Emma shrugged. “You are an earl. And Sara’s friend,” she said.
“What does that have to do—”
“Making decisions comes naturally to you. And if Sara trusts you, I do as well. So I hadn’t thought to question our destination before now.”
Only, it was indeed getting quite cold. “So where are we going?”
He didn’t answer. And from the way Garrick was looking at her now, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted him to. She’d been looked at this way before. As Geoffrey often saw fit to point out, more than one suitor had traveled to Kenshire to woo her. Some had been invited; most had not. All had a similar look about them, but none of the others had made her chest pinch like this. None of the others had made her wonder what they were thinking.
What did he see when he looked at her?
When she looked at him, she saw power. And strength. Too much so.
“Carharm Abbey.”
Emma wasn’t sure why she took a step toward him. It was as if a hand splayed against her back and pushed her forward. This was the same inexplicable draw she’d felt to him since the beginning.
“Oh.” Carharm, on the English side of the border, was a sensible choice for shelter for the night.
She stopped, but he took a step toward her this time. And then another. When he was but an arm’s length from her, Garrick took off his cloak for the second time since she’d met him.
“You’re cold.”
She opened her mouth to answer, to insist that he keep his cloak, for surely he was cold too, but no sound came out.
Emma swallowed as he reached behind her to mimic the same actions he’d taken in the stable. But this time, when his gloved hands moved to fasten the clasp at her neck, he was successful on the first attempt.
“Nay, my lord, you mustn’t.” She finally remembered to protest. “Garrick . . .”
He didn’t move away from her. Emma took in a long, icy breath, bent her head back and locked her eyes with his. It was there. That pull, an undeniable force that compelled her to him.
“Garrick,” she repeated, and when his lips parted, she knew.
He was going to kiss her.
Blast it . . . she couldn’t breathe.
And then the ground began to rumble beneath their feet. Garrick stepped away from her, and though she was wrapped in no fewer than two cloaks, she was even colder than she’d been before.
With a final glance at her, he moved to his horse, opened the saddlebag, and took out another cloak. The heather gray material with dark green lines looked more like a blanket than a garment made for keeping warm. Once wrapped up in it, he took out a circular clasp and fastened it about his neck.
Had she wanted to avert her eyes, Emma would have been unequal to the task. Her sister-in-law was fond of telling her she could do anything she liked—run a manor, ride her horse faster than any man. Emma had begun to believe it . . . until now.
For even if the king himself had ordered her to look away from Garrick Helmsley at this moment, she could not have done it. When he turned to her, she did not look away. Perhaps she should have. Instead, Emma watched as he spoke to one of his men. She watched him walk toward her and vaguely heard his request to assist her. Laden with two cloaks, one quite large and definitely too long, she accepted his offer.
And for the remainder of the day, Emma could think of nothing other than the moment before his men had arrived. The moment when Garrick had stood beside her, his lips parting slightly in a gesture that left no uncertainty.
He had been about to kiss her.
And she’d been prepared to allow it.
8
Finally, their destination lay ahead. He’d managed to avoid her at the abbey the evening before, spending the night with his men. Now, after ensuring she was safely installed as a guest at Highgate End, and with any luck, he’d be able to do the same tonight. After he left Emma at Dunmure Tower tomorrow, he would continue on to Linkirk and try to forget about the beguiling companion who’d haunted his thoughts since their unusual meeting at Kenshire’s stables.
Though they’d made it safely across the border, Garrick would not relax until they reached Clan Scott land. Hell, he wouldn’t relax until Emma was delivered to her destination. To think he’d nearly kissed her . . . kissed her . . . yesterday. He’d promised Sara to protect her. And though it had not been spoken of directly, he’d vowed to Geoffrey not to touch her. And yet, had it not been for his men’s arrival, he may have broken that unspoken vow a mere day after giving it.
Kissing Lady Emma Waryn was the worst idea he’d ever had, save for convincing his father to come with him to the Holy Land. When she rode past him yesterday, his heart had nearly stopped . . . until he remembered Emma was an expert horseman. She was an excellent rider, and her laughter—so full of glee—had rung in his ears long after she’d outstripped him. Due to Bayard’s training and his very real practice overtaking enemies when both of their lives depended on it, both horse and rider had used their skills to catch her.
The almost kiss was the exact kind of foolhardy, rash action he’d warned himself against these past weeks. Unaccountably, he’d almost done it anyway, and from the look in her eyes in that moment, she knew it.
Luckily, his men had saved him from such folly.
“We’re on Scott land now, my lord?” said James.
“Aye.” He spied the castle ahead of them. Highgate End. Home to the chief of a clan as old as any along the treacherous border.
Garrick rode ahead and was met, as expected, by Graeme de Sowlis’s men. After a brief conversation, they led him across the lowered drawbridge. His men and Emma followed him into the outer courtyard where the stables were kept. Linkirk had been formally allied with Clan Scott well before Garrick’s father was named earl. Graeme de Sowlis’s ascension to chief was something else Garrick had missed while he was in Acre, serving Edward on a crusade to the Holy Land. He, along with over a thousand men and more than two hundred knights, saved thousands of Christians under siege from Baibars.
