The Earl's Entanglement (Border Series Book 5)

by Cecelia Mecca

  Aye, since the alternative was to dine in there with her, away from everyone’s watching eyes.

  “My lady will take a meal there. Or she might prefer a tray as well?”

  Her eyes widened, making the blue flash as brightly as blood against freshly fallen snow.

  “My lady,” she said mockingly, “prefers to dine in the hall.”

  “No.”

  Both Edith and Magge watched their exchange, which was unfortunate but unavoidable.

  “I’ve been charged with your safety, my lady. And I don’t believe—”

  “I’ll have the cellar prepared,” Magge said as she ambled away, not waiting for an answer. “For two.”

  Perhaps his father was right. “The fairer sex held more power than mere men could ever dream of,” he’d often said. He could rule two great households in two countries, but not an aged innkeeper and a petite Englishwoman.

  “Very well,” he said. “As for a chaperone—”

  “My lady doesn’t require one,” the maid said. All eyes turned to Edith, whose words tumbled from her all at once. “What I mean to say is that she often finds herself in situations . . . that is . . . she doesn’t much care for . . . oh, never mind.”

  As if by way of apology, she glanced at Emma, whose smirk was anything but angry.

  “Poor Edith. Go up to our room; I will be fine.” Emma turned to him. “Shall we, then?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow in an obvious challenge.

  Garrick glanced at his men, who’d already seated themselves in the great room. He led Emma toward the back of the inn. The door to the storage room was already open. He’d used this room on more than one occasion, having frequented The Wild Boar since he was young. It was normally used as a private meeting space. The smell of thyme wafted from the staircase, preferable to the musty stench of most below-ground rooms.

  Magge had already placed a board across two cut-out barrels, and a pair of three-legged stools sat off to the side, awaiting their use. As she lay a linen tablecloth on top, Garrick’s eyes began to adjust to the dim light. The cellar had been sufficiently transformed, but it was still darker than abovestairs despite the tallow candles that had been lit throughout the room. It was only when Magge winked at Garrick before making her way back up that he felt the full impact of their arrangement. This kind of intimacy was exactly what he’d intended to avoid.

  So much for avoiding the lady. Tomorrow he would be better prepared.

  Emma had begun to shrug off her hooded cape, and his arm moved forward automatically to take it from her. He placed it, along with his own, atop a set of wooden crates.

  A noise from above drew their attention. It was not Magge who was coming down the stairs, but a serving girl who placed a tray laden with food and drink on the board. Before Garrick could even offer his thanks, she was gone.

  “Shall we?” Emma moved first, sitting prettily on one of the stools after fanning her riding gown out beneath her.

  He sat on his own stool, watching her face, so full of expression.

  “You didn’t tell Lady Sara we’d already met,” she observed.

  Garrick poured them ale from the pewter pitcher. “You had the opportunity as well, my lady.”

  Emma rolled her eyes. “Emma. I thought we’d established as much in the stables.”

  “That was before I knew—”

  “Knew what?” Her question, asked innocently enough, brought a rush of desire as fierce as the edge of a Saracen’s blade.

  Knew you were his sister. Knew you were untouchable.

  “Before I knew your identity,” he said.

  Garrick shifted his attention to their modest meal. Two trenchers, roasted rabbit, and an unidentifiable soup that look edible enough.

  “An earl.” She shook her head in apparent distaste. That was a first.

  “You don’t approve?”

  Something in her expression answered him before she uttered a word. “I’m sitting in a storeroom with you, am I not?”

  He glanced around the room. “You could not have dined in the hall.”

  “I disagree.” She took a drink, her eyes peering at him from above the rim of the mug.

  By God, she is lovely.

  “I heard from the men earlier that you’ve been to Acre?”

  He didn’t comment on the change of topic. “Aye. I have.”

  “What was it like? Did you meet the king?”

  “It was bloody and hot. Not unlike King Edward.”

  She laughed. Not the kind of laughter he was used to hearing from a lady but loud and unselfconscious. It was the kind of laughter that made a man want to join in. Even Edward would not have been immune, though he was not the sort of man to laugh at any kind of joke that featured him as a punch line.

  The thought made him oddly uneasy. Edward was known to enjoy the company of beautiful women.

  “Tell me how you came to be at Kenshire, Lady Emma.”

  When she took a bite of rabbit, he spied, for the briefest of moments, the pink tip of her tongue as it darted out to catch the spiced meat.

  “’Tis a short tale, really. When Clan Kerr took Bristol, my brothers and I went to live with my Uncle Simon and Aunt Lettie. They could hardly support us all, so Geoffrey and my other uncle, Hugh, took to reiving while my other brothers complained about staying behind with me. Then Sara’s father sent for Hugh, and Geoffrey went along . . . and, well, you know the rest. Everyone in England has probably heard the story.”

  “You’ve never grieved.”

  She went so still that Garrick wished he could retract his words. “I don’t condemn you for it. I understand it all too well.”

  Her head, slightly bowed, snapped up.

  He’d uttered the words unthinkingly, leaving himself with little choice but to share his own story. “I lost my father in battle.” They’d fought many battles together before that fateful day in a foreign land, in a foreign war. “In Acre,” he clarified.

