Chapter Nine #2
“Not far from here.” He did not wish to dwell on this. “So, you see, although I am the son of a farmer. My father was also a warrior. And he taught me how to wield a sword from a young age. When my parents passed, Rory took me in.”
“And here we are,” Esme breathed.
“Here we are,” he confirmed.
For a long moment they did not say more. The only sound was the call of gulls overhead and the rhythmic ebb and flow of the crashing waves far beneath them.
“You are of a noble bloodline? You are the son of a knight?”
“Nay.” He shook his head quickly. “My father’s family were naught of note.”
Her question had unsettled him.
Does Esme wish I was of a more noble bloodline?
No sooner had the idea formed, than he pursed his lips at his own foolishness.
Of course she did. She was Lady Esme de Neville. Their acquaintance—their growing acquaintance—would be so much more acceptable, were he of noble blood.
But he was no such thing, and he would not pretend otherwise.
“That is the end of my story,” he said tightly, fisting his hands.
Even if he were the son of a knight. Hell’s teeth, even if he were the son of a lord, he could not allow this simmering attraction he felt for Esme to develop into anything more.
I am too scarred for one so lovely.
He turned away from her, fixing his gaze at the circle of man-sized standing stones that had stood atop these cliffs perchance for hundreds of years.
Since the first time he had come upon them, they had somehow called to him.
The stones would have seen people, families, come and go.
Battles fought. Hearts broken. An ancient energy shimmered between them, like the thinning of a veil.
But it did not alarm him. Forsooth, proximity to these ancient monoliths endowed him with a strong sense of peace; reminding him that there was more in this world than he could ever hope to understand.
His breathing began to slow as his limbs relaxed.
I should not have grown so agitated.
“Forgive my lack of propriety.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Esme start to stand.
“There is naught to forgive.” The words fell from his lips before he was aware they were forming.
“I disagree. I have asked personal questions when I have no right to do so. I have even demanded you teach me to use a sword, when a more fitting occupation would be embroidery.”
He swung his head at the catch in her voice. She stood a few feet away, her blue gaze fixed humbly on the flattened grass.
Her forthright honesty deserved the truth in return.
“I am of a mind that all young ladies should be taught how to use a sword.”
He noted her sharp intake of breath, and the relieved smile that darted across her lips.
“Truly?”
“Aye.” He allowed himself to smile back. The sun shone down on them like a blessing.
“That is a comfort to hear.” Esme slowly took her seat once again. “How do you hold such daring beliefs? Is it common practice, in Kielder Castle, for women to fight alongside men?”
Her question was innocently asked. He did not permit his bloody memories of the siege of Kielder to derail their conversation.
“’It is not.”
She raised her eyebrows questioningly. A dazzling young woman, accustomed to a life of privilege, who had no idea what darkness she was stirring.
Out of nowhere came an urge to unburden himself and explain exactly why he held such daring beliefs. He picked up a flattened stone and rubbed it between his fingers. “I have bored you enough with my stories, this day.”
“I am far from bored.”
His heart began to beat faster. His was a cautionary tale, was it not? One which Esme deserved to hear?
Adam was unused to dwelling in the past. But her questions had already taken him back there.
Would he ever have a better time to share this story than here and now, with the shadows of the standing stones reminding him of all that had gone before—and all that would continue to be long after his name was but a dim memory?
Does Esme not deserve to know the truth?
His eyes half closed as he recalled how she had kissed him, quickly and sweetly, in the great hall.
“I was once engaged to be wed,” he said abruptly.
She gave another sharp intake of breath.
“Clara was her name.”
Esme said nothing, but her blue eyes were trained upon him. He could feel the weight of her gaze.
“We were childhood friends.” His stomach churned at the onslaught of so many memories.
“Then we became something more. I was to take over the running of her father’s farm.
’Twas the life I wanted. With the lass I loved.
” He looked down at the smooth stone, turning it over in his hands whilst his mind galloped backwards.
He had no idea how much time had passed when Esme spoke up again.
“What was she like?”
Her question brought him back to the present.
“She was like you,” he answered honestly.
But he regretted his candor almost straight away; ’twas a leap that he had not planned to make.
“By that, I mean that she was fair-haired and fair-spoken; honorable and true. She always wore a smile and could make the best of any situation.”
“And you loved her?” Esme’s expression had become unreadable.
“Aye.” He rubbed at his aching back, compelled to add, “This was many years ago.”
“What happened? Why did you not wed?” Esme leaned back on her hands and swung her legs, affecting nonchalance when he knew—from the hard set of her mouth—that she was anything but.
And that was wrong.
This connection between them was real. He knew not what was fueling the flame—when she had both beauty and wealth, whilst he was a man of advancing years and bitter humor—but he knew that the flame must be extinguished. Left to burn, it would consume too much that was good.
Adam had seen lovers come and go. Esme was young, with her whole life ahead of her.
Moreover, she was the daughter of an earl.
Shame on him for allowing this—whatever it was—to continue.
Regret was his familiar companion, and he accepted its return with a deep sigh. “Clara and her family were slaughtered in their own home. They had no guards and no weapons. They were easy prey for marauding Scots.”
She sat up straighter. “Scots?”
He made an impatient gesture. “I came to realize that the identity of their attackers did not matter more than the fact of their attack.” He bit down on his lip until his rising temper came back under control.
“’Tis a sad tale. I am sorry for you, and I am sorry for Clara.” Esme’s voice trembled with sympathy.
Adam brought back his arm and flung the stone up and over the cliffs.
I must draw this ill-advised conversation to a close.
“Aye, well. The point of the story is this. If Clara or any of her sisters had learned to wield a sword, mayhap they would not have made such easy prey.”
He was unable to sit still for a moment longer. He sprang to his feet as decades-old anger pooled in his veins.
Esme was frowning. “That is the point of the story?”
He crossed his arms, keeping his emotions tightly locked inside him. “You asked me why I thought it sensible for women to learn to fight.”
She looked down at the wooden sword propped beside her. “I did. But I would not have asked if I had known the pain it would cause you.”
Her kindness shone brighter than her earlier smile, but he could not take refuge in it. Adam retreated behind his customary defenses.
“The pain is a part of me now. I hardly notice it.” He set his jaw. “’Tis the lot of a man like me, milady.”
“A man like you?” she echoed, as he had guessed she might. “Kind, decent, and strong?”
If he met her steady gaze, he would be done for. Already he could feel his high defenses beginning to crumble.
“A warrior, milady. A man who has seen and caused death.”
He should not have said that. Not to Esme, who was young and bright and beautiful, who had never been exposed to the horrors of the world.
With a pained gasp, she rose to her feet. Her cheeks were flushed but her voice came out level and strong. “Well, I for one am sorry for it. I shall grieve for you, Adam. And for Clara. And her family.”
“There is no need. They are all long gone.” He looked out over the white-tipped waves and fought to keep his breathing even.
Esme said nothing, but some wild part of him hoped she might come to stand beside him. Mayhap put her arms around him.
She did not. And he could not blame her for it. Not when their discourse had brought them closer, only for him to push her away at the end.
When he finally turned around, she had gone.
Adam walked to the center of the standing stones, braced his hands around the tallest and let out a loud roar of grief and anger and longing.
As the surging emotions abated and he sank down onto the long grass, he reflected that even if he were the son of a knight, he would never have had a future with Esme de Neville.
Too much darkness lived within him to ever be banished, even by a woman who shone as brightly as she.