Mirrie twisted round, causing Molly to grip her hair tighter to secure the complicated braid she was in the process of tying. “Where did he go?”
“That I don’t know.”
“But he’s been gone all night?” Mirrie could not keep the edge of concern from her voice.
“Alfred, his manservant, has been sitting up for him since dusk.” Molly grimaced around the hairpins. “The poor man dozed off whilst sitting in a hard chair.”
But Mirrie had no thoughts to spare for Alfred. Where had Tristan gone in such a hurry? He had spoken of dispatching a messenger to the druids. Did he go himself after all?
“I must go downstairs.” Anxiety was rising in her chest.
“There is naught you can do to bring him home any sooner.” Molly gave a final pat to her hair. “But let us get you dressed and ready.”
Molly crossed to the wooden closet and brought out a simple gown in pastel colours. Mirrie stood as quietly as she could whilst the maid helped her into it. The gown smelled of lavenderand was a relic from a former time. Mirrie was just admiring the familiar folds, when Molly audibly tutted.
“The fashions have changed since you last wore this, Miss Mirabel. We had better arrange for some new gowns to be stitched for you.”
“Please don’t go to any trouble.” Mirrie was on the cusp of saying that she could stitch her own gowns, but in truth her needlework was not fine enough for a Wolvesley wardrobe. She was comfortable mending her clothing at Ember Hall, where a dropped stitch or an uneven hem would not be noticed. But standards were far higher here.
Molly stood on her tiptoes to straighten the neckline of the gown. “I shall ask one of the maidservants to attend you for the rest of your visit. Mayhap Lady Esme’s personal maid. Would that please you, Miss Mirabel?”
“It certainly would not.” Mirrie answered before she could properly gather her thoughts. “I mean to say, thank you, Molly, but I have grown accustomed to life without a lady’s maid.” She clutched her hands together, not wanting to cause offence, but unable to countenance the prospect of Esme’s experienced maid tutting over the state of her wardrobe. Her stomach turned somersaults of anxiety at the very idea.
Molly looked unconvinced, but thankfully something outside caught her attention. “Hark at that.” She nodded towards the window. “I fancy that’s his lordship I can see returning.”
Mirrie rushed over and placed her hands on the sill, leaning out as far as she dared until she could make out a large bay-coloured horse approaching the gatehouse. She could discern nothing about the rider, save the glint of a sword in the dazzling sunshine.
“I think it must be Tristan,” she agreed, unable to keep the excitement from her voice. “I shall go down and meet him.”
“Very good, miss.” Molly dropped into a short curtsy.
“Thank you for all you have done,” Mirrie added.
Molly inclined her head. “It’s the least I can do to tend to a daughter of the household.”
Mirrie wanted to run, but conscious of her long skirts, she bade herself be satisfied with a scurrying walk down the sweeping staircase into the marbled entrance hall. Once again, there was but a lone guard standing by the front doorway. He bowed smartly as she passed.
A warm breeze caressed her freshly-bathed skin as soon as she stepped outside. The day had dawned warm and perfect once again, with not a cloud to be seen in the deep blue sky. The manicured lawns ahead of her were a far cry from the wild beauty of the lands around Ember Hall, but Mirrie found comfort in the familiarity of the splashing fountain and the proud stance of the stone lions. Yesterday, the grandeur of Wolvesley Castle had struck her as if she was seeing it for the first time. But happy memories from her youth were gradually banishing her social anxieties. She remembered one hot day when, unwilling to walk all the way to the lake, Jonah had jumped into the fountain instead. And the midsummer ball, not so very long ago, when Esme had tied two straw bonnets, replete with ribbons, onto the stone lions.
She picked her way down the path to the stable yard, shading her eyes from the bright sunlight and realising, too late, that she wore neither gloves nor a bonnet. The steady clop of a horse’s hooves was closer now, and she wanted to speak to Tristan before he entered the keep and was rightly claimed by his mother.
Her pulse beat faster as she neared the stone archway, knowing from the shouts she had heard that it was indeed Lord Tristan drawing near. She had long since given up berating herself for the swell of anticipation she always experienced before seeing Tristan. Her attraction to him was simply part ofwho she was—a woman with a moderate singing voice, a dislike of needlework, and a heart that would forever beat for Tristan de Neville.
Now at least she could hope to speak to him without the usual audience of his siblings, friends and numerous visitors to the castle. It would just be the two of them. She could offer comfort, a friendly ear and support for his ambition of a second medical opinion.
Taking a deep breath, she walked through the archway with as much grace as she could manage. Gerrault stood waiting to receive the horse and he tugged his forelock as soon as he saw Mirrie. But before she could frame a greeting, Tristan’s horse trotted into view.
Mirrie shaded her eyes once again as she tipped her head backwards, wanting to see from Tristan’s face if his mission had been successful. But what she saw made her flesh grow hot and cold at the same time. Her heart took a deep dive downwards and she all but staggered to one side in shock.
Tristan’s mission had clearly been a success. She could tell from the beaming smile on his handsome face. And from the smug expression of the woman perched on the saddle in front of him; her slender body pressed up against his. The woman had long, glossy black hair, dark eyes and the reddest lips Mirrie had ever seen. Tristan’s arm curved protectively around her waist while her head rested against his clavicle.
It was Juliana.
Chapter Seven
Tristan could seethat Mirrie was shocked to see Juliana riding in front of him. In truth, he was as surprised as she was. And he wanted to shout his victory from the rooftops. Against all the odds, he had succeeded.
He’d galloped through dense woodland towards the druid camp, fuelled more by desperation than any real hope for success. He knew not if any healer of renown still resided amongst the druids, nor what welcome he might receive from people who were, by nature, private and secretive. His way was lit only by the light of the moon and with every springing step his horse took, a mantra beat through his mind.You will fail. You will fail.
