“I serve his father.” He fixed his gaze on the knots of wood in the floor.
“Must I beg you for your company?” She folded her arms across her chest and smiled sadly.
Nay, my fragile resolve would not withstand that.
“I beg you not to.”
He must walk away from her; else he might sit back down in the comfortable chair and forget all that held him upright in life.
Adam bowed awkwardly and strode from the room.
Chapter Six
Esme had neverspent so long in her own company.
As the sun began to set on the second full day since Frida’s departure, she stood at the window of the long gallery and felt such a swell of frustration rise in her breast that she thought she might scream.
The days were endless, and neither Jonah nor Adam saw fit to offer her any sense of reprieve. She had never been one to settle to sewing, and the weather was not conducive to long walks. At luncheon, she had been so desperate for company that she stood outside the solar door, ready to knock and face Jonah’s wrath. But something stayed her hand.
Her brother was famous in her family for his sour moods, but usually Esme could break through his defenses with a combination of teasing and cajoling. Something was different this time. Perchance he really was unwell?
Shall I send for a physician?
And say what? That her brother was refusing to entertain her?
Esme slunk away from the solar, but Jonah’s wellbeing still played on her mind. If she were in a better temper, she might attempt to gain entry to his private lair and pester him until he admitted what ailed him. But on this day, her temper was near enough as foul as his own. Any attempt at discourse would most likely lead to an argument.
At least I am not with child.
Esme put a hand to her abdomen, feeling the familiar dull ache in the small of her back. Her courses had begun late last night, and the relief of it had carried her right through the long hours of early morn. But sometime before midday, the paneled walls of the hall had begun to press in on her and the silence to throb in her ears. She had grabbed her bonnet and shawl and scurried out into the courtyard, determined to seek out Adam and press him into some form of conversation. Yesterday evening, seated with him in the great hall, she had imagined they were both enjoying themselves. Words had flowed easily between them. What had she said to make him leave so suddenly?
His expression had been as fixed and sullen as Jonah’s when he bade her good night.
The wind had been blustery outside, threatening to whip Esme’s bonnet right off her head. She had ploughed on, regardless, demanding of a stable lad where she might find the man called Adam.
“The great big man come down from Scotland?” the boy had asked, wide-eyed.
“The very same.” She restrained her smile.
“He’s chopping firewood.”
In all her days, Esme had never before stood behind a tree and watched a man chopping firewood. But if all men displayed the grace and strength of Adam whilst swinging an axe, she might very well take up the habit.
Her lips had fallen open at the sight of him, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and brows lowered in concentration. The axe rose and fell with rhythmic regularity, so that time slipped away, and Esme was both chilled and stiff when he placed the final log onto the stump.
’Twas then she realized that he knew she watched him.
This knowledge sat in the set of his broad shoulders and the determination of his head never to look to the right. Her cheeks burned with awkwardness, and she slunk back to the hall in a worse mood than when she left it.
Later, stood here at the big window in the long gallery, she had watched Adam walking from the courtyard to the main gate, where he joined the guards on duty at the fortified wall.
His sword had gleamed in the scant afternoon sunlight, and his back was unyielding as he fixed his gaze on the horizon, as if there was every chance a marauding horde might really be making its way over the hills to Ember Hall.
Ridiculous.
He was so pompous, she thought. So joyless. She would do better to ignore him entirely. But then she remembered how he had clung to the dresser, tears shining in his eyes, when he first came into the hall and heard her singing yesterday. The door had been open, and she had a clear view of it all, though she would never mention it—to him nor anyone else.
She had known, instinctively, that Adam’s moments of vulnerability were few and far between. Her song had, somehow, unlocked some river of emotion that he usually kept damned.
