Chapter Twenty
Esme could notseem to settle anywhere.
She was glad to be home amongst her family. But after weeks of peace and quiet, the constant hum of activity that pervaded the keep did not please her, as she had expected it might. She took no comfort in the music and gossip of the great hall, nor in the attentiveness of the servants, keen to supply her every need. At first, she thought this was a matter of costume; she was simply not dressed for Wolvesley.
Once she was attired more fittingly, she assumed the day would pass more easily.
It did not.
Esme gazed at the tiny pearl buttons of her dusky pink, silken gown, and felt only the restrictions of the tightly fitting bodice. The flowing skirt, she saw as impractical. Aye, the looking glass showed that she was still Esme de Neville. But inside, she felt different.
Her muscles twitched, as if she was waiting for something.
News of Crispin’s fate, perchance?
In an effort to occupy her mind, she had taken refuge in the beautifully furnished ladies’ solar and picked up some long-since abandoned embroidery. But instead of the colorful swirls of looping thread, she saw Adam’s green eyes and the uncertainty that had flickered in them during their long carriage ride.
Is he having second thoughts about me?
Esme’s fingers shook so much that her sewing needle plunged into the ball of her thumb. Quickly sucking away the plumes of red blood, she warned herself against dramatic flights of invention, forcing herself to recall how he had staunchly defended her against Crispin. And his emotional response when she told him how he made her feel.
Happy and safe.
She had never been more sincere. And the depth of feeling in his rugged face had told her everything she needed to know.
She had no cause to start doubting him now.
But where is he?
Esme had hoped he might come and find her. Had even arranged herself prettily on the leather-covered settle in the anticipation of his presence. But Adam had seemingly disappeared into thin air.
Giving up on any hopes of tackling her embroidery, she abandoned the ladies’ solar and tripped down the wide stairs to the marbled hallway. Smiling in acknowledgement at the familiar servants, she found her way to her father’s solar and knocked quickly on the wooden door before her courage failed her.
She had yet to greet her father and knew not, exactly, what Jonah had penned in the message that preceded their return to Wolvesley.
Had he alluded to her indiscretions?
There was no wonder she felt itchy all over with impatience. So much was unknown.
When the door remained resolutely fastened, she knocked again. Louder this time, until a deep voice spoke behind her.
“He is not here.”
She turned around, skirts flying, to find her brother Tristan walking toward her.
“Tris.”
She closed the distance between them at a run, laughing when he picked her up and spun her around, just as he had when they were children.
“My beautiful little sister. What kept you away for so long?”
She could not answer him honestly. Instead, she made a show of inspecting his neatly combed golden hair and the fine cut of his dark tunic. His breeches were spotless, and his boots had been polished to such a shine, she could all but see her face in them.
“Marriage seems to be suiting you, brother.”
“It is a fine institution.” His white teeth flashed as he smiled down at her.
“And how fares my newest sister, Mirrie?”
