Page 9 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

Tristan had never passed such a pleasant ride home.

The bright summer sun that had hurt his eyes and caused so much irritation just yesterday, now seemed a joyful benediction on all that lay ahead.

With Mirrie looking increasingly confident astride the little chestnut mare, Tristan allowed his attention to wander, noting the pleasing expanse of purple-hued moorland and overhead, the sweet song of a ruddock.

Tristan remembered his mother taking him to one side when he was a boy and pointing out the red-bellied bird which sang so loudly for a creature so diminutive in size.

“You don’t have to be the largest or the grandest to stand out,” she’d said.

Young Tristan had smiled, blithely unheeding of her wisdom. He was heir to the largest estate and grandest castle in the land. He would always stand out. It took many years before he realized that that was not always a good thing.

“What has you so deep in thought?” Mirrie enquired.

He glanced down at her and decided to tell the truth. “I was enjoying the call of the ruddock and reminiscing about my mother.”

Mirrie squinted up at him. Her bonnet had slipped backwards and her long hair fanned across her shoulders. “That sounds almost poetic.”

He laughed. “You see, Jonah is not the only one of us capable of deep thoughts.”

She nodded gravely. “I shall remember that.” Her horse trotted a little to keep up with the long stride of his warhorse. “What was it about the ruddock?”

He strained his ears but the little bird was no longer anywhere near. “It is but a tiny little thing, yet the melody he creates is as beautiful as the throstle.”

This time her smile was wide. “I believe Jonah has penned a poem on the very subject.”

He rolled his eyes. “I might have guessed.”

“Mayhap you should attempt the same, then we can compare the merits of the two.”

Tristan glanced again at the woman riding by his side. “Do not attempt to convince me that your assessment would be fair. You would favour my brother, every time.”

“What is this?” Mirrie’s eyes danced as she looked him fully in the face. “Is this insecurity that I can sense in the great Tristan de Neville?”

Aye, it was. At least a little. But he would ne’er admit to it.

“I am content to let Jonah be a man of letters, whilst I am a man of action.”

Mirrie pursed her lips. “Jonah is quite skilled with a sword.” She broke into a laugh as she saw the expression on his face. “I speak in jest, Tris.”

“Nay, you speak the truth. Jonah and I were trained by the same knight.”

“But Jonah does not share your natural abilities,” she pointed out.

His lips twitched upwards into a smile. It was nice to know that his talents were appreciated.

“Nor I his with a quill,” he added generously.

They were riding so close that her knee knocked against his calf.

The sunlight danced across the ripples in her light brown hair, adding highlights of gold.

Tristan knew a lightness of heart that this clever, capable young woman would be at his side in the days ahead, helping him with such an important matter.

Albeit, one that no one else deems important.

“Are we nearly there?” Her voice drooped a little with tiredness and Tristan was immediately contrite.

“Over the next hill we will be able to glimpse the castle battlements, but the light will hold for many hours yet. If you would like to stop and rest, we can do so.”

“Nay.” She shook her head. “I would rather press on and get there all the sooner.”

“I too.” He nodded with conviction. “I long to set the wheels of our plan in motion.”

Mirrie’s mouth tightened. “You will tell your parents straight away?”

“Why wait?” He lengthened his reins, giving his horse his head, and looked down at her in puzzlement.

She didn’t answer for a long moment. The only sound came from the clumping of their horses’ hooves over the moorland track and the distant buzzing of flies.

“Tell me what troubles you,” he prompted, noting that the expression on her pretty face had become rather fixed.

Mirrie shrugged. “I merely imagined you would wait until you’d received the latest news of your father’s health.”

Now it was Tristan’s turn to be quiet.

It was not the first time that Mirrie had floored him with her straight-talking.

“You are right, of course,” he allowed. “His health is my first concern, and I am eager to hear news of how he fares. But I have little doubt that the news will be good. Surely Father will regain his strength soon. I would wager he will be up and dancing for the midsummer ball.”

“Even so.” Mirrie’s voice remained clipped.

“Even so,” he agreed. “Mayhap I am overly enthusiastic to claim you as my betrothed.” He smiled widely, though he was more than a little baffled by the blush that rose up to stain her cheeks. “Forgive me, Mirrie. You know that patience has never been a particular virtue of mine.”

