“There you are.” Hamilton dropped next to her with an exhale, slapping his tricorne against his legs. “I feared you’d tired of waiting for me.”
One look into his eyes reflecting the golden evening sky and she knew she’d wait forever.
“I feared you’d forgotten me.”
He stroked her cheek. She cupped her hand over his, bringing it to her lips.
“Hamilton, I must ask. Did you not miss me at all? Your letters, infrequent as they were, contained nothing but a salutation, your daily chores, and a brief closing with your signature.”
“What did you want to hear?” He released her hand, settling against the tree.
“How you missed me. How you feared I’d been persuaded to marry a fancy, rich English nobleman.”
“How the war might keep you away?” He slipped his hand into hers. “You demand hard things from me, Esther. The secrets of my heart.”
“So you did miss me?”
He grinned. “I missed you. Terribly.”
She scoffed, laughing, shoving him away. “A fine paramour you make, Hamilton Lightfoot. I declare, how do you expect to win my favor with so few words? If you cannot speak them, why not write them? A love letter—”
“A love letter?” His blue gaze examined her. “For all the world to see?”
“Not all the world—only me.”
“I dare say speaking my innermost thoughts is one thing, but writing them down? I’m not sure I could ever, well, how could I, the words...” Blushing, he peered toward the creek, tossing his hat onto the grass. “Just because I didn’t write my affections in a letter doesn’t mean my heart is devoid of them.”
“Then I am comforted.” She rested her cheek against his shoulder.
“Do I disappoint you?” He angled forward to see her face, inspiring a familiar but disruptive flutter. He’d kissed her once. On the cheek. After a town social. She had practically floated home, fell asleep smiling, and woke up the same.
“I don’t think you could ever disappoint me.” She raised up, gazing into his eyes. “But one day, Hamilton, won’t you tell me truly how you feel?”
His kiss came quick and firm, his warm lips touching hers with a promise of more. Esther exhaled and rested her arms about his neck. She was as light as the breeze, as blazing as the sunset.
But all too soon he broke away.
“There,” he said, tapping his forehead against hers. “Now you know how I feel.”
“Yes, I believe I do.”
One day he would declare his love. One day.
This was where she belonged. Not in London drawing rooms vying for some nobleman’s attention. She belonged in the upcountry. She belonged in Hamilton’s arms.
I love you, Hamilton Lightfoot.She soared, catching the current and spreading the wings of her heart. Oh, may this moment never end.
“I’ll write you a love letter one day,” he said, lacing his fingers with hers. “I promise.”
“Will you? Really?”
“Would it not please you?”
Esther sat up, turning to him. “What can I do to please you, my love?”
“Marry me. I’ll figure out this angst between Uncle and your father, and we will wed.” He kissed her forehead with warm, sweet lips, the gesture descending slowly down her cheek.
Esther drew a breath with each rising sensation. So this was what the poets lauded so gracefully.
