Had she spoken too harshly to him?
Frida had told her that she should make Tristan fight for her love.But does he really love me that much?
Mirrie put her head in her hands, part of her acknowledging that ’twas her own insecurities she battled against. Insecurities that had clawed at her skin when she contemplated the very real prospect of becoming a countess. Insecurities that had made her doubt a declaration of love and a proposal of marriage from the man she had long adored.
I must learn to have more faith in myself.
Tristan had always expressed faith in her. From the time when they were children, and he was urging her to join in with their pony-back games. He had seen strength in her that others overlooked.
She remembered his words down on the beach and thought her heart might split into two.
“I wish you could see yourself as I do, for there is naught you cannot do.”
The next moment, she had rounded back on herself. Did she not have the self-respect she was born with? If she was to marry and build a life with any man, could she not expect, at the very least, for him to respect her opinions?And keep his word?
And at this thought, the tears sprang to her eyes once again, for the sun was slipping inexorably towards the sea and it was surely too late for Tristan to arrive.
Slowly, the realisation sank like a stone in her belly.
He was not coming.
She sat on the grass until the ache in her back grew unbearable. Then she walked back to the hall, stooped over like an old woman who had lost all faith. Darkness had all but fallen by the time she turned into the courtyard, and she thought her eyes were deceiving her when a horseman turned in at the gate.
She stood on the cobbles and waited for him, hope daring to unfurl deep inside her.
It was Tristan. She knew by his height and bearing. She even knew his horse—the feisty charger he rode into battle. An unsuitable mount for a genteel journey with his sister, Esme, in tow. But the only choice if he rode alone.
And he was alone.
She was conscious of the bright lights shining behind her as everyone gathered in the great hall. Chatter and music filtered through the ancient stone, and tempting aromas from thekitchen drifted through the front door which had been left open against the prolonged heat of the day.
But she only had eyes for Tristan.
He rode up right beside her, then halted his horse and sprang lightly down to the ground.
“I’m sorry I am late.” His voice carried through the near dark, like a whisper on the wind.
“We fixed no specific time.”
He breathed heavily. “You had a right to expect me whilst the sun was up, at least.”
He was right. She should not deny it. “What detained you?”
“You remember I spoke to you of erecting a covered market at Wolvesley?” He slipped the reins over his horse’s head. “Progress has been painfully slow. But today, at last, the first posts were erected. Forgive me, Mirrie, but I could not leave until I had seen the job done. It was my idea. My responsibility.”
“You are here now,” she said, softly.
She thought he smiled, though it was difficult to make out his expression. “I must see to my horse.” He began to lead him towards the stables.
“No, wait.” She shook her head in confusion, but the words were said now.
“What is it?” He paused, his horse whickering with disapproval.
“I cannot stand to wait a moment longer.”
“For what?” His warm hand was on her cheek.
She closed her eyes at his touch. Her pulse galloped. “Will you make me say it?”
