Kenshire’s marshal and head stablehand were never far from their charges. Could something have happened to Eddard in his absence? He walked inside and stopped when he spied a flash of green on the floor of the furthermost stall, the one normally reserved for sick horses.
Bayard protested next to him, so Garrick pulled him fully inside, closing the door against the cold. He had just finished tying his reins to the stone hitching post when the source of the green garment emerged and called out a greeting.
Holy hell.
4
Eddard?” Emma stood and began to pick pieces of hay from her gown. Velvet. She should have thought better of sitting beside Nella, but it was hard to regret it. She’d do anything to make her comfortable. Anxious to speak with Eddard about the mare’s condition, she bolted from the stall.
And froze.
Not Eddard, but a stranger.
A handsome, intimidating, and . . . goodness me . . . a very handsome stranger.
Words stuck in her throat as he stared back at her.
It was his eyes she noticed first.
The room was dark, and she couldn’t see their color from this distance, but the intensity of their gaze sent a shiver down her spine. His dark hair had a distinct wave to it, even a bit of a curl in places, making his otherwise foreboding countenance just a bit more approachable, but his jaw was shadowed by a few days’ growth, which almost nullified the effect.
The stranger-knight was easily the most attractive man she’d ever had the good fortune to look upon. That is, he would be if he deigned to smile. At the moment, he did not seem inclined to do so.
“You are not Eddard,” she said.
“Nay, I am not.” Well, of course he wasn’t.
Nella snorted behind her. Did she sense it too? When he spoke, the ground itself seemed to move beneath them. His voice was low and deep.
“Who are you?”
His lack of a response may have been due to the impertinence of her question. But there was no one here to introduce them, and he was the visitor, not she.
By all that was holy, this man was . . . intense.
“Where is the marshal?”
So he refused to give his name. Very well. She would do the same. “I’m not sure. ’Tis odd that neither he nor the stablehands are here.”
Though visitors to Kenshire were not unusual, the late hour of his arrival was somewhat strange. Before she could think it over, she found herself saying, “What are you doing here?”
Even for her, the question came out all wrong. She’d been accused of being direct before. Mayhap too much so. Her words had been outright rude this time, but he could at least offer a name.
“I’m here to visit Lady Sara.”
She was about to respond when he began to stride toward her, growing larger and larger as he neared. Emma wanted to back away, but she’d not show fear.
Not now. Not ever.
“I assume you’re here for the same purpose?” he asked.
“To visit?” Ah, yes. “Aye, I am here to visit Lady Sara as well.” In a way it was true—only her visit had lasted years.
He stood close enough now that if she reached out a hand, Emma could touch him. Her hand rose an inch or two unbidden before she convinced it to return to her side.
“Garrick,” he said. And that was all.
So not a knight? She peered around him to look at his horse again. The massive destrier was undoubtedly a knight’s horse. But the familiar greeting, much too familiar since it must be clear she was a lady, proclaimed him something else. Mayhap a merchant?
But then what of the horse?
“I rode ahead of my companions,” he said.
Oh, but that voice . . .
“Emma,” she blurted.
“Lady Emma,” he corrected.
In all of her life, Emma could not once remember a time she’d offered her given name to a stranger so easily.
There was just something about him. She’d first felt it when he’d started to move toward her, and the strange sensation had not left her since. It was as if she were being pulled to him.
“Either,” she said, knowing the implications of such a statement. Not caring.
He raised his brows and she shivered again.
The stranger glanced down as if to say, No cloak?
She had indeed begun to regret not bringing a cloak with her, but then she’d not intended to stay in the stable for more than a few minutes . . . and the cold was not the reason for her body’s uncontrollable shaking.
His gloved hand moved to the clasp at his throat, and a moment later, he swung the heavy material away from his body and began to wrap it around her.
Emma gasped.
“Sir Garrick,” she accused, the admonishment in her voice very real.
Her instincts had been correct. Though she didn’t recognize the crest on his surcoat, the man’s dress proclaimed him a knight at least, more likely a lord of some sort. The overbearing, suppressive sort, most likely.
“Aye,” he said, as he moved even closer and finished wrapping his cloak around her shoulders. When he leaned toward her, Emma couldn’t help but notice his scent. Musky and clean, it was entirely too pleasant. She swallowed as he turned his attention to the clasp.
Though he’d had no trouble removing it, the clasp was evidently harder to fasten with gloves. He pulled the edges of the black fur-lined cloak together with one hand, and held the other hand out to her.
She looked down at it in bafflement and then back up into his eyes. Blue, they were dark blue.
They stood much too close to be proper—so close it addled her wits. Sir Garrick nodded toward his hand, and she looked down again, realizing he wanted her to remove his glove so he could fasten the cloak.
Of course.
Emma freed his hand. Like everything else about him, it was large and strong, though the impression was fleeting—it quickly moved toward her throat to finish the job of securing his cloak firmly about her shoulders.
When he stepped back, Emma simply stared at him for a long moment, unsure what to say. Thank you seemed appropriate, but the words would not escape from her mouth.
