Jonah clapped him on the shoulder; the gesture had surprising strength behind it. “Your fine words do you credit, my good man, but nay. I am the son of an earl, but I am no fool. How can a man who spends his day writing poems hope to wield a weapon more effectively than a man who spends his days in battle?” He limped past him back to the corridor. “You will speak to Esme?”
“I shall,” Adam promised.
Jonah gave him a brief nod and went on his way.
Adam turned back to Felicity, who had curled up on his narrow pallet. “I guess the matter is settled.”
Sometime later, he and Esme had returned to the patch of ground by the standing stones. Esme was again dressed in braccae, but this time he did not permit himself to be so affected by it. The lady was a little subdued, certainly more outwardly attentive than she had been on the previous occasion. He demonstrated how to lunge and how to block, and she copied him with pleasing accuracy, but with none of the banter he found himself craving.
“You are doing well,” he told her.
She smiled at that, making his heart lift a little.
“I am sorry if I did not give you that impression, the last time we met,” he ploughed on.
Esme’s lips formed an O of surprise. “’Twas hard work, in the fog,” she suggested.
“Aye.”
“As you said it would be.” Her gaze shied away from his. She lifted her new wooden sword so it rested across her palms. “Thank you for this.”
“’Tis nothing.”
“You whittled it, especially for me. For us,” she amended, blushing slightly. “’Tis not nothing.”
“I enjoy keeping busy.”
How trite that sounded. And unfeeling. Adam had been too much amongst fighting men these last years. He had forgotten how to be soft and open.
But Esme was still looking up at him, as if what he said had value. “You have made many of these?”
“A fair few.” He folded his arms across his tunic, wishing he were not so tongue-tied.
Esme lifted her plait from the back of her neck. “Do you mind if we sit for a while? The sun has surprising warmth to it, and I would appreciate a rest.”
“Of course.” He escorted her to a level stone where she could sit and rest, all the while cursing himself for his rough manners. “You should have said,” he muttered, propping the wooden sword beside her.
She fixed her gaze over the cliffs, at the blue sea sparking in the distance. “I see that you are blaming yourself for tiring me, Adam. And therefore, I cannot keep up the pretense. I am not tired. I am simply curious about your life and wish to ask you some questions.” She shaded her eyes from the sun and offered her most radiant smile.
A smile that was as disarming as her blunt honesty. Much as he disliked conversations about the past, Adam found himself sinking down onto a nearby stone and reluctantly accepting her request. “What would you like to know?”
“I received word from Frida this morn. They have all arrived safely at Kielder Castle. She says it is unlike anywhere she has ever known. What could she mean by that?”
Adam thought for a moment. “The castle itself is a bleak and cheerless place, it’s walls have seen neither love nor laughter for many summers now.” He paused to throw her an appraising look. “Is this what you wished to ask me?”
“Nay, but Frida’s letter made me think more of your situation. How does the son of a farmer find himself training warriors for Rory Baine?”
Despite his trepidation over the subject, he chuckled at her directness. “My father was a farmer, local to here as it happens.” He spoke on before she could question him further on this point. “But he was also a Scot.” He paused, allowing her to digest this information.
“You are part Scottish?”
“I am.” He noted that she did not appear overly shocked.
“Just as Callum is?”
“Just so.” He nodded. “My father served Rory’s father when he was Laird of Kielder. Rory was his friend. They came down to join a campaign in the borderlands and became separated from the rest of their troops.” He pulled at some long grass, letting the stalks fall through his fingers. It was many years since he had last told this tale, and it had somehow grown more painful to think of his father—and of Rory Baine—as those lost young men.
Esme was sitting forward on the stone, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her expression was rapt. “Go on.”
