Page 8 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

She fixed her eyes on the distant horizon of rolling hills.

Somewhere, miles ahead, stood the might and grandeur of Wolvesley Castle, where against all odds she had spent the latter part of her childhood.

She remembered how utterly terrified she had been to stand in the vast, echoing entrance hall with servants scurrying this way and that.

The earl had been like a giant to her; his castle like something from a fairy story.

She thought she might get lost in the maze of torch-lit chambers and spend the rest of her days trying to find the way out.

It was all so different from the modest homestead she’d known before.

She didn’t need to glance up at Tristan to know that his face would be creased with compassion. He could be rash and self-centred, but beneath it all ran a rich seam of good sense, courage and kindness.

He cleared his throat. “I am sorry that you came to Wolvesley under such sad circumstances. But I’m mighty glad to have grown up beside you. We all are.”

She smiled, thankful for a faint breeze which lifted her hair from her neck and took some of the heat from her face. “As I am glad to have known all of you. Though at first, I was very much in awe of the mighty de Nevilles.”

Tristan guffawed at this. “I am sure that didn’t last long.”

Her horse stumbled, jolting Mirrie forwards over her neck. She righted herself with some difficulty. “I sometimes feel that way still,” she admitted, as surprised as Tristan by her confession. “Mayhap you have to be born to the wealth of Wolvesley to accept it as the norm.”

He shot her a piercing look. “I hope you are no longer in awe of me?”

How to answer that?

She managed to shake her head.

“Or anyone else?” he added.

In truth, Angus de Neville, the Earl of Wolvesley, still inspired more than a little awe in Mirrie. But she knew that Tristan would not want to hear that.

“The compassion of your parents soon outshone all else.”

Tristan nodded his understanding, his eyes also roving over the horizon. The sun blazed brightly above them, but ’twas as if a cloud had settled over his handsome features.

They rode in silence for a little while before Mirrie found she could not resist asking her next question. “What rift has occurred between you?”

“No rift,” he answered readily, making her exhale with relief.

“Just a…disagreement.” He waved a hand vaguely.

“To be honest, Father and I have been railing at each other for some years now. I want to bring new ideas to the estate. To try new things. Surely that is our duty, is it not? To improve the lot of our tenants?”

Mirrie frowned. “Your mother would always take food and clothing to the poorest of your tenants or to those suffering from illness or hardship.”

“Aye, and she does so still. But what if we could bring more prosperity into the area? Then they might not need to rely on our charity.”

Mirrie was moved by the passion in his voice. “What ideas do you have?”

“I have heard of castles that host a covered market, so folk can barter and trade all year-round, in one place. Whatever the weather. Even in the midst of winter.” Tristan spoke quickly, his words almost following over one another.

“We have room enough for that and more at Wolvesley.” With one hand holding his reins, he lifted the other upwards, entreatingly.

“Father has always been first and foremost a law-maker and with our land yielding reliable crops, he has never had to expand his circle of knowledge. But there are new farming practices in the south. A three-field system, with less land left to fallow each year. More crops can be grown. More can be sold.” He shrugged his shoulders as if it was obvious.

Mirrie considered this. “And Angus does not wish to try these ideas?”

“Father does not like to try anything new.” Tristan’s horse, picking up on the tension in his voice, began to jog forward.

Unthinkingly, Mirrie nudged her horse to catch up.

“Honestly, Mirrie. These things bother me less in times of unrest. But if we are to know peace, oft times I think I might follow in Jonah’s footsteps and hide away at Ember Hall. ”

“Really?” She felt her eyebrows shoot upwards as she balanced with one hand on her horse’s withers.

Tristan did not appear to hear her. “Wolvesley has known decades of peace and prosperity under my father’s rule. He is well-respected.”

“Well-loved, I would say,” Mirrie interjected, relieved when both horses slowed back to a walk.

“Aye, true enough.” Tristan smiled at her ruefully. “He asks me why I am so intent on bringing change to an estate that is already flourishing.”

“He has your best interests at heart.” Mirrie was staunch in her defence.

“Father has what he thinks are my best interests at heart,” Tristan corrected her, before shaking his golden head. “Forgive me. I am talking too much. You must tell me when I am being a bore.”

You could never be that.

“I certainly shall,” she said out loud.

Around the next bend they found Tristan’s men waiting with a picnic rug spread out in a grassy clearing and a hamper of food being unpacked. They reined in their horses beneath the shade of an oak tree and Tristan bounded to the ground with enviable ease.

“Let me help you down.”

He held up his arms for Mirrie, leaving her little choice but to lean into them as she slid from her horse’s back. Tristan’s grip was strong and steady, he smiled down at her, haloed by the sun.

“Thank you,” she managed.

It felt like years earlier that Mirrie had arranged bread, cheese, apples and skins of cider for their lunch.

The Wolvesley guards seated themselves near the grazing horses, talking companionably between themselves as they ate.

Tristan flung himself onto the rug and tore into the bread, chewing hungrily.

Mirrie lowered herself down with as much dignity as her stiff and aching legs would allow.

Trees provided dappled shade, a relief from the noon-day sun.

