Chapter Eight
What should a lady wear to learn to fight with a sword?
Pushing aside the oilcloth and gazing out of her bedchamber window, Esme amended her question.
What should a lady wear to learn to fight with a sword in the swirling fog?
The green hills around Ember Hall were blanketed in grey. Esme could make out little save the hulking shape of the barns. Even the usual sounds of the stable yard were muffled.
She withdrew to her closet, shivering slightly, and rapidly discarded the choice of several flimsy gowns. This was a day for warmth, not ribbons, but she had little that would suit. She considered a day dress of stiffened wool, but the sleeves were too tight for the activity in question.
Esme was not one to readily accept defeat. Fastening a cloak about her shoulders to preserve her modesty, she left her bedchamber and crept along the gallery until she reached Frida’s light and spacious room.
I am doing nothing wrong, she told herself sternly. But she felt like a child rummaging in her mother’s closet.
Frida had long since learned to dress in accordance with the seasons. She had taken the best of her gowns with her to Kielder Castle, but Esme found several heavy tunics that would suit her purpose. Then, at the very back of the closet, she found something else.
Braccae.
She shook them out, hardly believing her eyes.
When would my decorous sister wear such an item?
At once, a dozen answers presented themselves to her. Frida had always made a point of working out in the fields. No doubt braccae were a sensible choice for herding sheep or hoeing crops, or whatever else she might do. Esme was hazy on the detail.
An outrageous idea was taking shape in her mind.
I could wear these in my lessons with Adam.
What could be better than clothing that allowed her to move about freely, without danger of tripping over long skirts?
Would it be proper?
Esme forced herself to consider this, but then remembered that her own mother, the erstwhile Countess of Wolvesley, often wore braccae when horse riding.
Albeit, she had not done so for a number of years.
But most certainly when Esme was a child, she could remember her mother striding about in braccae.
That settled the matter. She tucked the braccae under her arm and selected the shortest of the tunics before rushing back to her own chamber. Once dressed, she surveyed herself in the looking glass and smiled at the results.
Had her legs always been so long?
She belted the tunic with a twist of leather, then plaited her hair. What liberty to dress with such speed, without requiring the ministrations of a maid.
She was ready. Which meant she must consider the next important matter.
Will he come?
Esme put a hand to her heart, hoping to steady it. In truth, ’twas not just the lessons in sword-fighting that she was looking forward to. Her heart fluttered beneath her fingertips at the prospect of seeing Adam again.
Last night, in the great hall, conversation had flowed between them as readily as the wine. Beneath his dour exterior, Adam was a man of surprising warmth. She would never have expected to share confidences with someone of such short acquaintance.
Not once had Crispin taken the time to probe at the truth of her heart.
Pursing her lips, she closed her mind to thoughts of Crispin.
She went down to the great hall, where the trestle table was laid ready for her to break her fast. Jonah was nowhere to be seen, as was becoming the norm.
Esme filled a trencher with bread and cheese but found herself too nervous to do anything more than nibble at the edges. She tucked herself onto the window seat and only then remembered Felicity.
She had forgotten her charge!
Esme pushed herself upright, looking about her for the small black cat. She hadn’t followed her up to her chamber last night. The last time she had seen her was here, on the window seat.
Acting on impulse, Esme walked through to the kitchen.
“Have you seen Felicity?” she demanded of Agnes, as soon as she was through the door.
If Agnes thought that Lady Esme’s outfit was strange, she did not let her opinion show.
“Aye, milady. There’s nay call to fret. She was waiting for me in here at daybreak.
” Agnes chuckled. “I reckon she’s worked out where her meals are coming from and decided to settle in.
” She nodded towards the back wall, where Felicity was stretched out on a blanket which had been folded onto a low shelf.
“You put the blanket out for her?” Esme lifted her eyebrows.
“Well, she’s naught but a little thing. And it does no harm.” Agnes was defensive.
Esme fought a smile. “’Tis kind of you, Agnes. I’ll make sure Flora knows what good care you’re taking of her.”
“Thank you, milady.”
Esme made to walk back to the great hall, but after reaching the passageway, she paused and retraced her steps around the corner.
“Be sure not to let her out at night,” she cautioned. “And if she comes looking for me, that’s alright. In fact, I will most likely come looking for her.”
