Chapter Eight #2
Adam had been about to speak. Now he hesitated, his eyes swinging to hers through the mist. “Sir?”
“You are my teacher.” She was beginning to enjoy herself. “I shall address you with the respect you deserve.”
He stepped closer, making her belly flutter all over again. “Your respect should be for the weapon you have in your hand. Imagine the heaviness of it. Imagine the sharpness of the blade. ’Tis not a plaything to be waved about. You could take a man’s head right off or gut him where you stand.”
She lowered the stick to the dampened grass, accepting the reprimand.
“Your sword should become part of you,” he continued. “You must accept the weight as part of your own body, ’twill alter your balance and the way you move. You must grow accustomed to it. That is perchance the hardest lesson of all.”
Esme nodded, her mind whirring.
“This morn, I will teach you how to hold your weapon. And how to stand—”
“How to stand?” she interrupted.
“How to stand ready for an attack.” He raised his eyebrows. “Or does milady already have this knowledge at her disposal?”
“Milady does not.” She pressed her lips together. “Sir.”
The crashing of the waves onto the sandy cove far below them could not match the roaring of blood in her ears when he reached for her hand. Adam’s fingers were warm and strong. They rearranged Esme’s grasp of the handle whilst she watched, wide-eyed.
“Like this.” He swiveled his head to look at her sharply, ensuring she was paying attention.
She nodded. She had rarely been so attentive in her life.
“Straighten your arm.” Standing by her side, he lifted her wrist so that her arm and weapon were at shoulder height. “Do not bend your elbow. ’Tis a point of weakness.”
“Yes sir.”
Ignoring her jibe, he slowly walked until he was standing behind her.
“Shoulders back.” He placed his hands there, tugging gently. “Widen your stance.”
Esme shuffled her feet on the grass, stifling a strong urge to giggle.
“Look up,” he instructed. “Never look at the ground, unless that is where your opponent is.”
Esme lifted her chin and gazed into the swirling white.
“I cannot see my opponent for the fog.”
“All the more reason to be on your guard.”
His breath warmed the back of her neck. Esme felt her eyes closing. He was so close. If she leaned back just a little, her body would be pressed against his.
She did not intend to test this theory, but one of them must have moved, because all of a sudden, she was up against him. ’Twas like leaning against solid granite that had been warmed by the sun. Adam was a wall of muscle.
A wall with hands which came again to her shoulders, resting there lightly.
She breathed out, letting the tension leave her body as that delicious fluttering started up again.
“I will leave you to practice, milady.”
Her eyes flew open. “You will leave?”
“We have done all we can this morn, in this weather.”
His voice came from a distance, and she turned around to see he was already striding away from her.
Her disappointment was acute. But then she twirled her stick in her hands once again and reflected that this was the most entertaining morn she had experienced since arriving at Ember Hall.
Still, I should not have teased him.
He was a skilled warrior taking the time to share his craft with her. Moreover, she had fancied something akin to friendship was growing between them.
Mayhap something more than friendship.
Either way, she should have shown more sincere appreciation for his skills and his time. But he was so darned irritating with the aloofness he seemed to don like a cloak.
For a moment, she considered remaining by the standing stones and practicing her stance as Adam had suggested. But must she remain in the mist to do so?
Nay. She could practice standing up equally well in the warmth of the hall.
Esme wandered back, using the fake sword as a sort of walking stick to aid her over the uneven ground. Her actions put her in mind of Jonah, and when she encountered her brother in the great hall, her smile was genuine.
“Good morn, brother.” She removed Frida’s cloak and hung it on the back of a chair.
Jonah was seated at the trestle table, munching his way through a trencher of cold meats and fruit. He eyed her with interest.
“Where have you been in such foul weather?”
“Learning to fight with a sword,” she answered nonchalantly, propping the stick by the window seat.
“Or with a stick?” He raised his blond eyebrows, questioningly. His hair was neatly combed, and he wore a freshly laundered tunic of green and gold, the colors of Wolvesley.
“I must start somewhere. I was not fortunate enough to have a fencing master assigned to me in childhood.”
“I see.” Jonah popped a glistening grape into his mouth.
“’Tis nice to see you,” Esme said pointedly.
“I am feeling more myself.” Jonah sat back in the wooden chair, a smile playing about his lips. “This may not be your only opportunity to converse with me this day.”
“Praise be.”
Her quip made her brother smile more widely. Esme stepped up to the table and tore off a hunk of fresh bread.
“You are looking mighty pleased with yourself,” he remarked, watching her closely with his blue eyes.
“’Tis the fresh air and exercise.”
“’Tis the company you keep, I think.”
Esme stilled in the action of pulling out a chair for herself. “What can you mean?”
“Callum’s warrior friend. Adam is his name. As you know well, sister dear.”
Why are my cheeks becoming flushed?
“I must pass my days somehow.” She shrugged.
“Games of chess. Sword fighting.” When Esme pouted at him, he chuckled quietly. “There is much I can hear from my position in the solar. Much I can see through the window.”
“Oh.” Esme considered what she had said about Jonah that night by the fire with Adam. ’Twas naught that she would not willingly say face to face.
Except the part about her allowing him to win at chess.
“You have been enjoying yourself,” he said accusingly.
“I have been bored half to death,” she retorted. “Why must you shut yourself away, day after day?”
