The revelation made him less attractive, though that wasn’t saying much. Everything about him still made her thoughts—and her knees—as shaky as Cook’s pudding. But when she’d thought him a simple knight, or a minor lord at most, he’d beckoned to her more than any other man ever had, made her want to abandon all of the reasons she’d ever given her brother for rejecting her suitors. But an earl was exactly what she did not want, although her traitorous body did not seem to understand as much.
Emma’s gaze continued to unwittingly turn toward him. Her hands refused to remain still. Her heartbeat persisted in pounding in her ears.
He is an earl, she reminded herself.
Very likely as pompous and pretentious as the majority of the powerful men in his position. Her brother excluded, of course. He had happened into the title, and his disposition was more that of a border reiver than a man of the realm. Even if, by the grace of God, the stranger had managed to remain as humble as Sara despite his station, he had undoubtedly become accustomed to controlling the people around him. She’d met nary a lord who didn’t. Which meant he was perfectly incompatible with her. No need to look his way. No need to be nervous. He was just a man, like any other, passing through Kenshire. Soon he would be gone.
Gone.
“Is he sick?” Garrick asked.
Emma had eaten an entire course without making a fool of herself. But she wasn’t so sure she could continue the deception, especially if he insisted on talking to her.
She’d give it “one hell of a try” as Catrina would say.
“My brother?” she asked as she reached for the goblet of wine in front of her.
She strained her neck forward to glance at her older brother, who was whispering something to Sara.
She took a sip, concentrating on the smooth taste of the red velvet vintage slipping down her throat. Think of the wine. Emma very much loved—
“Your horse.”
“Wine.” God’s teeth, what was she saying?
She looked at him then. Wouldn’t it be rude not to? He appeared quite confused, and rightly so.
“My brother enjoys wine,” she said, trying to make sense of her prattling words.
“As do I.” He proved the truth of his words by reaching for his own goblet.
“Aye, she is sick,” she said, finally remembering to answer his question. “Eddard is not worried because she continues to eat, but she is not acting quite herself.”
“Nella,” he said. “What other symptoms does she have?”
Why did her horse’s name seem like such an intimate thing for him to say?
Oh yes, symptoms.
“She is warm. And was lying down earlier when you . . .”
Sara and Geoffrey did not appear to be paying them any mind, but on the off chance that they were listening, she didn’t want them to know they’d met prior to their introduction outside the hall. So she stopped talking.
Garrick raised his brows and whispered, “So very scandalously gave you my cloak?”
Though he said it in a teasing tone, his words were quiet enough for her ears only, ensuring their rather improper meeting would remain a secret.
“I didn’t think to be there so long,” she answered. “Otherwise I would have brought my own cloak.”
He took another sip, this one much deeper, his eyes on her as his lips covered the rim of the goblet. She swallowed.
“I will check on her after the meal,” he said.
“You will?”
His expression was so neutral, Emma couldn’t tell what the man was thinking. She’d often wondered whether great lords were given some sort of special training to conjure such unreadable expressions. But when she’d asked Sara about it, her sister-in-law had simply laughed.
“I have an affinity for horses,” he said. “An interest in them that placed me too often in the stables growing up, if you listen to my mother tell the tale.”
An affinity for horses.
So many thoughts and feelings bubbled up in Emma at that moment. She’d grown up wanting nothing more than to be with her horses. To ride them. To simply be in their company. Being with Nella gave her more pleasure than being with just about anyone. For some reason, though, Emma kept her thoughts to herself. She didn’t want him to know all of that. Something told her it would only make this, whatever it was, more difficult.
“Thank you, my lord.”
He inclined his head just slightly, properly acknowledging her thanks.
“So, Garrick,” Sara said. “You mentioned passing through Kenshire. Where do you go next?”
Emma concentrated on the pattern of flowers etched into her goblet. She’d never noticed how pretty it was, the stems of the roses entwining—
“To Scotland, my lady.”