“Very good, milady.”
Smiling, Esme walked around the corner and straight into Adam. Her face cannoned into the hardness of his chest, and she grunted with the shock of it.
“Forgive me.” He was the first to recover, but when she looked up at him, his mouth was set in a grim line.
“I believe the fault was mine.” She went to smooth her skirts and was momentarily discomfited when her palms encountered only the narrow lines of her braccae. “Are you come to collect me for my first lesson?”
Adam’s gaze was studiously fixed someplace above Esme’s head. “The weather is not ideal.”
“I believe warriors must turn out in all weather conditions,” she said innocently.
He still refused to meet her eye.
The man who had beaten her at chess, then teased her about her brothers, had retreated behind a veneer of flintiness.
But Esme’s heart fluttered all the same.
“Pray, Adam, do not disappoint me,” she persisted. “I have dressed especially for the occasion.”
His eyeline did not shift, but a color came to his chiseled cheeks.
“I still say that the weather is not ideal.”
“And I say that fresh air and exercise should be enjoyed whatever the weather.” She took his arm, as this trick had worked so well for her the night before, and boldly attempted to turn him around.
Alas, Adam was much too tall and broad to be easily turned in a narrow passageway. The two of them became crammed between the plastered walls, scarcely an inch of air separating them.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed. Without the layers of protection afforded by a chemise and kirtle, she felt the press of his body all the more. She was far too warm, and it was strangely hard to catch her breath.
Adam’s hands skimmed past her hips before settling on her shoulders. “You stay still,” he said. He held her in place whilst swiveling around and extricating his limbs from hers.
She wanted to smile at him, to share the idiocy of the moment, but she was hot and embarrassed. And Adam looked more cross than amused.
“We will continue as planned, if that is what you want.”
“It is what I want,” she confirmed.
He gestured for her to walk ahead, and she proceeded him down the narrow passage, newly conscious of the way her tunic and braccae molded to the curves of her body.
Imagining his eyes upon her.
But when she glanced back, Adam was engaged in gloomy contemplation of the roof beams.
“Where shall we go?” she asked.
This time, his green eyes locked onto hers, but only for a moment. “There is a patch of level ground near the cliffs, by a circle of standing stones.”
“You have researched the matter?” She was exultant.
But Adam seemed determined to be distant. “I am here to serve you.”
Esme would not be cowed. “’Tis good of you to remind me.” She matched his serious tone.
A smile flickered behind his grim expression; she was certain of it.
Outside, the mist settled upon her hair and clothes, making her shiver despite the warmth of Frida’s sensible cloak.
They walked in silence to the standing stones, which looked even more forbidding this morn, amongst the swirling greyness.
The roar of the sea below reached them as if through a long tunnel.
Esme might have been sorely tempted to abandon their quest entirely, but for two things.
One, the unrelenting length of her uninterrupted days—which she did not think she could endure again.
Two, the fact the Adam was here alongside her.
She need not flinch from the perceived hostility of her surroundings with him as her protector. Not simply because he was every inch a warrior; but because he exuded a sense of safety.
And she could not deny those flutters in her belly when his all-seeing eyes glanced upon her. Eyes that had seen things that Esme could only wonder at.
“Wait here,” he said, striding past her toward one of the granite monoliths.
She shivered as he was all but swallowed up in the mist, leaving her alone. He returned holding a long wooden stick.
“A stick?”
She was disappointed and her voice showed it.
“Aye. We will not begin our lessons with a broadsword sharp enough to kill a man.”
He was mocking her and making little attempt to mask it.
Esme swallowed. “Very well.”
Adam handed her the stick, which was more of a whittled down branch, now that she could see it more closely. It was the width of her wrist and the length of her arm. The wood was smooth and somehow warm to the touch, despite the chill of the day.
“Usually, we would use wooden swords for these lessons, but I have none to hand.” His voice had relented. “Mayhap I will have the opportunity to fashion one for you. But this was the best I could do overnight.”
“’Tis a fine starting weapon,” she declared, twirling it in her hands. “Do you not have one for yourself?”
He folded his arms. “Nay. We will not be sparring. Not for some time yet. This is no game, milady.”
I am milady again.
“I am aware of that, sir.” She countered quickly.