Mirrie sat up in bed, the covers falling away from her. She wanted to find Tristan and express her support for his plan. She wanted to find Morwenna and ask what she could do to help. And she wanted to venture into Angus’s bedchamber and find the words to thank him for all he had done for her, before it was too late.
But she was no longer at Ember Hall, free to pull on a crumpled robe and wander the house at will. She was in Wolvesley Castle, where a myriad of rules of manners and decorum applied—not all of them at the forefront of her memory.
She swung her legs to the floor, enjoying the softness of the rug beneath her toes and wincing at the ongoing ache in her thighs and back after yesterday’s long ride. She would have liked a hot bath before retiring last night, but after the drama of the evening—and with the household so disrupted—she had beencontent to strip down to her chemise, crawl under the covers and close her eyes.
All of which meant that the dust and grime of a hard day in the saddle still lay upon her skin. Even her hair felt dirty. But what could she do about it?
Her chamber was beautifully decorated with mouldings on the ceiling, a stylish writing desk and a large wardrobe to hold the many gowns she had once needed as the ward of the Earl of Wolvesley.
How many gowns would I need as Tristan’s betrothed?
Pushing the thought to one side, Mirrie padded over to the window and swung open the shutters. Her chamber looked out over the rolling paddocks and the winding lane down which they had ridden just yesterday. The large oval lake glinted invitingly in the morning sunshine. If only she were a man, able to throw caution to the wind and do as he pleased, she could have taken a dip in the lake that would have left her clean and refreshed, ready for the challenges ahead. But strict rules of etiquette applied to the ladies of the household, and Mirrie had never wielded the breezy confidence of Esme or Isabella when it came to flouting those rules.
Rules which would be even stricter if she was announced as Tristan’s intended bride.
Mirrie put her palms to her flushed cheeks. Would Tristan go ahead with their intended subterfuge, in the light of his father’s failing health?
Nay, she decided, their ruse would likely be abandoned under the circumstances.
She fixed her eyes on the distant treeline, unable to decide if her relief outweighed her disappointment.
A knock sounded on the door, breaking her reverie.
Conscious of her state of undress, Mirrie called out, “Who is it?”
“’Tis Molly.”
“Come in.” She self-consciously crossed her arms over her chest and moved to the centre of the room.
Molly opened the door and bobbed into a curtsy.
“Good morn, Miss Mirabel. I thought you might wish to bathe before going down.”
“You are quite correct.” Mirrie smiled, but she felt awkward about being waited upon after so many years of self-sufficiency at Ember Hall. “Thank you.”
Her feelings of awkwardness increased as several chambermaids followed Molly into the chamber, two of them dragging a gleaming copper bathtub and the others carrying pitchers of hot water. Soon steam began to rise and as the maids took their leave, Mirrie abandoned her scruples in the anticipated pleasure of sinking her aching limbs into hot water.
Molly pulled forward a screen and Mirrie wasted no time in pulling off her chemise and stepping into the tub.
Bliss.
She rarely had time for a warm bath at Ember Hall. A quick dousing with cold water had become her norm. What luxury it was to stretch out in the heat, her hair floating up around her. When Molly perched behind her on a low wooden stool and began to lather her hair with soap, Mirrie closed her eyes and submitted to the pampering without a word of complaint.
Much more of this and she would find herself ready and waiting to be named as Tristan’s betrothed.
Her eyes flew open just in time to catch a bubble of soap sliding down her forehead. Mirrie sucked in a gasp of stinging pain and Molly chuckled.
“Best to keep still, Miss Mirabel, until I’ve finished.”
Mirrie settled herself more comfortably in the tub with her eyes firmly closed as Molly rinsed her hair and gently rubbed it dry. At the maid’s urging, she stood up, dripping wet, and waswarmly wrapped in a linen cloth and led over to a stool so she may sit down whilst Molly combed out the tangles in her long hair.
“I can sense your impatience, miss. But I can tell you that Lord Tristan has not yet returned and Lord Angus is none the worse this morn. My lady is sitting with him still.” Molly spoke through a mouthful of hair pins.
Mirrie thought she had been doing a good job of disguising her eagerness to have these preparations over with. She pressed her lips into a smile in acknowledgement of Molly’s insight.
“What do you mean, Lord Tristan has not yet returned? Did he ride out this morn?”
“Nay, miss. ’Twas last night that he called for a fresh horse to be saddled for him.”