“Linkirk?”
“Aye, my mother is there. After she received word of my father’s death in Acre, she thought it a necessary trip.”
“I see.”
“Will there be trouble?” Sara had clearly detected a layer of meaning beneath his words that had eluded Emma.
She chanced a glance at Garrick, wishing immediately she hadn’t. He was looking at her; his eyes, mesmerizing, made it difficult for her to focus. Her eyes darted back to the glass. So these flowers . . .
“I go to ensure there is none.”
“You know Kenshire is behind you. Always.”
Garrick lifted his drink in salute. “As Clave is for Kenshire.”
Emma knew very little about Clave beyond that it was partially in the sea, only accessible by foot during low tide. She could not recall anything else of their southern neighbors, but if the earl was an ally, why had he not assisted Sara in her claim to Kenshire after her father’s death? Dozens of questions crowded her tongue, none of which she could afford to ask lest she reveal her interest in the earl.
“Wait!” Sara exclaimed.
“No, Sara . . .” Geoffrey said next to her, somehow knowing what she was about to say. Emma did not. Her thoughts were still swirling around Clave and Kenshire and her sister-in-law’s early struggle to retain her title.
“Linkirk is not far from Dunmure Tower, is that correct?” Sara asked smartly.
Emma looked from her sister-in-law to her brother, and then to Garrick. Linkirk. Near Dunmure?
“Aye, it lies directly south of Dunmure, my lady.”
“Sara . . .” Geoffrey’s tone was a warning, one she did not heed.
“What wonderful news, Garrick! You see, Emma’s dear friend Clara, Alex Kerr’s wife, is with child.”
Oh no . . .
“And Emma has been desperate to get to her. You see, they’ve grown quite close. But my husband—” She turned to look at Geoffrey. “He does not want to leave the babe.”
If Emma guessed correctly, Sara’s glance was sharp. But likely no sharper than the expression Geoffrey was leveling at her in return.
“Babe?” Garrick asked.
“Sara and Geoffrey have a baby boy,” Emma said, so proud to call herself an aunt. “Hayden.”
Garrick raised his cup again. “Congratulations, my lady. My lord. That is wonderful news indeed.”
They all drank to the young heir’s health, but the wine no longer felt comforting to Emma. For she knew what Sara intended to ask of Garrick. And though she desperately wanted to visit her friend, the thought of being escorted there by the earl was . . . disconcerting. The effect he had on her was completely out of her control.
“He trusts no one to accompany her there, save himself,” Sara continued. “But if you are passing through . . . Of course, Emma could find no safer escort than yourself, Lord Clave.”
She’d used his title intentionally. For there was no way Geoffrey could argue Emma would not be safe in the company of an earl, let alone an old friend of Sara’s, and his retinue.
Emma finally gave in to temptation and glanced at Garrick. What would he say? What could he say? Sara had left him little choice.
His face, as impassive as ever, gave
no indication of his thoughts. Instead, he raised his goblet for a third time, inclined his head just slightly, and said, “I would be honored to escort Lady Emma to Dunmure, my lady.”
Emma whipped her head back to Sara and Geoffrey. Her sister-in-law beamed. Her brother scowled. She didn’t know who she felt more inclined to agree with. But it didn’t really matter. Sara had asked. He’d accepted. She’d appear a fool to shy away from the arrangement after her weeks of begging and cajoling her brother.
And then, as if Sara could hear her thoughts, she said, “Wonderful. Then ’tis settled.”
Emma raised her own goblet this time. “To Scotland.” She downed its contents in one great big gulp.
6
Garrick, mounted and waiting for Lady Emma to join them, tried to still his horse. He and Bayard had been together for long enough that Bayard could sense his moods, and there was no doubt that he was ill at ease—all the more so after his conversation with Sir Geoffrey earlier that morning.
“My wife has high praise for you, Clave.”