“Warmer?”
She nodded, remembering the glove. She reached out to hand it to him, and when he took it, his finger brushed against her thumb ever so slightly.
Emma was not sure what was happening to her or why she’d given a stranger leave to call her by her given name. Or why, though she was no longer as cold, her hands continued to tremble.
He’d waited across the field from angry Saracens who were prepared to lop off his head. He’d sat across from the future King of England, a man whose temper was legendary, and dared to disagree with him, unsure if he’d pay the ultimate price for his lack of deference.
But Garrick had never before stood immobile as an awareness of another human being crept into his very soul. When Emma—Lady Emma, he corrected himself—had emerged from that stall, he’d thought two things at once, evident from her posture and expression.
This was a woman who, despite her station, was neither biddable nor docile.
And he wanted her.
He wanted this raven-haired beauty with an intensity that should have sent him running from the stable immediately. You are nearly betrothed to another woman. Yet here he stood, taunting his own instincts, moving much closer to her than was wise. Conrad would roar in laughter if he ever came to know how completely Garrick’s usual instincts for how to woo a beautiful woman had left him. For several minutes, he’d been completely tongue-tied, and when he finally introduced himself, he’d unaccountably shared his given name.
Why did I withhold my title?
She was small but well-endowed. He shouldn’t have noticed such a thing, but she’d lacked any kind of coat to keep her warm against the winter chill. He certainly shouldn’t have noticed her lips were made to be kissed.
When he moved in closer to wrap the cloak about her, Garrick was drawn in by her gaze. Those ice-blue e
yes stood out in stark contrast to hair so black it shone. But it wasn’t the color of her eyes he noticed as he wrapped his cloak around her. It was the strange intensity of the moment, as if it were somehow significant.
Garrick wanted her, whoever she was, which was exactly why he took a step back after securing the cloak.
“Aye, thank you,” she said, the words seeming to come from deep within her throat, the simple thanks penetrating the icy chill he’d worn since leaving Clave.
The door to the stables creaked open behind him.
“My lord? My lady?”
The invisible net that had been cast around them was lifted as a stableboy ran toward them.
Garrick turned, watching as the boy stopped next to Bayard and took a step back. Not that he blamed him. The warhorse was massive, his head as wide as a tree trunk. He’d been bred for the kind of fighting he’d left behind in the Holy Land.
“He senses your fear,” Garrick told him.
“I’m not afraid,” the boy replied. He ruined the effect by taking another step back. “I just ne’er saw a beast so . . .”
Pulling his woolen cloak tighter around his shoulders, the boy cocked his head and looked at the long scar that traveled the length of Bayard’s neck. With a bow to the woman who’d so stunned him earlier, Garrick made his way toward his mount.
“There are others,” he said. “They should be arriving at any time.”
“The marshal sends his apologies, sir. ’Tis a groom’s naming day, and he gathered us all together to celebrate. We didn’t expect travelers so late. Not”—he rushed to continue—“that it is too late, of course. I’m glad to care for him and his companions.”
Garrick couldn’t decide what was making the boy more nervous, him or Bayard, but at least the lad had explained Eddard’s absence. The marshal cared for the boys who worked for him as if they were family.
Voices outside the stable announced the arrival of the other men. Garrick looked out through the open door to see they traveled with escorts from Kenshire. While his arrival had gone largely unnoticed thanks to his familiarity with the guards, his men had not been afforded such a boon. He turned back to take a final glance at Lady Emma. She nodded in parting, a quick, regal bow of the head.
Leaving Bayard to the boy who’d finally gained enough confidence to approach the enormous steed, Garrick joined his men as they dismounted and made their way across the expansive courtyard, now deserted for mealtime, toward Kenshire’s keep.
One night.
If she joined them for the meal, he’d have to endure the proximity of the woman for just one night. He was here to pay respects to Lady Sara, not to seduce one of her guests. Tomorrow, he’d best rise early and leave Kenshire, attempting to forget he’d ever met the undeniably exquisite Lady Emma.
5
Garrick, I’m pleased for you to meet my husband, Sir Geoffrey Waryn.”
Geoffrey was now the Earl of Kenshire, a position of equal ranking, so he and Sir Geoffrey nodded their heads in greeting. They stood just inside the entrance to the great hall.
“My apologies for not greeting you properly—”
“Nay, my lady. It is I who should apologize for arriving so late and just before the evening meal.”
Garrick watched as Sir Geoffrey gazed at his wife. Was he worthy of the good reputation that had reached Garrick’s ears? He was at least relieved to see a look of fierce love and admiration in the man’s eyes.
Knights and retainers moved past them and into the hall, but Sara seemed reluctant to do so just yet. She moved off to the side, and he and her husband followed.
“I’d prefer to speak with you before our conversation can be overheard,” she said.
Garrick inclined his head to direct three of his men, who moved past them and into the rapidly filling hall. With darkness came the need for candles, which lit both the passageway where they now stood and the great room, which he’d always thought of as one of the grandest in all of England.