  Emma didn’t say a word after that. They ate in silence. When they finished the meal, Garrick was about to stand, to escape the confining space that brimmed with her presence, her smell, the draw of her soft skin. But Emma stopped him from pushing his stool away.

  “Nay,” she said. “Not yet.”

  7

  She’d thought last evening’s meal was trying, but sitting next to Sir Garrick Helmsley in a crowded hall was like riding a horse in an open field. Thrilling, yet simple, and assuredly safe. Dining alone with him tonight, however, was more akin to riding while standing . . . up a mountain . . . with her eyes closed.

  “What I meant to say is . . .”

  What exactly did I mean to say?

  “Why do you travel to Scotland?”

  She really could have thought of something more profound. Although, “I don’t want to leave just yet even though your high-handedness is exactly what I would have expected from an earl” would surely not do.

  Emma, you can be such a dolt.

  Garrick raised the pitcher slightly, and she nodded. Keeping her hands—and mouth—busy was helpful. Though she could think of other ways she’d like to keep her mouth busy . . .

  Oh Emma, what is wrong with you? To imagine kissing the earl!

  “As you know, I travel to my holding in Linkirk.”

  He had said as much, and she had no doubt it was true. Although he hadn’t said much, he had a way of making every word sound important. And yet, she had no doubt he was holding something back.

  Emma had been raised with three brothers. Her second eldest brother, Bryce, was even less talkative than Garrick. Emma had the opposite problem. Every single thought she had spilled from her head right out through her mouth. But even if she didn’t understand her brother’s reticence, experience had taught her that his lack of words didn’t mean he lacked for thoughts. He was just better at keeping them to himself.

  A trait her escort apparently shared with her brother.

  “And you said your mother is there?”

  His crosse
d arms told her this was a topic he wanted to talk about even less than his time in Acre.

  “She returned two months past, as soon as word of my father reached her.”

  “Returned?”

  “My mother is Scottish.”

  When the corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly, Emma realized she had not hidden her surprise very well.

  “Her father was the former Earl of Linkirk. As his eldest daughter, my mother inherited the title and one-third of his holdings. The title was passed down to my father through her.”

  “And now to you.”

  His expression gave nothing away. Inexplicably, she thought of when their hands had touched in the stable. Had she dreamt about that last night? Aye, she had. And she’d woken contemplating how a simple touch in her dream had been so full of meaning. His face was the first thing she’d seen in her mind upon awakening this morning.

  “And now me.”

  “Sara mentioned possible trouble?”

  Before he said a word, she knew he was not going to tell her. Perhaps she dug too deep and the matter felt too personal to him. Indeed, she was right, but he continued to look at her.

  What is he thinking?

  Everything about him was hard. Or, at least, she imagined it would be. Including his expression. Everything except the dark waves that curled just slightly around the nape of his neck. Emma wanted to touch his hair, to run her fingers through it as if it were her right.

  “My maid cannot travel,” she blurted.

  When faced with his confused expression, she attempted to explain. “I do that often.”

  “Do what?” It was his tone, she decided, every word was delivered slowly, deliberately. That was what made his words seem so important.

  “Talk about too many things at once. I told her it was not a good idea. Edith has always wanted to see Scotland, so she could not be dissuaded. But I knew so many hours in the saddle would give her some trouble.”

  Garrick appeared to consider the problem.

  “Imagine,” she said. “That she’d have so little experience riding with Eddard as her father.”

  “Eddard?” That had clearly managed to surprise him. “I didn’t realize he had a daughter.”

  “Well, neither did he for quite some time. Which may explain her lack of interest in horses. A few years back, a woman whom Eddard had, um . . .”

  He cocked his head. “Sought out the service of Venus?”

  It took her a moment, but when she understood, she shivered as surely as if they were still conversing in the cold stable at Kenshire.

  “Cold, Emma?”

  Of course not. In fact, it was quite warm down here in the cellar. “Nay.”

  “I thought I saw you shiver.”

  He was a churl to say such a thing. “Your eyesight must be poor.”

  “I don’t believe it is.”

  Did he know how he affected her?

  Just because she didn’t like the way he’d ordered her to leave the great room didn’t mean she was immune to his charms. The Earl of Clave was perhaps the most good-looking man in all of England. Was it any wonder that she noticed?

  “I’ll leave a man behind to bring her to Dunmure when she’s ready.”

  A man? Her? What had she done to convince him to leave her behind?

  Oh, Edith.

  “Is that safe?”

  “Safe?”

  Oh dear, how would she say this?

  “A strange man. With my maid?”

  He lifted his brows as if mocking her.

  Arrogant earl.

  “He is not strange to me,” he said. “And ’tis no different than you being down here alone. Or traveling to Dunmure with me and my men.”

  He had a point. “I do believe my brother will not be very happy to learn I traveled with you unchaperoned.”

  “Yet you sit here with me now.”

  “You insisted.”

  “Your safety is my only concern.”

  “Your only concern?” She hadn’t meant it that way. Nor had she meant to put quite so much emphasis on the word “only.” Her point, or rather the point she’d intended to make, was that he seemed just as concerned about being in control as he did of her safety.

