“I do not wish to return to Wolvesley,” she declared. “I wish to remain here.”
“We cannot always get what we wish for,” her sister retorted, calm as ever.
Frustration surged inside her, but Esme knew she could not allow the full extent of her feelings to surface. Giving herself time to recover, she wandered over to the window and had all but arrived there when she remembered the mysterious man sitting by it.
It was too late for her to alter her path.
Esme continued to walk steadily forward. The man was tall, she realized. Taller even than Callum, which was no small feat. And he was wide. His broad shoulders took up almost the whole width of the window. His hair was long to the nape of his neck, and the light streaming in behind him picked out strands of silver shining amongst the dark curls.
Their eyes met briefly before he turned away.
His eyes were green. His cheekbones were sharp. His hands, resting lightly on the cushioned seat, were large and clean.
Esme paused uncertainly, she had been intent on ignoring him, as he had ignored them. But now that she was standing so close, his magnetic presence was hard to snub.
“I am Lady Esme de Neville.” She dipped into a small curtsy, thinking that a show of good manners might unsettle him.
Slowly, he turned his head to their eyes met once again. He did not appear unsettled.
“Adam Hawker,” he said, his voice rough with lack of use. He did not rise up from his seat or even offer her a bow from his seated position.
Callum cleared his throat. “Adam has served my father since I was a boy.”
Not a relative then.
“You are a warrior, sir?” she addressed the large, silent man.
He nodded.
“And you rode here to inform Sir Callum of his father’s failing health?”
She received another nod.
“A trusted warrior, I dare say?” She fixed him with her brightest smile.
“I believe so, milady.”
A frisson went through her as their gazes clashed. He clearly had not wanted to respond to her questions, but Esme was yet to encounter a man who could resist her smile.
She turned that same smile back toward Callum. “You said earlier that there is no man’s opinion that you take greater heed of, did you not?”
Callum nodded. “I stand by every word.”
“And you trust him, just as your father does?”
“I do.”
Esme put her head to one side, pretending to think it through. “Well then,” she said brightly. “Why not leave me in the safekeeping of your man, Adam?”
Chapter Three
The lass isthe very image of Clara.
Adam wanted to close his eyes against the swell of painful memories. The last thing he needed was this living, breathing reminder of his lost love.
His body already ached with tiredness after his long journey south from the highlands whilst his mind was troubled by his mission. Aye, it was right and proper to inform Callum of his father’s illness; but nonetheless he balked at taking a man—who had not long since found happiness—far from the source of that happiness and back to a place of cold and steely disapproval.
If he was being strictly objective, Adam would admit that Lady Esme’s hair was a more golden hue than Clara’s had been. And perchance this lovely young woman had seen a couple more summers than the lass who lived through less than twenty of them. ’Twas the bright, restless energy emanating from her that put him so in mind of Clara. The radiance of her smile. Her shimmering determination.