“Gladly, my lady, as I wish to do the same.”
Having moved away from the entrance, Sara took his hands in hers, surprising both him and, Garrick suspected, her husband.
“’Tis so good to see you, my friend.”
He squeezed her hands. “And you, Sara.” He glanced at Geoffrey, but the man did not appear disturbed by their familiarity. Another mark in his favor. “My deepest condolences for the loss of your father. I’ve never had the pleasure of knowing a better man.”
“And I’m sorry to have to say the same. It seems this past year has not been kind to either one of us.”
They were silent for a moment, and then Garrick squeezed her hands once more before letting them go. “I came not only to offer my condolences, but to apologize for not having been here to help you. When I heard what happened—that bastard Randolf . . .”
“Garrick never did like Randolf,” Sara explained to her husband.
“Good,” Geoffrey said, looking at Garrick. An understanding passed between them—both men would lay down their lives to protect Sara.
“I’m glad you were here,” Garrick said to the new earl, nodding at him.
“As am I.”
When the earl looked at his wife again, Garrick relaxed.
Yes, there was to be no doubt—her husband loved her.
“I’m grateful for your visit,” Sara said, “but apologies are not necessary, Garrick. You were across an entire ocean fighting for Edward. There was nothing you could have done.”
“Fighting to right his father’s follies,” he said, hoping his voice did not betray him as a traitor. Although Sara knew he respected the man’s position, she likely remembered he had no love for Edward’s policies—and approved even less of his father’s. But this was neither the time nor the place for talk of politics.
Sara’s husband looked around them as if searching for one of the king’s spies.
“My husband can be overly suspicious,” she said by way of explanation.
Garrick followed his glance.
“Oh dear,” Sara said. “And I thought I’d have an ally when you arrived. It seems I’m to be overrun by the good intentions of overprotective men.”
“Sir Geoffrey—”
“Geoffrey.” He stuck his hand out to him, and Garrick shook it firmly. Aye, he liked this man with the same raven-black hair as . . .
“Oh!”
They all turned as the very woman who’d entered his thoughts nearly ran into him. She halted, breathing heavily as if she’d been running.
“I thought I was late,” she said, staring at him.
She looked exactly as she had in the stables, though with less hay clinging to her velvet gown, and her effect on him was undiminished.
“Emma.” Sara moved toward the vision—the woman—and placed a hand on her back.
“Meet a very dear friend of mine. Sir Garrick Helmsley, the sixth Earl of Clave. Oh, and you are now a Scottish earl as well, are you not?”
Garrick hardly heard the words. The woman’s gaze pulled him toward her, compelling him not to look away, and he was easily swayed.
“Aye,” he managed to reply. Years of training and decorum saved him.
Garrick took her hand in his own, relishing in how small and dainty and warm it felt, as Sara finished. “This is my sister-in-law, Lady Emma Waryn.”
He was just about to place a brief kiss on her hand when Sara’s words penetrated the fog in his mind.
Sister-in-law.
He kissed her hand and released it, not able to let the contact linger. Forcing a neutral expression, he looked at her brother, who eyed them both with the intensity he’d expect of a man protecting his sister.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, looking back to Sara. Anywhere but at Emma.
“And I yours,” she said prettily, as if she had not nearly plowed into him a moment before.
“Linkirk, am I correct?” Sara pressed, naming his father’s earldom in Scotland. He was surprised Sara
remembered. He’d spent much more time in England, though his mother, who had inherited the title and property that passed to his father upon marriage, traveled there often. She considered it more of a home than Clave.
“You have a good memory, my lady.”
“Garrick’s father was the Earl of Linkirk, which makes our guest a powerful man indeed. On both sides of the border.”
He said nothing. It was true, after all, and it was also the reason for his current predicament.
“Linkirk,” Geoffrey said. “My family is now related to their neighbors and Clan Kerr.”
“I’ve heard as much,” Garrick said, trying not to look at Emma. “I’m quite interested to learn more about the circumstances around that union.”
He knew Clan Kerr well. As Geoffrey said, his land in Linkirk bordered one of their holdings. But he remembered the Kerr chief as a private man, much like his father. Not one prone to readily accept allies. That he had willingly done so with their southern neighbors was a surprising revelation. Though not as surprising as the fact that the former enemies were now relatives, Bristol back under the control of the Waryn family.
“Then come inside while we tell it.”
He must have sufficiently redirected his attention away from Emma. For if Geoffrey had any notion of the thoughts he was having about his sister, he would not be so welcoming.
One night. That was all. He’d retire early from dinner. Leave early in the morn. He could conceal his thoughts—his attraction—for just a few hours.
With any luck, the two would not be seated together.
Why did he have to be seated directly to her left?
If either Geoffrey or Sara had any inclination of the thoughts flitting through her innocent mind, surely they would have seated him elsewhere on the dais. What poor timing for them to adhere to convention.
An earl. Twice over, from the sound of it.
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.
The Earl's Entanglement Page 3