Jonah’s expression became fixed. “You would not understand.”
“Try me.” Esme abandoned her heel of bread and leaned over the table toward him, raising her eyebrows expectantly.
Jonah sighed. “What would my beautiful little sister know of unrequited love?”
She was glad she was no longer eating, for she might have choked.
“What does my cosseted brother know of unrequited love?”
He held her gaze until she regretted her unthinking response. “Quite a bit, as it happens. But do not fret, Esme. I never expected you to notice.”
She bit down on her lip and voiced a suspicion she’d nursed since their days in the school room. “Mirrie?”
He nodded.
Mirabel, or Mirrie as she was known, was once their father’s ward and Frida’s closest confidant. She had accompanied Frida here to Ember Hall, long before Frida met Callum. Jonah had followed them soon after.
A fact which Esme had not really registered the significance of until this moment.
Mirrie was now married to their brother Tristan and expecting his first child.
“How long?” she asked softly, wondering if she was correct.
“Forever.” He smiled sadly. “But I always knew she held a torch for Tristan. And I never wanted to stand in the way of her happiness. Forsooth, I even worked to bring them together.” He shook his head, as if amazed at his own foolishness.
Esme waited for a moment. “You must truly love her, if you put her happiness ahead of your own.”
“Wise words indeed, from a lady who has men falling in love with her wherever she goes.”
Jonah broke their air of intimacy and concentrated once more on his trencher, but she could tell he was no longer interested in breaking his fast.
“That is simply not true,” she said lightly, toying with a bunch of grapes.
“You dispute the fact that you have come here to escape the many suitors clamoring for your hand back at Wolvesley?”
She swallowed, unaccountably tempted to tell Jonah the truth. One confidence for another. “’Tis not only that.”
“But you admit to the clamoring suitors?”
“Oh Jonah.” She threw a grape at him, but it only bounced off the table. “Aye, I admit to the clamoring suitors. But they are dazzled by Father’s coin. Not by me. And if you saw fit to return to Wolvesley, there would be an equally long line of ladies eager for your acquaintance.”
“Because of Father’s coin?” His mouth was set in a grim line.
“Not only because of that,” she insisted.
“Do not feel as if you have to pretend. Why would any woman want to be shackled to me?”
Esme winced at the raw pain shining in her brother’s eyes. “Because you are handsome and clever.” She thought quickly. “You pen fine poems. I am certain you could woo whomever you wished, if you ever came out of hiding.”
Jonah folded his hands on the tabletop. She watched a tremor pass through them. “You are kind, Esme. ’Tis one of the reasons men fall in love with you.”
She shook her head, exasperated. “This again.”
“I am ofttimes an observer, not a participant. I fancy my skills of observation are sharp enough to be trusted. And I have observed the way that Adam looks at you.”
A thrill rippled through her core, which she quickly disguised as a shiver. She wrapped her arms about herself and pulled her legs toward her.
“Interesting outfit,” Jonah drawled.
“Practical,” she corrected him. “You are wrong about Adam. Perchance he is the only man I have ever met who makes no attempt to flatter me. ’Tis refreshing, actually.”
Jonah took a mouthful of ale. “Perchance you are not experienced enough to recognize the signs.”
Her cheeks burned at that. “Perchance I am more experienced in the ways of love than you might imagine.”
Silence fell between them and Esme fixed her gaze on the grooves in the trestle table.
I should not have said that.
But Jonah’s expression was quite calm as he beheld her.
“There was someone at Wolvesley, wasn’t there?” His question was gentle. “Someone you became fond of?”
A lump had come into her throat that she could not swallow. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Did he hurt you?” This time there was an edge to his voice.
Esme put her head into her hands. “He did not mean to.”
Is that true?
“Because if any man hurt you, Esme, he should be made to pay for it.”
God’s blood, she did not want her brother seeking vengeance.
“You have it wrong, Jonah. There was a man at Wolvesley, aye. And I grew closer to him than I should.” Her voice wobbled. “But he did naught wrong.”
Jonah did not appear convinced, but as she looked at him beseechingly, his expression softened.
“Fear not, sweet sister, I am not about to ride into Wolvesley, waving my sword and baying for blood.”
“I am glad to hear it.” She straightened up, reaching for her composure. “Mother would not be pleased if you did.”
“Nay indeed.” He dragged a hand through his golden hair. “I find this discourse has quite tired me out. You will excuse me for a while.”
It was not a question. He was already getting up from the table, his blue eyes fixed on the sanctuary of the solar.
Esme called after him. “You will come out again this day, won’t you?”
He threw a smile over his shoulder as he limped across the wooden floor. “I may.”
She sighed deeply. Her brother had left her with much to consider. Namely, a question she had asked herself soon after she arrived at Ember Hall.
Did I ever love Crispin?
Was the bitter ache that once lodged in her heart no more than the sting of youthful obsession?
Had she loved Crispin’s chestnut curls and sparkling eyes more than she had ever loved him?
The more time she spent apart from him, the more she fancied this might be the case. Crispin had never made her feel the way Adam did; safe and excited, both together in a heady mix.
With Crispin, she had felt giddy, aye. And anxious. But rarely was there laughter on her lips, nor flutters in her belly.
Which led her to a second, far more troubling question.
What are my feelings for Adam?