“She is as sweet and lovely and kind as ever.”
“I was enquiring as to her health, you doddypoll.” Esme put her hands on her hips and frowned. “She must soon be approaching her laying in?”
Tristan put a hand to his temples. “Esme, I can hardly speak of it. I am excited and terrified, both at once.”
“Terrified?” Esme’s eyebrows shot up.
“Aye.” He nodded firmly. “For the safety of both Mirrie and the babe.”
“I never thought to see my fearless brother admit to such a thing.” Her heart softened and she put a hand to his elbow.
“That is what love can do to you,” he said with sincerity. “But we will have the best physician in the land in attendance.”
“And Mirrie is young and strong,” she put in.
“Amen to that.” He took her hands in his. “You have not answered my question.”
“I had hoped to avoid it,” she said airily.
“Walk with me,” Tristan commanded, taking her arm and turning them both until they faced the wide arched doorway.
“Do I have a choice?” she grumbled.
“You could try to run, but I believe I would catch you.”
Despite herself, she smiled as they stepped out into the late afternoon sunlight. A guard bowed smartly as they passed, but the inner courtyard was otherwise empty. Tristan paused when they reached the pair of stone lions which guarded the steps.
“Do you need a cloak? The air carries a chill.”
“How solicitous you have become.” She arched an eyebrow. “In truth, I enjoy the cool air on my skin after so many hours in the carriage.”
It made her feel alert and alive, as well as providing welcome distraction from the painful circling of her thoughts.
“Very well. We cannot tarry long, anyhow. I must speak to Father before dinner.”
With one accord, they turned toward the rose garden.
Esme took a breath. “Where is Father?”
“He is dealing with Crispin.” Tristan’s voice was level. She could read nothing into it.
Her goatskin slippers were not appropriate for walking on grass. She winced as the damp soaked through them, realizing they would likely be ruined. But Tristan must have brought her out here for a reason. He must have something to ask—or something to say.
She might as well stay and hear it. He would never leave her be otherwise.
“’Tis a dreadful thing that you and Jonah discovered,” he said softly.
Esme fixed her gaze on the almost-bare rose bushes. When she was last at Wolvesley, the last few velvety petals had still clung to the thorny stalks. Now they were stark and barren.
“Who would have thought that Crispin de Gough was a traitor to England’s rightful king?” he continued.
Esme still stared at the rose bushes, avoiding Tristan’s piercing blue eyes.
“Who indeed,” she managed.
Tristan tugged on her elbow, and they resumed their stroll. “We have known him since he was an overly enthusiastic squire. I trained him myself.” His voice rose with incredulity.
“Aye.”
