But when she glanced back, Adam was engaged in gloomy contemplation of the roof beams.
“Where shall we go?” she asked.
This time, his green eyes locked onto hers, but only for a moment. “There is a patch of level ground near the cliffs, by a circle of standing stones.”
“You have researched the matter?” She was exultant.
But Adam seemed determined to be distant. “I am here to serve you.”
Esme would not be cowed. “’Tis good of you to remind me.” She matched his serious tone.
A smile flickered behind his grim expression; she was certain of it.
Outside, the mist settled upon her hair and clothes, making her shiver despite the warmth of Frida’s sensible cloak. They walked in silence to the standing stones, which looked even more forbidding this morn, amongst the swirling greyness. The roar of the sea below reached them as if through a long tunnel. Esme might have been sorely tempted to abandon their quest entirely, but for two things.
One, the unrelenting length of her uninterrupted days—which she did not think she could endure again.
Two, the fact the Adam was here alongside her.
She need not flinch from the perceived hostility of her surroundings with him as her protector. Not simply because he was every inch a warrior; but because he exuded a sense of safety.
And she could not deny those flutters in her belly when his all-seeing eyes glanced upon her. Eyes that had seen things that Esme could only wonder at.
“Wait here,” he said, striding past her toward one of the granite monoliths.
She shivered as he was all but swallowed up in the mist, leaving her alone. He returned holding a long wooden stick.
“A stick?”
She was disappointed and her voice showed it.
“Aye. We will not begin our lessons with a broadsword sharp enough to kill a man.”
He was mocking her and making little attempt to mask it.
Esme swallowed. “Very well.”
Adam handed her the stick, which was more of a whittled down branch, now that she could see it more closely. It was thewidth of her wrist and the length of her arm. The wood was smooth and somehow warm to the touch, despite the chill of the day.
“Usually, we would use wooden swords for these lessons, but I have none to hand.” His voice had relented. “Mayhap I will have the opportunity to fashion one for you. But this was the best I could do overnight.”
“’Tis a fine starting weapon,” she declared, twirling it in her hands. “Do you not have one for yourself?”
He folded his arms. “Nay. We will not be sparring. Not for some time yet. This is no game, milady.”
I am milady again.
“I am aware of that, sir.” She countered quickly.
Adam had been about to speak. Now he hesitated, his eyes swinging to hers through the mist. “Sir?”
“You are my teacher.” She was beginning to enjoy herself. “I shall address you with the respect you deserve.”
He stepped closer, making her belly flutter all over again. “Your respect should be for the weapon you have in your hand. Imagine the heaviness of it. Imagine the sharpness of the blade. ’Tis not a plaything to be waved about. You could take a man’s head right off or gut him where you stand.”
She lowered the stick to the dampened grass, accepting the reprimand.
“Your sword should become part of you,” he continued. “You must accept the weight as part of your own body, ’twill alter your balance and the way you move. You must grow accustomed to it. That is perchance the hardest lesson of all.”
