“You could not wait to bring that woman here.” The words burst from Mirrie before she could call them back, but releasing them into the night air helped sooth some of the fire in her belly and she held Tristan’s gaze, ready and willing for a fight.
“What woman?” Tristan took a step closer to her. “Juliana? The woman who helped to heal my father?”
“The woman you wanted in your bed.” Mirrie was shocked at her forwardness, but she did not allow any repentance to show on her face. Instead, she raised her eyebrows in a further challenge and met Tristan’s glare with one of her own.
He shook his head, seemingly in wonderment. Silence stretched between them until Mirrie could bear it no longer.
“You do not even deny it.” The fire inside her was dying. Now she was merely tired and resigned.
“My decision is made. She will not come to me. And I will not go to her.”
“Why not?” Mirrie flung back her head to look at him again, her loose hair flying out behind her. “I could see it was what you both wanted.”
“Because I do not like to see you so upset.” Tristan gazed at her as if she was an impossible puzzle he was keen to solve.
“Just go,” she said. “Please.”
“Not until you believe me.” He stepped forward and rested a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I will have nothing more to do with Juliana, if that is what you want.”
“What I want is not important.” To Mirrie’s horror, her voice was trembling. “This betrothal between us is but a ruse, as weboth well know.” She took a deep breath and straightened her back. “But your mother believed it. As did all your men. It will not be long before everyone knows of it. Which is why you must leave. You cannot be seen coming out of my chamber.” Her voice rose in emphasis. Mirrie had no fortune of her own, but she at least had her reputation.
She would not allow anyone to take that from her.
“I will go.” He nodded, ducking down to her level. “But I hope you know that although our betrothal is fake, my deep affection for you is very real. And it always has been.”
He dropped a kiss onto the top of her head and left. Mirrie stayed still until the sound of his footsteps had faded. Then she carefully closed the door and leaned back against it.
She had been wrong to come back to Wolvesley Castle, believing she was equal to withstanding the emotions she would experience as she pretended to be Tristan’s betrothed.
Their plan had seemed so simple back at Ember Hall. But it was becoming more complex by the day.
Chapter Ten
Tristan woke tobright morning sunlight and a nagging feeling that something was wrong. His head ached, a sure sign he had imbibed too much fine wine the night before. But his shoulders also felt stiff and sore, and shooting pains ran up and down his calves when he swung his feet down onto the floor. In a few seconds, as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his mind supplied the reasoning for all of his ills.
Too much wine, aye, that was at least the half of it.
Too much hard riding explained some of the rest. First to Ember Hall, then back here, then to hunt for Juliana at the druid camp.
But also, he suffered from tension over his father’s health.
And worry over Mirrie.
The last point unsettled him, for Mirrie was fit, healthy and about to attend the Wolvesley midsummer ball—an event which she had always looked forward to.
But Mirrie was displeased with him. He recalled the flash of anger in her hazel eyes as she looked at him over his mother’s greying head, and his belly shrivelled into a tight ball.
It felt wretched to have upset her.
He padded over thick rugs to the shuttered windows, extending a finger to widen the slats rather than flinging them open as was his habit. This morn, he was not quite ready to meet the brightness of the day.
It would not do to continue like this. Mirrie’s friendship and support was as vital as his mother’s smile and his father’s wellbeing. Whatever harm he had caused, he must put it right.
Alas, he had moved too quickly. His tidy chamber heaved from side to side as Tristan leaned his hot forehead against the slatted shutters. His stomach rolled and he imagined last night’s wine swilling around inside him. It took all his concentration not to cast up his accounts onto the finely-stitched rug beneath his bare feet.
A knock sounded at the door but Tristan could only grunt in reply. He sensed rather than saw Alfred’s concern as he entered the chamber.
“My lord, are you unwell?”
