“And you are a handsome man, Tristan,” she echoed calmly. “But you don’t need me to tell you that.”
She had wounded him. She saw the flash of it in his eyes.
“Why are you so cross with me?”
Mirrie took a deep breath. “As I told you by the lake, you treat women like playthings.” She held up a hand when he began to interject. “And I will not be one of them.”
“You never would be,” he protested.
“I am cross precisely because you don’t see this for yourself.” She wagged her finger at him. “You would risk all our years of friendship, and for what?” Despite her best efforts, her cheeks coloured as she thought about how she might finish that sentence.
“For the chance to see if we could be anything more. Whether that enquiry takes the form of another kiss, or perchance the courtship that rightly should have preceded this betrothal.” Tristan leaned against the wall, his eyes fixed on hers. His sincerity delivered a hammer blow to the barriers around her heart. “Or am I truly too late? Do you no longer wait so keenlyfor my arrival, or pray for my safety?” He raised his eyebrows, questioningly.
“I will always pray for your safety.” Mirrie’s voice began to wobble. “And I anticipate your visits to Ember Hall with nothing but pleasure.” She swallowed. “In the same way that Frida does.”
“I see.” Tristan smiled sadly, breaking the tension that had sprung up between them. “So you no longer believe yourself a little in love with me?”
“And Jonah no longer carves our initials into the furniture.” She deliberately made her voice light. “We all outgrow our childhood selves, sooner or later.”
“That is a great pity.” Tristan gave a dramatic sigh. “But if we cannot leave this room as lovers, we must depart it as friends.” He held out a hand towards her, silently daring her to take it.
Mirrie did so, ignoring the jolt of awareness that struck her as soon as her fingers touched his.
“Friends,” she repeated, with an emphatic nod.
“Unless you change your mind.”
She tried to fix him with a scolding stare but saw immediately that he was teasing her. An impish smile chased across his chiselled features and his eyes were once again bluer than a summer sky.
“I shall let you know,” she said, as breezily as she could manage.
He rewarded her with a grin before turning to close and fasten the shutters, returning the school room to darkness. Mirrie tried not to stare at his muscular arms reaching for the latch.
“Do you want to go down first?” he asked, his head turned away from her. “Before we lose the light.”
It was a relief to walk away from temptation. At least, that was what Mirrie told herself as she crossed the bare wooden boards of the school room. It felt as if she descended to a colder,gloomier world. Every step down the stone staircase took her further from the memory of standing in Tristan’s arms, his lips pressing against hers.
He desired me.She could not help but shiver at the thought. Whether she was right to rebuff his advances, she might never know. Part of her regretted it, wondering what might be happening to her at this very moment had she not backed out of his embrace.
And for what? Some misplaced notion of propriety? Or reputation? What value did her reputation hold for her when she would likely live the rest of her life as a spinster?
Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Mirrie was seized by a reckless impulse to run back up and throw herself into his arms. But it was too late. Tristan was already coming down behind her. He fastened the door and brushed the dust from his breeches.
“What a mess,” he exclaimed ruefully. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise how dusty it would be up there.”
She put a hand to her hair. “Do I look a state?” She dimly realised that it would not do to appear before the servants looking dishevelled.
The radiance of his smile was enough to make her knees weaken. “I told you just minutes ago that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
She pursed her lips and shook her head, even as her heart galloped beneath her kirtle. “You certainly did not.”
“Well, words to that effect,” he amended.
Mirrie dug her nails into her palms. “It would make me very happy, Tristan, if we never mentioned that conversation again.”
Something flickered across his eyes, but his response was to bow low and take her elbow solicitously. “Can I remind you that when we sat on that window seat, over there”—he pointed as they passed on their way to the main staircase—“I told you that I wanted you to be happy?”
“Aye.” She nodded her head but was not brave enough to meet his eye. “That is permitted.” She came to a halt at the top of the sweeping stairs. “Where are we going?”
