Free Hadrian by Grace Burrowes Page B

a quest, but rather, a contented retirement.”
    “Or stepping aside, because he thinks it’s best for you. He has often said your children will inherit Landover so you must have the reins.”
    “You talked with Harold a lot, didn’t you?”
    She had
listened
to Harold a lot; she’d talked with Hadrian, years ago, and made idle conversation with most people since.
    “He missed you terribly, Hadrian, and he fretted over you. Because I had occasion to share some of those sentiments, yes, he talked to me.” She sent her horse out into the morning sun, because those words had been incautious—another unexpected confession.
    “You fretted over me this morning.”
    “It’s a pretty morning for a ride.” She kept her gaze ahead, lest Hadrian see the trepidation beneath that lie. She seldom left Blessings land any more, much less on cool spring mornings, much less to ride in the direction of Landover.
    “You rode out without a groom, Avie.”
    She let her horse walk on, knowing damned good and well the point Hadrian ade, but being him, and fearless, he had to put it into words.
    And call her Avie.
    “You left your grooms at home,” he went on, “in case you found me in an embarrassing state, having parted from Harold this morning. You were protecting my dignity at the cost of your safety and peace of mind.”
    She turned her horse to walk off at a slight angle to his.
    “Avie?”
    Just her name, spoken gently, and a lump rose in her throat. She brought her horse to a halt, lest he come after her.
It’s me, Avie, Hay Bothwell. We danced a ländler. You’re scaring a fellow here…
    “Thank you.”
    Avie heard him over the clamoring of the voices in her memory, though he spoke quietly. She nodded, then turned her gelding, to head back to Blessings. Hadrian kept pace beside her to the property line then he let her go on alone. He remained on the rise, watching until she descended the slope to the stable yard, where she could again be certain of her safety again.
    * * *
    “Mr. Bothwell, you are quite the topic of conversation among the shearing crews.”
    Lily Prentiss scolded Hadrian, all smiles and patient condescension as she wielded her verbal birch rod. The damned woman should have been married to a bishop.
    Damned woman
. Shame on him, though Hadrian relished every curse and profanity that tripped through his head.
    In the past week, there had been more than a few. Shearing had put calluses on his calluses, seen him kicked in unmentionable places, and sent him naked into the frigid waters of the quarry pond and grateful for the cold. The gathering of neighbors marking the end of shearing was simply a social endurance test on top of the physical trials.
    Now he was to put up with a gratuitous scolding. A quote from the book of Job sniffed at the edge of the conversation.
    “I insist we talk of something other than shearing, Miss Prentiss,” Hadrian said, his best churchyard smile nailed into place. “Not sheep, not wool, not crews, nor shears, nor lambs even. Let us talk, say, of desserts. Which among these do you recommend?”
    “Every one is good,” she replied, as they neared a long trestle table laden with sweet bounty. “I’d leave the strawberries and cream for those who haven’t access to the hothouses, and suggest the éclairs.”
    “Excellent choice. May I fetch you an éclair on a plate?”
    Hadrian kept up the polite chatter and stayed by the lady’s side while she nibbled her way through a treat that wanted devouring. Perhaps a week among the shearing crews had taken a toll on his manners, but then he overheard Avis, laughing with Fenwick and his crew chiefs by the barrel of ale.
    “She doesn’t understand how that looks,” Lily Prentiss said in low, unhappy tones. “Swilling ale and laughing with them like that.”
    “I believe she’s serving the ale,” Hadrian replied. “If you’re concerned about the appearances, I’ll intervene and the gentlemen can serve themselves.”
    He was