For Elise by Sarah M. Eden Page B

within hours of inspecting his new home that the meadow was his favorite place on the estate. It even had a tree, though it was not in the middle as the one in Warwickshire had been. It was a magnificent tree, an oak, the leaves of which he imagined were a sight in the autumn. They would turn a brilliant gold, he’d wager.
    Miles pushed his way past the formal garden and into the open expanse of the Tafford meadow. It would rain by nightfall; he could feel it in the air. A good brisk walk to the banks of the Trent would help relieve his tension. In the West Indies, he’d spent nearly all day, nearly every day out of doors, walking among his workers and all over the estate.
    Today, there were no obstacles, nothing Miles needed to concentrate on as he walked, so he allowed his mind to wander. The first thought that bombarded his overworked brain was Elise’s visit to the library the night before. They’d shared happy memories, a welcome change from the heavy, stilted conversations they’d shared thus far. She’d seemed lighter, if not happy.
    “You have a meadow.”
    Miles actually jumped at the sudden sound of Elise’s voice. She stood not twenty feet ahead of him, her expression as guarded as it had been nearly every minute since he’d found her. The lightness he’d seen briefly the night before was gone.
    But she was speaking of meadows, something they had often spoken of. They’d shared a meadow all their lives. It was a fragile connection but a connection just the same.
    “Yes, I do.” Miles was seized by a sudden and unexpected urge to pull her into his arms and simply hold her to him. He knew better; she would only grow more distant if he did something so foolish. But the desire was there, and he couldn’t seem to shake it.
    “I have always been fond of meadows,” Elise said.
    “I know.” He glanced about. “Where is Anne?”
    “Sleeping. I needed to escape the house for a moment. She’ll nap a while longer, but I can’t be away long.”
    The silence that followed proved awkward. Elise didn’t look directly at him but kept her gaze roaming the meadow around them, her mouth compressed into an unreadable line. Her hair was pulled into a prim bun at the nape of her neck, such a contrast to the way she’d always looked before.
    She had begun putting her hair up that last year, though it was never terribly neat. She’d spent too much time running and spinning and riding her mare at top speed for her grown-up coiffure to remain in place. Standing there in the meadow at Tafford, Elise was neat and almost unnaturally put together. Miles felt the oddest impulse to reach out and pull a tendril of her hair loose just to see her looking more like the girl he’d once known.
    “Have you seen the tree?” Miles asked, breaking into the silence.
    Elise’s eyes rose to his once more. Her blue eyes contrasted with the deep brown of her hair. No one else’s eyes had ever been quite that shade of blue.
    “The tree by the river?” she asked.
    Miles had been contemplating her coloring with far too much of his concentration and, for a moment, wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “The tree . . .” Then he remembered. “Yes. By the river.”
    “I saw it from a distance,” Elise answered warily.
    Why did even a simple conversation about a tree make her so deucedly nervous? Did she dislike him that much? Or simply distrust him? What could he possibly have done to lose her trust so entirely?
    “I seem to remember you were fond of trees as well as meadows,” Miles said.
    Elise’s eyes darted away from him. Her expression reminded him forcibly of the night before and the conversation they’d had in the library. It was almost as if she was desperately holding something back: a word, a gesture, something .
    “Are you happy here, Elise?” Miles asked abruptly, knowing his frustration was evident in his tone but unable to prevent it from creeping in. Nothing he did pierced the distrust and anger she