Moreover,she was the daughter of an earl.
Shame on him for allowing this—whatever it was—to continue.
Regret was his familiar companion, and he accepted its return with a deep sigh. “Clara and her family were slaughteredin their own home. They had no guards and no weapons. They were easy prey for marauding Scots.”
She sat up straighter. “Scots?”
He made an impatient gesture. “I came to realize that the identity of their attackers did not matter more than the fact of their attack.” He bit down on his lip until his rising temper came back under control.
“’Tis a sad tale. I am sorry for you, and I am sorry for Clara.” Esme’s voice trembled with sympathy.
Adam brought back his arm and flung the stone up and over the cliffs.
I must draw this ill-advised conversation to a close.
“Aye, well. The point of the story is this. If Clara or any of her sisters had learned to wield a sword, mayhap they would not have made such easy prey.”
He was unable to sit still for a moment longer. He sprang to his feet as decades-old anger pooled in his veins.
Esme was frowning. “Thatis the point of the story?”
He crossed his arms, keeping his emotions tightly locked inside him. “You asked me why I thought it sensible for women to learn to fight.”
She looked down at the wooden sword propped beside her. “I did. But I would not have asked if I had known the pain it would cause you.”
Her kindness shone brighter than her earlier smile, but he could not take refuge in it. Adam retreated behind his customary defenses.
“The pain is a part of me now. I hardly notice it.” He set his jaw. “’Tis the lot of a man like me, milady.”
“A man like you?” she echoed, as he had guessed she might. “Kind, decent, and strong?”
If he met her steady gaze, he would be done for. Already he could feel his high defenses beginning to crumble.
“A warrior, milady. A man who has seen and caused death.”
He should not have said that. Not to Esme, who was young and bright and beautiful, who had never been exposed to the horrors of the world.
With a pained gasp, she rose to her feet. Her cheeks were flushed but her voice came out level and strong. “Well, I for one am sorry for it. I shall grieve for you, Adam. And for Clara. And her family.”
“There is no need. They are all long gone.” He looked out over the white-tipped waves and fought to keep his breathing even.
Esme said nothing, but some wild part of him hoped she might come to stand beside him. Mayhap put her arms around him.
She did not. And he could not blame her for it. Not when their discourse had brought them closer, only for him to push her away at the end.
When he finally turned around, she had gone.
Adam walked to the center of the standing stones, braced his hands around the tallest and let out a loud roar of grief and anger and longing. As the surging emotions abated and he sank down onto the long grass, he reflected that even if he were the son of a knight, he would never have had a future with Esme de Neville.
Too much darkness lived within him to ever be banished, even by a woman who shone as brightly as she.
Chapter Ten
The day dawnedbright, and Esme’s head ached all the more for the dazzling shafts of sunlight which blazed through her narrow window and made her squint.
Too restless to remain in bed, she sat upon an upright wooden chair in her bedchamber and rubbed at her temples. When the housemaid knocked upon the door to enquire if milady required any assistance dressing, it took several seconds for her whirring mind to make sense of it.
Frida had always baulked at allocating her youngest sister a lady’s maid during her frequent stays at Ember Hall. Esme had been obliged to cajole; even—on occasions—demand. Never had Jennifer willingly offered up her services. The young maid was a hard worker, but she displayed no fondness for dressing hair.
