He bowed over her hands. “Thank you.”
She smiled, her dark eyes flashed, and then she turned away and was gone.
Tristan gave his head a little shake. Juliana had represented temptation. Would he have succumbed if she had not taken matters into her own hands?
He didn’t know.
Pushing such thoughts from his mind, he knocked sharply on his father’s door, holding his breath for what he might find within.
His father’s manservant pulled open the door and bowed to Tristan. “Good morn, milord.”
“Good morn.” Tristan nodded his head in return. “Is my father in sufficient health to receive visitors?”
“Come in, my boy.”
It was unmistakably his father’s voice that boomed from the bed. Thinner than usual, but still carrying sufficient force to make a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.
Tristan walked into the chamber, noting the open shutters and the prevailing scent of summer grass. His father sat up in bed, propped up by pillows, his golden hair framing a face which looked tired and drawn but was no longer ravaged by illness.
“Father.” He bowed, hiding his emotions by turning his face to the rushes on the floor.
“Tris. Come closer so that I might see you properly.”
He rose to find himself caught in a piercing blue stare. His father always had the uncanny ability to make Tristan feel he could see all the way into his soul. He pushed himself to close the distance between the doorframe and the large, canopied bed. When he was close enough, Angus reached out to grasp his hand in a steely grip and Tristan’s vision clouded with salty tears.
“’Tis good to see you so much recovered, Father,” he managed.
“Aye.” Angus released his hand, but his all-seeing gaze did not lift from his son’s face. “I thought my time had come, Tris. But I am spared. And I am told ’tis all thanks to you.”
Tristan inclined his head to the side, uncomfortable with the praise. “I merely sought a second opinion, sir. As you always taught me. ’Twas your own guidance I followed.”
Angus gave him a small smile. “Your mother has gone to her chamber to rest. I believe she has scarcely left my side these last days.”
“She has not,” Tristan confirmed. His large hands rested on the clean coverlet.
“I am most blessed.” His father settled more comfortably against his pillows. “And I understand that you are soon to enjoy such blessings in a union of your own.”
It took Tristan’s dazed mind a few seconds to piece together his father’s meaning. He then had to take a breath to prevent himself from stuttering like a fool. Instead, he slowly nodded.
“You speak of Mirabel?”
“Aye, this match has your mother beaming from ear to ear. ’Tis joyous news, Tris.”
A flush heated his cheeks. He told himself ’twas the warmth of the chamber.
“I am glad you think so,” he managed.
“Bring her to me.” Angus gripped Tristan’s hand once again. “Let me see the both of you.”
“I will.” Tristan nodded, recalling his resolution to speak to Mirrie and mend the rift between them.
“Before noon.” Angus released his hand. “I would like to witness this love that has sprung up from friendship.”
Tristan’s mouth went dry. Did his father doubt him? The Earl of Wolvesley had always been able to read the truth in a man’s eyes. It was one of the many reasons he was such a great leader.
But when he dared to meet his father’s gaze, Angus’s eyelids were drooping.
“I will let you rest, Father,” he whispered.