  But that was not how it sounded.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” he said bluntly.

  With that, he stood. Emma had no choice but to do the same. Confused by his last statement, and still unsure of their plans for the next day, Emma mutely followed Garrick up the stairs and waited as he hunted down the innkeeper. The sound of laughter prompted her to peer into the great room.

  Oh my!

  The serving maids, in various states of undress, appeared to be doing more than serving ale.

  “You see why I insisted,” Garrick said, returning.

  She ignored that.

  “You’re sure Edith will be safe? I will speak to her tonight to ensure she feels comfortable with the arrangement.”

  “Your maid is quite safe,” he said. Something about the way he said “your maid” almost prompted her to ask if she was safe. But then Emma thought better of it. Perhaps she didn’t want the answer to that particular question.

  “Do you need a break, my lady?”

  Garrick’s men had been trained well. They rode through the snow, which had started earlier that morn and continued throughout the day, and though their leader stayed to the front of the group, the others were very solicitous of her well-being, and they’d asked her more than once if she needed a break. The answer was always, “Thank you, but no.” When they finally did stop for a quick midday meal, a red-headed knight who was nearly as tall as Garrick but much leaner tended to her mount.

  She missed Nella. Though her beloved horse had no longer been feverish yesterday morning, she’d been too recently ill for such a long journey.

  After their repast, they navigated around Dod Law before heading due north on a path that would take them across the border and nearly straight to Dunmure Tower. Straight to Clara. Emma had been to the border before, but this was the first time she would be staying in Scotland for an extended visit.

  As the day wore on, snow began to accumulate on the ground beneath them. Though the wide-open fields didn’t lend themselves to shelter, they did encourage a faster pace. As soon as the incline flattened out, Emma maneuvered herself until she rode alongside their riding party’s leader. If she couldn’t navigate a bit of snow, then she’d not rightly earned her reputation as the best rider at Kenshire.

  She’d tried, and failed, not to glance his way throughout the early part of the day. Anyone watching them would immediately know Garrick was in charge. He held himself up a bit straighter than the others. Though she couldn’t see it now beneath his cloak, Garrick wore a thick, padded gambeson, the kind favored by her brothers. His nasal helm, certainly not an unusual sight, somehow looked more ominous on him than it did on others she’d seen wearing them. If she had not spent a lifetime among fearsome men, perhaps she would have thought better of provoking the Earl of Clave.

  “Your slow pace is because of me,” she called to him above the clomping hooves of the more than a half dozen destriers behind them.

  “Slow pace?”

  She could have told him of her intentions, but her borrowed mount, a strong Spanish jennet, was no match for a charger bred to overtake his opponents. A warning was an advantage she couldn’t afford to give.

  Emma spurred her mount forward, and she didn’t hold back. The snow was soft and powdery, safe enough to gallop across even at this pace. It flicked up beneath them in every direction, the distant sound of hooves alerting her that she wasn’t alone. Nella loved when the snow kicked up and hit her belly, and she laughed aloud thinking of the joy it brought her and her beloved horse every time they rode this way. Falling into a steady pace, she spied the thicket of trees a long way off in front of them. Could she hold off Lord Clave for that long?

  Likely not.

  But Emma would try her best.

  T
he rhythmic sound of her horse’s hooves lulled her into a confidence that she should have known would be tested. She was alerted to Garrick’s presence by the loud snort of his horse behind her. She didn’t dare spur her mount to a faster gallop with the snow, so it was not a surprise when the shadow over her shoulder became a mounted knight in front of her. That he didn’t stop made Emma laugh again. She’d thought he would be angry, but instead he was playing her game.

  He turned his head just slightly to gauge her position. She was gaining on him. Could she possibly overtake him again?

  Alas, not today. He reached the edge of the woods and dismounted in what looked like one fluid motion. She reached him and did the same, pulling her hood back above her head with one hand and keeping the horse’s reins wrapped up in the other.

  “How did you do that?” she said, referring to his dismount.

  “How did you?” he asked.

  Training, of course.

  Garrick pulled off his helmet and led his horse into the thicket. As they walked, the dimming sunlight began to fade, the canopy of the trees hastening the day’s descent into semi-darkness. A lone bird called to them, or perhaps to his family. When Garrick moved off the road and tied his horse to a tree, she did the same. He reached into his saddlebag, pulled out a handful of oats, and divided it between the horses, who promptly ignored their handlers.

  “Where did you learn to ride like that?”

  She hadn’t expected the admiration in his voice. Anger, perhaps. But not admiration.

  “My youngest brother. And my twin. He was born with the ‘gift,’ as Eddard calls it.”

  “And it seems you were as well.”

  Emma’s heart thudded. The same awareness of him that had assaulted her in the stables at Kenshire was present now.

  “Thank you.”

  Sara had taught her to accept a compliment, a task that seemed simple but often felt daunting. “Where are your men?”

  They listened for the sound of approaching horses, but the others were still too far for them to hear their approach.

  “Coming along shortly, I’d imagine.”

  Emma wrapped her cloak more tightly around her. “What is our destination for this evening?”