Tristan knew a hot wave of frustration. What else could a man do but profess love for a woman and ask her to marry him?
Naught.
He clenched his hands into fists as the shingle turned to compacted earth and rose up into a steep incline before him.
She had once been a puzzle he was determined to solve. Now she was the woman who had hurt him, without good cause. One who would not see reason; who refused to be budged. He had never before thought of Mirrie as stubborn, but now he saw that the label suited her well.
Tristan put his hands on his knees and took a deep, steadying breath. Anger was beginning to rise up inside him, twisting his thoughts into something dark and ugly.
He must remember that Mirrie was hurting too. She had shed tears; her distress was palpable.
He would have offered comfort, but she would not accept it.
He ran a hand through his hair, conscious of his dishevelled appearance as he passed the hayfields, still abuzz with bustle and hard work. No one spared any attention to the ill-dressed lord, walking with such great weariness that he could hardly raise his hand in greeting. And for that at least he was grateful.
He reached the courtyard without meeting another soul. The place appeared deserted; everyone was lending their strength to the bringing in of the harvest.Good. He could make his departure with no further delay. He had already spied the inky black ears of his charger when someone said his name, stopping him in his tracks.
“Tristan.”
He turned to see Frida looking none too pleased. Her hands rested on her hips and her mouth turned down in a thin line. Usually his elder sister radiated calmness and serenity, but not today.
“Frida.” He stood where he was, his arms hanging by his side. “I am glad to have seen you before I leave. Glad also to find you and the babe so well.” In truth, he had spared his new niece little more than a cursory glance before rushing off to find Mirrie, but she had struck him as a healthy, pretty little thing, and he was not quite so caught up in his own affairs to forget that.
Frida made a disgruntled sound. “Thank you, but I am not here to talk about the babe.”
“What then?” He opened his palms in a show of ignorance, though he knew it could only be one thing.
“Mirrie,” she said, walking closer and fixing him with a hard stare. “What has happened between you?”
Tristan found himself wishing for a courtyard full of workers. “You have seen her?” he hedged.
“Just now.” Her voice quavered. “Tristan, if you have done what I think you have done…” She trailed off.
He broke her gaze, looking instead at the pink roses climbing outside the front door of the hall. “I might as well say it. I seduced her.”
“Oh, Tris.” Her hands covered her mouth.
“And then I asked her to marry me,” he added, the fact of it still causing him pain.
Frida relaxed her stance but looked more bewildered than before. “And she refused you?” Disbelief rippled through her words.
“She accepted me, at first.” He shrugged. “But as I understand it, the lady has now declined my offer.” He tried to keep his expression neutral and his emotions tightly locked inside.
“Tristan,” she said again, shaking her head so her silvery blonde hair streamed behind her. “When will you get this right?”
He laughed without humour, the sound bitter and harsh. “I begin to think I never will.” He turned back to his charger. “But do not worry, Frida. I will be gone before Mirrie sets foot outside again.”
“She has not yet come in,” his sister retorted impatiently. “What do you mean, you are leaving?”
“There is no reason for me to stay.”
“You are running away?” He heard her light footsteps running to catch up with him.
“I am returning to Wolvesley,” he corrected her, pausing to meet her gaze before opening the stable door. “I will not stay where I am not wanted.”
Frida seemed to expand with rage. “So that is it? You will go away, give up, leave Mirrie devastated?”
He leaned on the half wooden door, weariness washing over him along with the scent of hay and horse. “What else would you have me do?”
