric of her tunic. Just as he could feel the softness of her curves. His hands skimmed over her breasts and he groaned as the liquid need inside him grew stronger.

She felt right in his arms. Just as she was right in his life. She was the part that made him whole. The part that helped everything to make sense.

His mother was right, about this as about everything. Life had been naught without Mirrie.

“You must decide if you truly love Mirrie. And if the answer is yes, I ask you this. What are you going to do about it?”

He heard her words clearly, above the crashing of the waves and the calling of the gulls. And suddenly, he knew exactly what he was going to do about it.

He had come here to talk, so that he and Mirrie could begin to get to know one another, all over again. But such a courtship was unnecessary, for he already knew her, truly and deeply. Just as she truly knew him.

He broke apart from their kiss and held her away from him so he might look properly into her hazel eyes. Eyes that had darkened with desire, just like his.

Her breath came heavy and quick, just like his.

“Mirabel,” he said, “will you marry me?”

*

She heard him as if in a dream. Everything had become languorous and slow; her limbs heavy with desire. It was the easiest, most natural thing in the world to lean against his sinewy strength and be swept away by his kisses.

But this question was unexpected and it made her agitated. She was not ready for it; could not put her faith in it.

“Nay, Tristan.” She wanted more of his kisses, more of his hands against her body. For the first time, she was quite clear-thinking about that.

“Why not?” His deft fingers drew circles on her shoulders so she wanted only to close her eyes and succumb to the pleasure of his touch.

“Because of who I am and who you are.” Impatiently, she rose on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his, wanting more of what he had so freely given.