Her expression softened. “I know it.”

He had to be satisfied with that, for the track narrowed and Mirrie reined her horse back to fall in step behind his.

The flies were buzzing nearer in the still air, causing him to wave them away.

As an experienced knight, Tristan was well used to long days in the saddle, but even he was beginning to feel stiff.

It was a relief when they reached the top of the hill and spied the jagged top of granite stone battlements rearing into the blue sky.

Wolvesley Castle.

Though Tristan had travelled far and wide, he had never visited anywhere half so grand as his childhood home.

He had always been proud of his family’s lineage and the peaceful, fruitful lands they ruled over.

’Twas only in these last weeks, when the demands on him as first son and heir took such a sudden turn, that a small spiky ball of resentment had lodged itself in his stomach.

“There it is.” Mirrie’s face was transformed by a smile. “I had not realised I missed it so much.”

Her positive words banished his gloom. “I knew you would be glad to be home.” But it was the wrong thing to say, for Mirrie’s expression closed off all over again. “I do not mean to imply that Ember Hall is not your home,” he added hastily.

Mirrie reached down to pat her horse, hiding her expression. “Wolvesley was my childhood home and will always hold a special place in my heart.”

Her voice wobbled and it pierced something inside him.

Mirrie had always seemed so content. He had never thought of her as being vulnerable or fragile.

He had given little thought to her childhood circumstances, or how it would have felt for her to come and live with them so soon after the death of her own parents.

Was Jonah right? Was he rash and impulsive? Was that why they were here?

Nay, for Mirrie had made that choice of her own free will.

“What of me, Mirrie?” he asked impulsively. “Do I hold a special place in your heart?”

For a moment she looked disconcerted by the question, but then she rammed her straw bonnet more securely onto her head and met his gaze squarely. “Of course,” she answered. “Have you not always known that?”

He inclined his head and met her impish smile with one of his own. “I have always hoped, to be sure.”

“And now we will meet our destiny as a betrothed couple.” She nudged her horse forward and preceded him down the hill.

“It is all I wanted and more,” he called after her.

His horse fell in behind and Tristan reflected on his good fortune in finding such a lovely young woman to join him in this ruse.

Forsooth, he hadn’t had to find her. She had been right there all along.

Minutes later, they reached the wide, smooth road that led right up to the castle.

Tristan longed to urge his horse into a trot but, mindful of his companion, he lengthened his reins and sat easily in the saddle as the familiar landmarks came into view.

There was the lake where they had all learned to swim, laughing and splashing in the shallows.

There was the grassy noll where his mother would spread a picnic rug for the six of them to gather on.

The landscape was filled with happy memories from their shared childhood; but when he went to comment as such to Mirrie, he saw that her gaze was fixed straight ahead and her mouth once again set in a grim line.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

“The lie we are about to tell.” Her answer was short.

“We will get it over with straight away,” he declared, nodding for emphasis. “I shall do the talking. You will not have to say a word that is not true.” She nodded slightly, but still looked unconvinced.

There was no time for further discourse as they had already reached the high outer gates.

The marshal stood back to let them through with a sharp salute.

Tristan heard the shout, and a long line of armed guards stood to attention as he and Mirrie trotted past, the small group of men-at-arms who had travelled with them filing in behind.

He could not deny that it felt good to be home. To know that a hot bath awaited him and that he would not have to fetch his own water, nor bribe any of his relations to do the same.

Mayhap sharing his enthusiasm for home—or at least, for the prospect of a hearty meal—his warhorse broke into a canter for the final stretch to the stable yard.

They burst under the archway then skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust. His horse exhaled with relief and pricked his ears, looking this way and that for his familiar groom.

“Welcome home, milord.”

Gerrault, the stable master, came striding out of the workshop. He was a tall man with silvery hair who had worked at Wolvesley for most of his life. His grey eyes rested only momentarily on Tristan before going to the horse he loved.

“How is he?” he asked.

Tristan swung his leg over the horse’s back and jumped to the ground.

“Ready for a good feed,” he told Gerrault before reaching out his hands to catch at the bridle of Mirrie’s chestnut horse.