Geoffrey had pulled him aside in front of Kenshire’s main keep as the party began to assemble. The blustery January wind promised to make their second day of travel a cold one.
“As do I for Lady Sara,” he said. “But you don’t know me. And therefore don’t trust me.”
Garrick was never one for subtleties, a trait that had gotten him into trouble more than once.
It seemed he had that in common with Sir Geoffrey.
“I don’t like it,” the man immediately replied.
They both knew what “it” was, and Garrick did not blame the man. Whether or not Geoffrey sensed his attraction to Emma hardly mattered. He was escorting an unmarried woman, a most beautiful unmarried woman by any man’s standards, for three, perhaps four, days. Even if Sara and her husband had not heard about his reputation with the ladies, the earl would do well to be cautious.
But Garrick did not bed virgins, and Geoffrey’s sister certainly would not be the first, although he doubted the man would appreciate hearing as much. There was, however, something he might say to comfort him.
“I travel to Scotland to become a husband.”
Those words, spoken aloud in a definitive manner, took all of the bluster from Sir Geoffrey’s speech. Though it apparently did not warrant any gentler treatment, for the affable man he’d met the evening before seemed to have disappeared overnight.
“You didn’t mention it last eve,” Geoffrey said.
There was no denying the truth. He tried not to think on the arrangement, much less make his unwanted future wife a topic of conversation.
“Nevertheless . . .” Garrick had stared down Saracen soldiers who’d possessed less angst than this man.
“Very good,” Geoffrey finally said, reaching his hand out in front of him.
Garrick took it, knowing the silent pact they made and happily agreeing to it. Escorting Lady Emma was a favor he owed Sara, and he would ensure the lady arrived safely at Dunmure. Unharmed, untouched. No matter how much it killed him.
He shook Geoffrey’s hand, their eyes locking one final time in understanding.
“You’ll stay at The Wild Boar?”
Garrick nodded. “I’d previously planned on Kenston House as well—”
“Emma will not—”
“But will not stay there with your sister in attendance. It is obviously not appropriate for a lady.”
“So the abbey, then?” Geoffrey asked.
“Aye and, if necessary, on Clan Scott land.”
Although Geoffrey didn’t appear pleased by this piece of news, neither did he object to the possibility.
Garrick pushed the conversation from his mind. His men grew impatient, but when Emma arrived a few minutes later, all turned to look at her.
Lady Emma was a difficult woman not to notice.
“I will,” she was saying to Lady Sara as she planted a kiss on each of her sister-in-law’s cheeks. “It will be but a few weeks.”
She turned then and glanced at him. The preparations, his men . . . everything ceased but the simple smile of a lady whom he’d sworn to protect. She mounted another horse, Nella not being well enough for the journey, with the help of a groom, as did the maidservant who’d be accompanying her on the journey. The girl was a young chaperone, but a chaperone nonetheless. Part of him was grateful she’d have one.
When Sara approached him, Garrick shook himself from his reverie and dismounted.
“That was quite unnecessary,” she said, her tone as regal as one would expect of a countess.
He lifted her gloved hand to his own, his lips connecting briefly with the cold leather. “As you will, my lady.”
He turned from her, but Sara stayed him with a gentle touch to his shoulder.
“Geoffrey told me of your purpose for this trip,” she said quietly.
He shrugged. There was not much more to say. Sara herself had almost entered a marriage of convenience to maintain her position. She knew as well as he did that such things were sometimes necessary for men and women in their social class.
“When you return Emma, you’ll tell me more?”
He did not want to ask for her aid when he had not been available to help her in her time of need. The reasons for this betrothal . . . the possibility of trouble in Linkirk . . . they were his problems.
“Of course.” And although it did not need to be said, he added, “She will be safe with me.”
“I know she will be, Garrick.”
