Chapter Twenty
Esme could not seem to settle anywhere.
She was glad to be home amongst her family.
But after weeks of peace and quiet, the constant hum of activity that pervaded the keep did not please her, as she had expected it might.
She took no comfort in the music and gossip of the great hall, nor in the attentiveness of the servants, keen to supply her every need.
At first, she thought this was a matter of costume; she was simply not dressed for Wolvesley.
Once she was attired more fittingly, she assumed the day would pass more easily.
It did not.
Esme gazed at the tiny pearl buttons of her dusky pink, silken gown, and felt only the restrictions of the tightly fitting bodice. The flowing skirt, she saw as impractical. Aye, the looking glass showed that she was still Esme de Neville. But inside, she felt different.
Her muscles twitched, as if she was waiting for something.
News of Crispin’s fate, perchance?
In an effort to occupy her mind, she had taken refuge in the beautifully furnished ladies’ solar and picked up some long-since abandoned embroidery.
But instead of the colorful swirls of looping thread, she saw Adam’s green eyes and the uncertainty that had flickered in them during their long carriage ride.
Is he having second thoughts about me?
Esme’s fingers shook so much that her sewing needle plunged into the ball of her thumb.
Quickly sucking away the plumes of red blood, she warned herself against dramatic flights of invention, forcing herself to recall how he had staunchly defended her against Crispin.
And his emotional response when she told him how he made her feel.
Happy and safe.
She had never been more sincere. And the depth of feeling in his rugged face had told her everything she needed to know.
She had no cause to start doubting him now.
But where is he?
Esme had hoped he might come and find her. Had even arranged herself prettily on the leather-covered settle in the anticipation of his presence. But Adam had seemingly disappeared into thin air.
Giving up on any hopes of tackling her embroidery, she abandoned the ladies’ solar and tripped down the wide stairs to the marbled hallway.
Smiling in acknowledgement at the familiar servants, she found her way to her father’s solar and knocked quickly on the wooden door before her courage failed her.
She had yet to greet her father and knew not, exactly, what Jonah had penned in the message that preceded their return to Wolvesley.
Had he alluded to her indiscretions?
There was no wonder she felt itchy all over with impatience. So much was unknown.
When the door remained resolutely fastened, she knocked again. Louder this time, until a deep voice spoke behind her.
“He is not here.”
She turned around, skirts flying, to find her brother Tristan walking toward her.
“Tris.”
She closed the distance between them at a run, laughing when he picked her up and spun her around, just as he had when they were children.
“My beautiful little sister. What kept you away for so long?”
She could not answer him honestly. Instead, she made a show of inspecting his neatly combed golden hair and the fine cut of his dark tunic. His breeches were spotless, and his boots had been polished to such a shine, she could all but see her face in them.
“Marriage seems to be suiting you, brother.”
“It is a fine institution.” His white teeth flashed as he smiled down at her.
“And how fares my newest sister, Mirrie?”
“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.”
Esme had a terrible feeling of what was to come.
At heart, Tristan was a kind older brother; he did not make her wait any longer.
“In truth, Esme, I fancied you and he had grown rather close over these last months.”
She closed her eyes and tried to keep her breathing steady. She should have known that nothing within the walls of Wolvesley escaped his sharp attention.
“I even fancied that the indifference you displayed to all eligible suitors was underpinned by a liking you had for de Gough.” Tristan’s voice was conversational in tone, but she was all too aware of the steel running through it.
“You fancy much, brother.” She tried to smile, but her efforts at deflection died when she saw how serious his expression had become.
“I need to know this.” He turned to face her. “Did he hurt you?”
Warm tears nudged at the corners of her eyes. “Nay, he did not have the chance. Adam reached me in time.”
Tristan nodded slowly. “You speak of Callum’s man? Adam Hawker?”
The sound of his cherished name on her brother’s lips did strange things to her insides.
“He is a good man.”
“When I meet him, I shall give him my thanks.”
Esme took a shuddering breath, daring to hope that her inquisition was over. But Tristan showed no sign of it.
He cleared his throat. “Do you love de Gough?”
She reared backward and looked at him incredulously. “Nay.”
“You are very certain.” His voice was insistent.
“I am,” she nodded.
“How so?” He put his hands on his hips and his blue eyes seemed to gaze right into her soul.
Esme squirmed for a moment, then decided to speak truthfully.
“Because I know now what real love feels like.”
She anticipated some surprised reaction, but Tristan only narrowed his eyes.
He waited until a messenger boy had darted past them, before drawing her closer to the rose bushes. Thanks to the lateness of the season and the sparseness of the foliage, she knew there was no one else about.
’Twas a relief, of sorts, to confide in her brother. Some five years her senior, Tristan had always been a heroic figure to Esme. Someone she could always rely on to smuggle honey cakes from the kitchen and plead her case on the rare occasions she evoked her parents’ displeasure.
But still, her pulse pounded at the prospect of revealing her secret.
Tristan once again took her elbow and quietly asked, “Tell me, Esme, what does real love feel like?”
Startled, she threw him a quizzical look, but he only inclined his head, indicating that he would wait for as long as was necessary.
Esme bit down on her lip and considered his question.
When the answer came to her, it made her smile.
“Happy and safe.” She could not prevent her lips from puckering further upward. “When I am by his side, ’tis as if I know all will be well. Whatever the circumstances.”
She anticipated some further questioning, but Tristan shook his golden head with a chuckle.
“Ye Gods, Mirrie is right about everything.”
“Mirrie?” Her voice rose. “I have not seen her since I arrived.”
“But she has spoken to Adam Hawker. And she has seen how it is between you.”
My secret is already discovered.
Esme smoothed her skirts as her cheeks pinked. “You do not disapprove?” Nerves clutched at her as she waited upon his answer.
“Why the devil should I disapprove of any man who makes you happy? And safe,” he added with a raised eyebrow.
She hesitated. “Because he has no title.” Her voice wobbled. “And he is older even than yourself and Callum.”
“Older than myself and Callum?” Tristan feigned a stagger to one side. “And the man still walks about unaided?”