“You don’t remember, do you?” Her tone was reproachful, but she took a few steps closer to him and rested her weight against the back of a carved wooden chair.
Tristan longed to sit down, but the only place was the bed and that did not seem appropriate. “Enlighten me, please.”
Mirrie took a breath. “It was Esme who started it. She was talking about people’s characters and how they are unchangeably fixed.”
Tristan had no immediate memory of the conversation, but couldn’t escape the idea he was not going to like whatever was coming next.
He scratched at his head, knowing he couldn’t escape it. “And what did my dear brother say to that?”
Mirrie looked up, as if conjuring the memory from the air. “He said that you would always be impulsive and rash.” She paused, wrapping her arms around herself. “And that I would forever be waiting upon you.”
A beat passed. Tristan’s first reaction was to feign amusement, but his smile died on his lips as Mirrie’s words re-played inside his head. There was no avoiding the rush of pain that followed. “Is that what you really think?”
Mirrie’s lips tightened. “Aye.”
Tristan held up his hands. “After all I have done. Fighting. Negotiating. In France and in Scotland.” His legs felt strangely weak, and his chest was growing tight. “That is your opinion of me.”
Mirrie looked as if she might come toward him but changed her mind. “There is no doubting your discipline on the battlefield, Tris. Nor your courage, nor your loyalty to your country.” She floundered. “’Tis one of the reasons you are held in such high esteem, why heads turn when you walk into a room.” She smiled, ruefully. “We all rely on you to do what is right.”
His breathing became easier. “I am relieved to hear it.”
“But off the battlefield, ’tis another matter entirely.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I am the same man.”
“You do not act as if you are.” Mirrie’s voice wobbled with emotion. “’Tis as if you leave your self-control in the armoury. You are impulsive. You take your pleasures without thinking of the consequences.”
He gasped for air, like a fish caught on a beach. “That is a cruel assessment.”
She bit down on her lip but met his gaze squarely. “’Tis fair.”
He shook his head, trying to order his muddled thoughts and mount a defence, but deep in his bones he knew that Mirrie’s words had the ring of truth.
You leave your self-control in the armoury.
In a way, he did. ’Twas a way to pick up the reins of domestic life after seeing horrors on the battlefield. To drink and feast and aye,take his pleasuresso that the roaring in his ears—of battle cries and clashing metal, of injured men and dying horses—would begin to fade. A habit formed when he was but a youth. One that had become engrained.
He shook his head again, attempting to dislodge the blood-red images taking root in his mind.
“Mayhap you are right, Mirrie,” he said, his voice was sharp with remembered pain. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I shall endeavour to do better.”
Mirrie made a sound between a laugh and a cry. “I beg you not to make promises you cannot keep.”
“Who says I cannot keep my promises?” Tristan’s bewilderment turned to anger. “Do you have such little faith in me?”
Mirrie walked back over to the darkened window, her shoulders hunched. “Of course I have faith in you. All of England keeps faith in you.”
He longed to move closer to her but felt forbidden from doing so. “But do you only have faith in me as a knight? Or as a man, speaking to you as simply and honestly as I know how?”
It took all his inner strength to keep his voice from trembling. So much depended on her answer. But as Mirrie’s gaze remained fixed on the darkened lawns, he realised that she was not going to grant the reprieve he sought.
The injustice stung, like a blade slicing through his ribs. Tristan bade himself remain calm. “I am sorry to be such adisappointment,” he declared. “For my part, I have always kept faith in you, Mirrie.”
He left the bedchamber and didn’t look back.
Chapter Seventeen
Mirrie awoke feelingthat she could not face the morn. ’Twas another beautiful day; she could see the sun peaking behind the shutters. But every bit of her body ached with a pain that was not only physical. A deep weariness, sadness even, had taken root in her soul; a weariness that was better suited to the shadows of her bedchamber, than to the brightness outside of it.
