The loneliness came through in his silences, in the grim quality of his expression around his father, in the way he watched his sisters as if bandits might seize them and carry them off.A severely handsome, grave, quiet, broad-shouldered, wounded creature with beautiful, tanned hands. Matthew Daniels’s hands embodied both grace and strength, and even on this family outing through the woods, Mary Fran had occasion to admire them often. Matthew—Mr. Daniels—was a solicitous escort, not like a brother who’d pelt along willy-nilly, dragging her forward as if she were a reluctant bullock.He would shift his hold on her, grip her hand, link their fingers, or grasp her wrist to guide her over logs she’d been hopping since childhood, or past boulders that were hardly going to rise up and roll directly into her path. This solicitude was… lovely. His attention was also largely silent, and his gaze never suggested anything inappropriate.She rather wished it would.“That was a heartfelt sigh, my lady.
