Page 38 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

Seven days had never passed more slowly.

Mirrie tried not to count them, but her errant brain did so anyway. It mattered not how hard she worked in the hayfields, or how exhausted she was when she finally fell into bed of an evening, a feverish excitement gripped both her body and her heart whenever she thought of Tristan and his promise.

She had not known him ever to break his word.

Some days it was all she could do not to sob with painful anticipation.

But on the seventh day, her emotions took a more fearful turn. What if he does not come?

She served her time bringing in the harvest. The long grass had all been cut and turned.

Now was the time to fork the remainder into the big hay carts to be transported to the safety of the barn.

It was hard, physical and monotonous work, but she relished the chance to fix her mind on a task so simply defined.

When the sun beat down and her blisters stung and her back ached, the endless circling of her thoughts relaxed just a little of their hold on her.

But all too soon, the afternoon shadows began to lengthen and the long lines of workers headed indoors. Mirrie could not bear to be idle. Instead, she made her way to the standing stones, where Tristan had made his final vow.

A vow I should have at least acknowledged.

At the time, she had been silenced by a potent blend of sorrow, anxiety, self-pity and surprise. Now she berated herself for not speaking up and telling him she would count on him keeping his word.

Standing in the centre of the circle was a tall man with a crown of golden hair. Her heartbeat quickened before she realised, a moment later, it was Jonah.

“You do not oft come all the way up here,” she greeted him.

“I had an idea I might find you here.” He leaned his hands against a waist-height stone and hefted himself onto the level surface of it.

“I wanted to talk to you.” His wasted leg hung crookedly below him, but he looked comfortable enough.

Indeed, with his highly embroidered tunic, polished boots and imperious stare, he was every inch his father’s son.

And Tristan’s brother.

Apprehension rippled through her. Did Jonah know something she did not?

“We talk most days,” she countered lightly, making a show of plucking daisies from the long grass.

“I wanted to talk in private.”

Mirrie gave up. She flung herself down on the grass, stretched her legs out in front of her and met his searching eyes. “What about?”

A smile curved at his lips. “What else but my brother?”

She twirled the daisies, trying to keep herself calm.

“I have an idea what happened between you,” he said softly.

She put a hand to her flushed cheeks and hung her head, but he only chuckled.

“Fear not, Mirrie. I most certainly do not want to talk to you about that.” He shifted on the stone, shading his eyes from the slanting sunlight.

“Please do not embarrass me. I suffer enough.”

“I have no wish to do so.” His voice was grave. “What I meant was, I have an idea that Tristan asked you to marry him. And a strong suspicion that you refused him.”

She nodded. Up to now, the only person she had told was Frida. And Frida, she knew, was no gossip. But Ember Hall was a small household and Jonah had known her since childhood.

“My second strong suspicion is that you are not happy about this?” He left the question hanging.

“How could I be?” she burst out.

“Exactly that.” For a moment she thought he might jump off the stone, but he only leaned towards her. “You have loved Tristan almost all your life. Why ever did you refuse him?”

“You know why.” She swallowed. “You said yourself that he is impulsive. He speaks first and thinks later. How can I trust anything he says?”

Jonah pursed his lips. “Because to the best of my knowledge, my brother has never before asked a woman to marry him.”

A sob escaped her.

“Even Tristan, for all his fancy talk, would hesitate to make such an offer if he did not mean it.”

His words stirred hope in her breast, until she recalled the exact circumstances of his asking.

“He was… I mean, we were…” She chewed on her lip. The sentence was impossible to finish.

Jonah held up a hand. “My brother is no innocent amongst women. Trust me on this.”

“That is hardly reassuring.” She turned her face away.

“Hardly news, either. Come now, Mirrie. You know Tristan, good and bad. He has taken a long line of willing women to his bed. None of them e’er became his betrothed. And not for want of wrangling, I’ll wager.”

“Jonah. I don’t know what to do.” It was the first time in her life she had felt so lost.

“I myself have called him impulsive. But oft-times, I daresay that which we label impulsive behaviour is but an example of his quick decision making. And you must see that quality is a strength.” He lowered his voice.

“It perchance saved my father’s life, this last month.

And I’ve no doubt that many a battle has been won because of it. ”

Emotion was welling up inside her, like a dam that was sure to burst.

“Would you want to change him?” he asked softly.

“Nay.” She wrapped her arms about her chest. “’Tis as you say. I know him, good and bad.”

And I love him, good and bad.

“Well then.” Jonah leaned back and tipped his face to the evening sun, giving her time and space to process her rambling thoughts.

“How come you are so ready to defend him?” she asked, as the thought occurred to her. “You are hardly his greatest ally.”

Jonah smiled. “I feel the time has come to put my childish envy of Tristan to one side. Does he exasperate me? Aye, and I’ve no doubt he will continue to do so. But he is also a man I am proud to call my brother.”

He shuffled forward and lowered himself to the ground, wincing as he did so.

“Do you need help?” She sprang to her feet, ready to extend her hand.

“Do not fret, sweet Mirrie. I can manage this and more.” He winked at her. “I am endeavouring to mend my long-time reputation as the Scowler. And I find that walking in these beautiful hills helps to heal my body and soul so that my smiles come more readily.”

Mirrie put her hands behind her back, trying to keep her expression neutral. “I for one never called you that.”

“Nay, but I know it was a common refrain amongst Frida and Tristan.” He thought for a moment. “I even heard it from Esme’s lips. Though Isabella rarely took her attention from her looking glass for long enough to notice anyone or anything else around her.”