With that, Sara joined her husband, who’d taken up a position by the door, his scowl still in place, and Garrick mounted his horse. After ensuring all were ready, he nodded one last time to Sara and urged Bayard forward. Two men fell behind to guard the women, and Garrick’s party made their way across the outer courtyard, through the gatehouse, and down the slope that would take them north, away from Kenshire.
Garrick’s plan was simple. He would remain in the lead, limit his interaction with the ladies, and focus on the only thing that mattered—getting them to Scotland without incident. He just hoped the lady’s maid was as comfortable on horseback as her mistress.
“What do you mean she can’t continue?”
They’d stopped for the night at one of the most well-established inns along the border. The Wild Boar had been known for its neutrality as long as Garrick could remember. Arguments between Scots and English were not tolerated within its doors. It was as safe a place as any to stop for the evening. Modest but clean and comfortable.
Emma, whom Garrick had successfully avoided all day, had cornered him at the entrance to the stables.
“Look,” Emma said, pointing at her maid, who was indeed walking in a pained manner that implied she’d never ridden a horse before.
They stepped aside to allow one of Garrick’s men past them. Night had just begun to fall, and Garrick was ready for a fire, a hot meal, and a cold mug of ale. Raised in Northumbria or not, the weather had taken its toll on him after a long day of travel.
“Can we discuss this inside?”
He hadn’t intended for his voice to sound so harsh. But if it scared Lady Emma away from him, he could justify the tone.
“I suppose,” she said, her lack of movement at odds with her words.
They stepped forward at the same time, Garrick bumping into her shoulder. She rubbed it, and he restrained himself from asking if she was hurt. Were she another woman he fancied, and were he not nearly betrothed, Garrick would have used it as an opportunity to touch her arm, offer words of comfort. Every instinct told him to soften his tone. To smile at her in hopes she’d return the gesture.
Instead, he moved forward again, forcing her to trail after him. It would be best if he seemed indifferent, if she thought him rude.
The innkeeper found him as soon as he stepped inside.
“So you are in charge of this rabble, then?”
Magge would earn a pretty coin for the evening courtesy of this “rabble.”
“I am,
Mistress Magge,” he said.
“Lord Clave!” Her face split into a huge grin. Ah, so she hadn’t recognized him at first sight.
“Do I look so different, then?”
The plump, aging woman, her apron as clean as the king’s drying cloth, grabbed his cheek and squeezed it. His father had always thought the woman impertinent, though Garrick rather enjoyed her straightforward, if not bawdy, manner.
“Just a bit older is all. Get these men food and drink immediately,” she said to a nearby serving wench, the girl no older than Emma’s young maid. “Who’s that yer hiding, my lord?” She peered around him.
Garrick turned just as Emma removed her fur-rimmed hood. She allowed the dark material to slide through her gloved fingers, revealing a mass of black tresses that pooled around her in waves of silk. Perhaps he just imagined it, but all conversation seemed to cease around him. More than one head turned in her direction. It was as if she became the center of every space she entered, simply by virtue of being herself.
“A private dining room, if you please?”
He had not intended to ask for such a luxury, but neither was Garrick accustomed to traveling with someone like Emma. Of course she would attract attention in the inn’s bustling great room.
“Of course, my lord,” Magge said. Normally, she would have laden the words with innuendo, unable to restrain herself, but something about Emma must have given her pause.
“Lady Emma and her maid will dine in private,” he said.
“Dine?” The maid appeared from behind him, her cheeks red. “Oh, Emma, please don’t make me sit. I’ll miss the evening meal, every meal for the rest of my life, if you’ll allow me to lie down for a spell. My lady, I—”
“Of course, Edith.”
Her voice was soft, but her tone was strong enough to be the Queen of England’s.
“Mistress, a tray for my lady would be most welcome.”
Magge looked from him to Lady Emma. He nodded.
“Then ye’ll not be needing the private room?”
Emma looked at him. She would attract too much attention in the great room. Could he be so churlish as to suggest she eat alone?
The Earl's Entanglement (Border Series Book 5) Page 4
