Esme felt suddenly closer to him. She wanted to touch him, to comfort him. She wanted to feel what he felt.
With his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand, he looked at Esme, willing her to understand. "The people of Vader, probably even yourself," he said, "think that I am a gentleman. And here, well, I guess that I am. But I know that I would never have been seen as such in the city."
The statement was plain fact, not bitterness.
Esme reached across and touched his hand. The gesture surprised and pleased him.
"I'm not looking for your sympathy," Cleav told her, taking up her end of the clover chain and webbing it with his. "I'm trying to say that I do know a portion of how I made you feel. I'm sorry for what I said about the dress."
"It doesn't matter," Esme told him, and strange as it seemed at that moment, it did not.
"It matters to me," Cleav insisted. "I hurt you. That matters."
Esme felt her hand tremble as it lay against his, and she hastily removed it.
"I don't know too much about you, Esme," he said. "But what I do see in you is pride. You believe in yourself and don't allow the opinions of others to make you doubt I can admire that. I wouldn't want to be the cause of changing it."
"You haven't," Esme assured him.
"That's good." He raised his eyes to look at her, to take in all of the vision before him. "And I wasn't honest, either. I need to apologize for that, too."
"You weren't honest?" Esme was confused.
Cleav shook his head. "When you stepped out from behind that chestnut tree, I thought you were as pretty as any girl I'd ever seen."
At Esme's quick intake of breath, Cleav moved closer. The sweet smell of her tempted him, but he didn't allow himself the luxury of letting his attentions forego his better judgment.
Casually he draped the clover chain around her neck. Like a wreath, he looped the chains over her head, allowing them to drop gently across her bosom.
"You are like a wild mountain princess," he told her, his words soft and warm. "A true creation of Mother Nature."
She stared down at the flowers. The two wild phlox blooms added a bright touch to the pretty green and white clover.
He sat back, his hands on his knees as his gaze wandered across her face, her strong young shoulders, and the profuse garland of flowers that flowed from her throat to her waist.
"Esme Crabb." His voice was a husky whisper that prickled her skin like a ghostly visage on a moonless night. "You are as pretty a young woman as I have ever seen in my life. Any man who says differently is a liar."
She felt her cheeks heat, but she shook her head at the compliment.
"You are kind, Cleavis," she answered, her own whisper sounding strange to her ears. "But I'm sure you were right the first time. The dress is probably not too fashionable."
Cleavis bent toward her, his eyes strangely hot and intent. With two tentative fingers he adjusted the clover chain to his satisfaction.
Esme felt a wildly charged prickle at the gentleness of his touch, and suddenly the white lawn bodice felt too tight.
"Vader is not the place for those who are slaves to fashion."
Esme's answering giggle was as much nerves as humor. He was so handsome and so kind and so, so close.
"That I'm not," she said. "I never cared about clothes at all before . . ."
Esme didn't need to finish the sentence.
"Do you really think that I am pretty?" she asked, her voice not sounding at all like her own. In that instant her whole world seemed balanced on his answer.
His eyes darkened.
"Yes, Esme." His words were almost a whisper. "You are very pretty."
