“I am glad you recall such a time.” Her tone had softened. “But those days are gone. You have rather the advantage over me now.”
Of course he had. But he was enjoying teasing her. “In what way?”
“Your height, for one, you buffoon.” She gave him a little push, but merriment had chased the crossness from her brow.
“I will give you a head start.” The idea had seized him and he was reluctant to let it go.
“I cannot go racing about the grounds of Wolvesley Castle.” She lowered her voice. “Whatever will people think?”
“They will think it an example of our young love and exuberance.”
She shook her head at him. “’Twould be more proper for us to stroll around here and admire the roses.”
“Proper be damned,” he let out. Mirrie’s lips twitched and he knew at once what he must do. “Unless, of course, you fear the challenge?”
She folded her arms and fixed him with a level stare. “I have ne’er feared any challenge from you, Tristan de Neville.”
“Then race me to the lake.” He lowered his face to hers. “I’ll give you ten seconds head start.”
“Ten!” Her eyebrows disappeared under her hair.
Tristan took a step back and started counting. “One, two—” He got no further before Mirrie picked up her skirts and launched herself down the path.
She had always been quick, like a leggy colt just let out in the paddocks. Young Tristan could easily out-run his older sister Frida, but Mirrie would beat him every time, no matter how hard he tried. He recalled their last race down to the lake. They had been running so fast he thought he might stumble and fall. Mirrie had been pink-cheeked and euphoric in her victory.
“You will never be faster than me,” she had crowed.
But by the next summer, he was a whole head and shoulders above her and by unspoken agreement, they no longer raced one another around the grounds of Wolvesley.
Overcome with nostalgia, Tristan had forgotten what he was about and Mirrie had disappeared between the trees before he came back to himself and began to give chase. He had thought he might let her win, for old times’ sake. But so fast did he have to move to make up for his mistake, that the boyish spirit of competition entirely took him over. He pounded down the slight incline towards the lake, his eyes fixed on the slight figure of his target, moving at a blur of speed towards the shimmering expanse of water.
Tristan’s arms pumped and his long legs ate up the ground, but he could not catch her. Laughing, he congratulated her on her victory.
“You have beaten me again,” he wheezed, putting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath.
“’Twas never in doubt,” she replied airily. But Mirrie could not cloak the fact that she was also panting for breath, and soon she was laughing in turn as she leaned on the upper rung of a wooden gate.
“I gave you too great a head start,” he reflected, running a hand through hair that had become damp with effort.
The morning sunshine shone down like a blessing on the blue lake whilst the tall trees around them provided welcome shade. Down here, they were screened from the castle and Tristan felt the same way he had as a child, that they had escaped all rules and had claimed the authority to do exactly as they pleased.
If only that were true.
He stood by Mirrie at the gate and together they gazed over the water. Birds called and tentative waves rolled onto the shingle shore. His heart was strangely full and he busied himself by rolling up his sleeves.
“My father is much recovered,” he announced.
Mirrie put a hand to her heart. “I have never been gladder of anything.”
Tristan kept his eyes fixed on the lake. “He has asked to see us, together, before noon.” He cleared his throat. “He was pleased to hear of our betrothal.”
Seconds passed before Mirrie swung around to face him. “Do you not feel guilty, Tris?”
It was a simple question that demanded an honest answer. He nodded. “Aye. Right now, I do.”
“Good.” Mirrie scuffed at the soft earth with her boots. “So do I.”
He did not want her to feel guilty. She did not deserve that burden when the whole betrothal farce had been at his urging.