What she really wanted to do was lay back and close her eyes, to fix this moment in her mind forever.

Birds singing. A faint breeze. And Tristan. All to myself.

“Are you not eating?”

She reached for some bread and cheese, overly aware of Tristan’s proximity as she bit into it.

’Twas difficult to be delicate and ladylike whilst sitting on the ground, her long skirts twisted uncomfortably beneath her.

“I am famished,” he declared. “But I did not break my fast before we left because I did not wish to keep you waiting.”

She stilled her inner voice, which wanted to tell him that he should have prioritised his own comfort.

That she would have waited for him. Because she would wait for him endlessly.

But if Tristan really was her brother, and she really thought of him as such, then she would be more inclined to scold him.

And since that was what he doubtless expected from her, she should craft her response accordingly.

Once again summoning her best imitation of Frida, Mirrie retorted, “All because you slept in too late.”

He glinted at her. “Aye, milady.”

It cost too much effort to hold his laughing gaze without blushing. Mirrie turned her attention to a rosy red apple, enjoying the burst of sweet juice on her tongue.

“’Tis good to have you with me,” he said, unexpectedly. “Speaking the truth and keeping me on my toes. Like Esme, perchance, but better.”

“Better how?” Mirrie raised her eyebrows. “Because I do not demand your opinion on bonnets and ribbons?”

“That would be reason enough, to be sure, but your greatest charm is that you allow me to finish my sentences and most times listen to what I have to say.” Tristan brushed crumbs from his tunic and leaned back on his elbows, tipping back his head to look into the canopy of leaves above them.

Mirrie averted her eyes so as not to be caught staring at the chiselled perfection of his cheekbones. She made herself remember that Tristan thought of her with nothing more than brotherly affection.

In short, he was not for her.

But oh, how her heart wanted him.

“I must tell you again how grateful I am for your help with this particular situation.”

Mirrie stifled a gasp when she realized that Tristan had rolled onto his side and was now mere inches away from her. He idly plucked a strand of grass from beyond the edge of the rug and let it fall through his long fingers.

“You thanked me most effusively last night.”

“Ah, but I was far from being at my most eloquent, given that I had imbibed more wine than was good for me last night.” He threw her a radiant smile.

“And yet, while my words might have been clumsy, I am grateful for the wine, for I likely would ne’er have conceived such an audacious plan if I were not well into my cups. ”

Mirrie inclined her head. Now would be the time to claim that she had also imbibed too much strong wine yesterday evening. For why else would she have agreed to it?

But in truth, she had not overindulged. Well, not in wine. Given in to Tristan’s whims—for the reward of his smile—had always been an indulgence of hers.

“You do not need to keep thanking me,” she said primly. “I understand the situation well enough.”

Tristan rolled back onto his back, with his hands behind his head.

He was utterly relaxed, whilst Mirrie had never been so entirely aware of everything.

The rise and fall of his muscular chest beneath the exquisite embroidery on his tunic.

The sweep of his golden hair across his brow.

The fact that his elbow brushed against her skirts.

“I am glad to hear it, for I begin to think that I do not understand anything at all.” Tristan twisted his head to look at her properly. “I thought only of my own happiness in persuading you to agree to this ruse.”

Mirrie’s heart began to gallop beneath her kirtle. “That is not true. You reminded me, quite fairly, of how I used to enjoy the Wolvesley balls.”

Tristan pursed his lips. “Much as I would like to take credit, I believe it was Esme who recalled your fondness for dancing.”

Mirrie hugged her knees. “Well, it was true, either way.”

“You are kind and beautiful and we would all be lost without you.”

His voice was a soft murmur, his words were like a caress. She could hardly believe she had heard him correctly.

Whilst she floundered for a response, Tristan propped himself onto an elbow so his face hovered just inches away from hers.

“Mayhap you will find a husband during your stay in Wolvesley.”

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish. “That is not my intention at all.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because I do not wish to marry.” She was becoming unaccountably hot. A burst of laughter from the nearby guards only increased her embarrassment. “That is, after all, why Frida and myself left Wolvesley for Ember Hall.”

“Ah, but Frida married Callum soon after that.”

“Aye, but that was hardly her plan at the time. And besides, my own resolution still stands.”

Surely he could hear how her heart pounded against her ribs?

Still leaning unbearably close, Tristan’s mouth twitched. “That is a shame…”

Time stood still. Mirrie’s eyes widened at the crazy, wonderful idea that he might be about to kiss her.

“…for all of the eligible young men at Mother’s Midsummer Ball,” he concluded, raising himself up to a sitting position and shading his eyes from the sun. “We should get going if we want to arrive home before dark.”

Mirrie felt as if she had been doused with cold water. Dumbly, she accepted his hand as he pulled her to her feet.

“Do not forget what I said, Mirrie.” He took her elbow in a friendly way as they walked towards the horses. “You would make someone a wonderful wife.”

Mirrie couldn’t stand much more of this.

She pulled her elbow away and fixed him with her best attempt at a stern stare. “Tristan, do shut up. You are becoming a bore.”

He was still chuckling as they mounted their horses and resumed their long journey to Wolvesley Castle.