Jonah cleared his throat, his gaze still fixed on the fields outside. “Will you be good to Mirrie?”
Tristan stopped and lowered his brows in confusion. “Of course, I will be good to Mirrie. When am I anything but?”
Jonah pursed his lips, as if there was something he wanted to say but could not find the correct words. “She has a sensitive side. She is not like—”
“Not like me?” Tristan finished for him, water dripping down his chest.
“Mayhap I should not have suggested this plan.” Jonah gripped the window ledge in frustration. “We are sending her off to Wolvesley with little thought for her wellbeing.”
Tristan put his hands on his slim hips and stared, his ablutions forgotten. “What the devil do you mean by that?”
Jonah rubbed at his temples, his eyes squeezed shut. “For one thing, she is not a confident horsewoman.”
Understanding dawned. Tristan tossed the washcloth into the bowl and strode forward to clap Jonah’s shoulder. “Your concern does you credit, brother. Have no fear. I will ride close beside Mirrie. God’s Bones, we have had riding accidents enough in this family already.”
The warm water had done much to restore Tristan’s usual good humour. He flung open the small closet and picked out his tunic and breeches, humming all the while.
“I suppose I cannot persuade you to take the carriage?”
Tristan paid this little heed. “The journey is so much slower by carriage. And I have faith in Mirrie, even if you do not.” He threw his brother a look. “As I said, I will ride close beside her.”
Jonah sighed. “That is all I can ask, I suppose.”
“Have no fear.” Tristan was emphatic. “All will be well. Our Mirrie will have the time of her life at Wolvesley. I will make sure of it.”
Though he still did not appear entirely convinced, Jonah left the chamber, muttering something about victuals in the great hall. Tristan had never seen him so domesticated.
As he pulled on his tunic, a thought occurred to him that left him almost winded.
Could it be that Jonah has feelings for Mirrie?
Tristan straightened his clothing, his eyes wide in contemplation. That would certainly explain his profound concern for her wellbeing.
But it would not explain why Jonah himself had concocted the plan for Mirrie to masquerade as Tristan’s betrothed.
Tristan pursed his lips, casting his mind back to the precise events of last night. Perchance Jonah had not been the one to suggest Mirrie’s name. But he certainly had not spoken up against it. Nay, it was most unlikely that Jonah would harbour anything but brotherly affection towards the young woman who had grown up alongside them. And, viewed in a fraternal light, his diligence in regards to Mirrie’s safety did him credit. Although Tristan did not think this diligence was necessary. He had long ago perceived depths of courage and determination in Mirre, that others did not see.
Dressed and ready, Tristan scanned the chamber for a looking glass but found none. He had to content himself with pulling a wooden comb through his tangled locks and ruffling his hair into a style he hoped would be presentable.
He clattered down the narrow wooden stairs, to find his whole family assembled around the dining table in the great hall. Esme started a languid round of applause as soon as he strode through the archway.
“Hail, he appears at last.”
“Do be quiet,” he countered with a smile. He scanned the long table, which fairly groaned with food. Then his eyes travelled over the assembled faces. He paused when he noticed one was missing. “Where is Mirrie?”
“Outside with the horses,” piped up little Flora, her hands clutching a slice of bread spread with honey. “She said the fresh air would steady her nerves.”
Frida shot her a look between Christopher’s flailing arms. “She said that in confidence to you and I, Flora. I do not think Mirrie wanted it repeated.”
Flora shrugged, her big eyes round with innocence.
Tristan had hoped to sit a while and satiate his hunger while ridding himself of what remained of his wine-induced headache with this tempting spread. But it appeared that duty called him elsewhere.
“I will go out to her.” He leaned over Esme and tore off a heel of bread, inhaling the freshly baked aroma and trying to ignore the rumblings in his belly. “May I beg a skin of ale for the journey, Frida?”
“Mirrie has it all taken care of.” His sister smiled benignly. “We will follow you out and say our goodbyes.”
“We don’t need a leaving ceremony,” he protested. But it was all in vain. The whole family followed him down the stone-flagged entrance hall and out into the courtyard, where Mirriestood waiting, along with the small party of armed guards who had ridden with them from Wolvesley. The hilts of their swords gleamed in the morning sunshine and their emerald green cloaks looked overly formal against the background of barns and scratching chickens.