She pulled a face. “Your assessment is harsh.”

“But fair?” He raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Fair.” She allowed herself to smile. “No one has called you the Scowler for some time.”

“So my methods must be working.” He clapped an arm about her shoulder in a brotherly way. “I will return to the hall. Pray, think on what I have said.”

“I will.” She nodded.

How could I do anything else?

Impatience gripped at her limbs, but she could think of no place else to go.

She hadn’t dared venture down to the cove since she had met with Tristan down there.

The memories would be too close, too painful to endure.

She could not bear the chatter and bustle of the great hall, filled with labourers come in from the fields.

Nor did she wish to leave the safety of the estate so late in the day.

She could only sit with her back to the hard stone, her hands wrapped around her legs, her mind whirling relentlessly round and around the same refrain.

Had she spoken too harshly to him?

Frida had told her that she should make Tristan fight for her love. But does he really love me that much?

Mirrie put her head in her hands, part of her acknowledging that ’twas her own insecurities she battled against. Insecurities that had clawed at her skin when she contemplated the very real prospect of becoming a countess.

Insecurities that had made her doubt a declaration of love and a proposal of marriage from the man she had long adored.

I must learn to have more faith in myself.

Tristan had always expressed faith in her. From the time when they were children, and he was urging her to join in with their pony-back games. He had seen strength in her that others overlooked.

She remembered his words down on the beach and thought her heart might split into two.

“I wish you could see yourself as I do, for there is naught you cannot do.”

The next moment, she had rounded back on herself. Did she not have the self-respect she was born with? If she was to marry and build a life with any man, could she not expect, at the very least, for him to respect her opinions? And keep his word?

And at this thought, the tears sprang to her eyes once again, for the sun was slipping inexorably towards the sea and it was surely too late for Tristan to arrive.

Slowly, the realisation sank like a stone in her belly.

He was not coming.

She sat on the grass until the ache in her back grew unbearable.

Then she walked back to the hall, stooped over like an old woman who had lost all faith.

Darkness had all but fallen by the time she turned into the courtyard, and she thought her eyes were deceiving her when a horseman turned in at the gate.

She stood on the cobbles and waited for him, hope daring to unfurl deep inside her.

It was Tristan. She knew by his height and bearing. She even knew his horse—the feisty charger he rode into battle. An unsuitable mount for a genteel journey with his sister, Esme, in tow. But the only choice if he rode alone.

And he was alone.

She was conscious of the bright lights shining behind her as everyone gathered in the great hall. Chatter and music filtered through the ancient stone, and tempting aromas from the kitchen drifted through the front door which had been left open against the prolonged heat of the day.

But she only had eyes for Tristan.

He rode up right beside her, then halted his horse and sprang lightly down to the ground.

“I’m sorry I am late.” His voice carried through the near dark, like a whisper on the wind.

“We fixed no specific time.”

He breathed heavily. “You had a right to expect me whilst the sun was up, at least.”

He was right. She should not deny it. “What detained you?”

“You remember I spoke to you of erecting a covered market at Wolvesley?” He slipped the reins over his horse’s head.

“Progress has been painfully slow. But today, at last, the first posts were erected. Forgive me, Mirrie, but I could not leave until I had seen the job done. It was my idea. My responsibility.”

“You are here now,” she said, softly.

She thought he smiled, though it was difficult to make out his expression. “I must see to my horse.” He began to lead him towards the stables.

“No, wait.” She shook her head in confusion, but the words were said now.

“What is it?” He paused, his horse whickering with disapproval.

“I cannot stand to wait a moment longer.”

“For what?” His warm hand was on her cheek.

She closed her eyes at his touch. Her pulse galloped. “Will you make me say it?”

“Nay.” His words came in a rush. “’Tis only that I hardly dared to hope you would speak to me. Much less that you would be waiting. And wanting to hear what I had to say.”

“I am waiting.” She swallowed. “And I am wanting.”

He hooked his arm through the reins so he could take both of her hands in his. “I have a question for you, and it is one I have thought long and hard over.”

Her heart soared and her whole body trembled. “I would like to hear it.”

He stepped closer, so she could hear the raggedness of his breathing and feel the heat from his body.

“Mirabel Duval, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

She nodded, emotion forbidding her to speak.

“I would rather hear your answer than guess at it.”

“I will.” She flung her arms about his neck, rejoicing in the moment his arms closed around her. “I will marry you, Tristan.”

“Despite all my faults?”

“Even because of them.” She could not wait for his kiss. She stood on her tiptoes and claimed it for herself, closing her eyes to savour the sensation of his mouth on hers. His cheeks were raspy with stubble. His powerful body was her port in a storm, now and forever.

“I will spend the rest of my life working to be the man you deserve,” he whispered in her ear.

“You are already that and more.” She cupped his face. “I love you, Tristan.”

He swung her around so her feet flew in the air and the horse startled in surprise.

“I love you, Mirrie. With my heart and my head and every bone in my body.”

“That is mighty lucky.” Happiness made her giggle. “I recall you were most keen to marry for love.”

He set her gently down. “Aye. You see I was right about that.” His voice was playful.

“You are impulsive and rash. But you are most always right, Tristan. That is one of the things I love about you.”

His hands caressed her shoulders. “If I am most always right, ’tis only because I have always had your wisdom to guide me.” His voice had grown serious. “I am naught without you, Mirrie.”

She tipped back her head to make out the brightness of his eyes, gazing down in hers. “Then I had better stay close.”

He ducked down for another kiss. “I am counting upon it.”