Dismounting and handing the horse’s reins to a groom, Garrick followed another servant through the modest gatehouse and into the inner courtyard as his men were led to their own quarters. The main keep, a circular stone structure old enough to need repairs, looked unaltered by the change in leadership. Impressive, foreboding, solitary.
Their traveling party entered directly into the great hall, where their host stood waiting for them. Graeme de Sowlis looked more like a groom than he did a clan chief. More affable than most and as deadly with a bow as any, the famed warrior bowed when he approached.
“An earl in two countries and a celebrated crusader. Sir Garrick? Linkirk? My lord? Which title do you prefer, Clave?”
Garrick took Graeme’s hand, glad to be out of the cold for the night. But when Graeme peered beyond him, his eyes widening, Garrick knew she had entered the hall. Their day apart had come to an end.
“May I present Lady Emma Waryn? My lady, I give you Graeme de Sowlis, chief of Clan Scott and second of that name.”
He could not avoid looking at her now. But when he did, his body immediately responded even as he tried to stop its reaction. She curtsied prettily to Graeme, who bowed. The twisting in Garrick’s gut made him wish they’d stayed elsewhere for the night. According to some, Sowlis had broken as many hearts in Scotland as Garrick had in England before he left on campaign.
A fine time to remember that particular rumor.
Some said Graeme had once been betrothed to Catrina Kerr, now married to Emma’s brother. Others said theirs was a friendship only. Garrick had never asked Graeme for the story, nor did he care to do so.
What mattered now was that Sowlis was unmarried . . . and so was Emma.
Why was such a woman still unattached? Of marriageable age, Emma could not be wanting for suitors—and Sowlis appeared anxious to join their ranks.
“The pleasure is mine,” their host said. And he looked as if he’d meant it. “Fiona will show you to
your bedchambers.”
Graeme nodded to a maidservant. The woman took Emma’s cloaks, both of them, and then approached Garrick. Divested of their cloaks and gloves, they followed her down a long stone hallway and up a circular flight of stairs lit with oil wall torches. Garrick attempted not to look at Emma, especially when they stopped in front of her bedchamber.
Garrick cursed under his breath when the woman then led him to his chamber . . . right next door. He hardly noticed the room, his thoughts still on the woman who would be sleeping in the next room over. He could, and should, join his host and the men in the hall for the meal. But would he be able to endure an entire evening in Emma’s presence?
He sat on the bed, lost in thought, until a knock landed on his door. He opened it to reveal their host, looking more like a man befitting his station than he had just moments earlier. Was this for Emma’s benefit?
“I’d speak to you before we dine,” he said.
Stepping back to allow him entry, Garrick poured two goblets of wine from the service set that had been left on a small oak table near his bed.
“Your steward is to be commended,” he said. Though the man couldn’t have had much warning of their arrival, a fire had been roaring in the hearth of the sparse but well-appointed room in anticipation of his arrival. Rosewater and wine had been left out for him to cleanse with. Common in the Holy Land, it was less so here.
“My condolences for your loss,” Garrick said.
“And to you for yours.”
They drank a toast to their departed fathers, and Garrick was reminded of the condolences he’d exchanged with Lady Sara at Kenshire. Though her father had been old and ill, surely it had not made her loss any less painful.
So much death and more to come, at least here in the borderlands.
“He fought hard, and fought well. Our clan mourns him still, but he left this world fighting for what he believed in,” Graeme said. “Peace. An established border. His clan’s survival.”
Garrick remained silent. He couldn’t say his own father had done the same. They’d fought for Edward’s cause, not their own. Though he’d be named a traitor if he shared such thoughts aloud.
“You wanted to speak to me.”
“Your charge . . .”
Emma.
“How did you come to escort her here, without a chaperone?”
He and Graeme had spoken of women in the past. They’d even made jests about who would be bound by marriage first. But this was different. This was Emma.
“I stopped at Kenshire to offer condolences to Lady Sara, and it seemed her sister-in-law needed an escort to Dunmure.”
“To Alex Kerr?”
“To his wife.”
“I see.”
“Her lady’s maid was unable to ride after our first day of travel. She’s behind us still, and if you can receive her, she’ll likely arrive in just a few days.”
“Hmm . . .”
He knew what was coming next. But that didn’t make it any easier to hear.
“Is Lady Emma spoken for?”
The hand at his side tightened.
“You will have to ask the lady herself.”
Whether it was his tone or his expression, Garrick wasn’t sure, but Graeme immediately picked up on the feelings Garrick had been trying to deny for days.
“Is she spoken for by you?”
Yes!
Beyond Graeme’s predilection toward the company of fine women, which was much like his own, there was nothing that would not recommend him to Emma, something that filled Garrick with an uncomfortable feeling of jealousy. And yet he could not lie.
“Nay, she is not. I travel to Linkirk to secure my own betrothal.”
Graeme’s eyes widened. “Your own?”
He ground his teeth, wanting the conversation to end. Quickly. “Aye.”
“Your mother.” Graeme knew the situation well.
“She has arranged it, aye. The Earl of Magnus’s daughter.”
Graeme whistled, and it took every ounce of fortitude Garrick possessed not to roll his eyes.
“Do you think such a match necessary?”
Garrick shook his head. “Nay, but my mother believes so. Inverglen had become difficult to control in my absence.”
His uncle, the Baron of Inverglen, hated Garrick for the same reason he’d hated his father. They were both English.
“Foolish bastard. The title was never his. Could never be his.”
There was one way. “Without my mother. Without me?”
Graeme narrowed his eyes. “Do you think he means to—”
“Nay. If I thought he’d risk my mother, do you think she’d be alone in Scotland?”
“Garrick, by God, if that man so much as gives your mother an untoward look . . .”
This was what he’d liked about the Scottish chief from their very first meeting. He took his sworn loyalty as seriously as any man. It mattered not to Graeme de Sowlis that an Englishman had inherited the title of Earl of Linkirk. An ally in the true sense of the word, the man would no doubt go to war on his behalf. Which, luckily, his betrothal to Magnus’s daughter would avoid.
“To alliances,” Garrick said, holding up his cup.
“New,” Graeme said. “And old.”
That was exactly what worried him.
Emma attempted to slow her pace as she barreled down the corridor in Graeme de Sowlis’s home. For as long as she could remember, she’d been told that she walked too fast, spoke too fast, though none of it was said with malice. Her brothers merely liked to tease her; Emma’s parents, God rest their souls, had hoped to school her; and Aunt Lettie and Uncle Simon, well, they’d long ago given up on changing her ways. They’d said so in the kindest way possible, of course. She loved her family, and was eternally grateful to have their love in return.
But none of them quite understood her.
Emma wanted to live. Every moment. Every day. Each night she lay in her bed and imagined how she could eke out a bit more joy the next day—for one thing her parents’ early death had taught her was that there may not be a next day. Before she’d gone to the market on that fateful day, her mother had kissed her cheek and said, “Until later, my love.”
Later had never come. Which was why she was so unwilling to wait for anything. To follow anyone. She slowed her pace a bit, but not too much, until she came to a corridor with two possible routes. Perhaps it had been foolish to send the maid ahead, whether she liked to do for herself or not.
“I can find my way,” she’d said stubbornly. Clearly, she’d spoken without thinking, as usual.
Now was it this way? Or that?
“To your right, my lady.”
Emma didn’t turn around. She’d recognize that voice anywhere. Instead, she focused on the flickering of the wall torch that lit the path before her. He was directly behind her now, his presence a tangible warmth behind her.
She peered around her shoulder then.“My thanks, Lord Clave.”
“Garrick.”
Emma picked up her skirts once again. She’d only taken two additional gowns. This one, a bright crimson with a straight neckline just slightly lower than the others, was one of her favorites. Whenever she wore it, Emma felt pretty. She felt like a woman and not a girl. Sara, bless her, had commissioned it to match a similar one of hers that Emma had always admired.
“Of course,” she said, beginning to turn around until he stopped her with a hand on her sleeve. Even through the thick layer of material, Emma could feel the warmth of his touch. Or maybe she was simply imagining it.
“May I have a word first?”
When she turned fully around to face him, his hand dropped. He looked as regal as he had that first night in their hall. Every bit an earl. Including . . .
“You shaved,” she blurted.
When he smiled, Garrick’s eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the corners.
“I did.”
She’d liked that bit of hair on his face. It had made him look a bi
t less polished. More approachable.
“Forgive my impertinence,” he started.
Emma’s breath quickened. She didn’t want him to kiss her.
Yes, you do.
“Are you spoken for, Lady Emma?”
“Nay, I am not,” she managed to say.
He didn’t look happy about that. Which made no sense. Why would he—
“Graeme de Sowlis,” he said, still frowning.
Emma didn’t understand. “What of our host?”
“He inquired about you.”
Garrick’s gaze was so intent that it took a moment for his words to sink in. Graeme de Sowlis? Was he asking for Graeme?
Oh, what a fool I am. Well, good. Garrick was the exact type of man she most assuredly did not wish to marry. She had no use for an earl twice over, a man who was powerful in two countries. No doubt he’d expect to control her and aught she did.
“I see.”
And she did. She must have mistaken the look in his eyes the previous day. Emma had very little experience with men, save two kisses. One had been with the only suitor she’d seriously considered. That flirtation had ended the moment the gentleman had spied Sara in her women’s breeches one day while visiting Kenshire. The look of utter horror on his face had advised her more surely than anything he could say or do that he was not the man for her. By her request, it had been the last she’d seen of him.
“But I don’t believe . . . that is . . . I promised Sara and your brother to protect you—”
So he did not want her, but neither did he want her with Graeme. It was not his words but his tone that told her as much. Bryce often used that exact same tone, and it was always intended as a warning.
Well, Emma had never been the type to heed warnings.
“Thank you for your concern, Garrick.”
She spun around, intending to show the earl exactly what she thought of his “protection,” but he reached out to stop her. This time, he forced her to face him again.
“Emma, I didn’t mean—”
He pulled her toward him so quickly that Emma only realized what he was about when his lips touched her own. They were so soft but firm. He released his grip, allowing her to pull away, which she did not.
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