And if it meant she risked losing Garrick?
Oh Emma, what have you done?
“Garrick.”
Garrick swung his sword into the pell, over and over again. Unlike the men he’d felled earlier, the wooden stake could not be injured. He thrust and sliced, closing his mind against all thoughts beyond the training yard, his sword, and the pell. His mother and uncle, Magnus, and Emma . . . the men who’d met the edge of his sword in battle—all fought for his attention in the background, but the constant motion helped hold it all back.
“Garrick.”
He tightened the grip of both hands and was preparing to swing again when the shout finally penetrated.
“Garrick!”
After delivering a final blow to the pell, Garrick allowed his sword to drop.
Conrad and a dozen other men stood to the side of the training yard, watching him. Though they were unsheltered from the elements and likely cold, there were no scowls or complaints. Those who had been with him in Acre knew the importance of training, and the others, the ones who had never seen battle, they would know too, someday. Perhaps sooner than any of them would like.
“Your mother’s riding party has been spotted near the village,” Conrad said.
Garrick handed his sword to a squire and clasped his friend on the back. “Good,” he said. “How long have you been standing there?”
Conrad had already changed for the midday meal. The largest meal of the day, it was his friend’s favorite. “Long enough to know the pell did not deserve such treatment.”
Garrick disagreed. Unwavering against his attacks, it had taunted him for as many years as he’d been training.
“What else have you heard?” Garrick asked, leaving the training yard. Once he did so, the other men began to disperse as well.
“Watch yourself,” Conrad said. The ground beneath them was covered by a thin layer of ice, courtesy of an overnight storm that had brought more ice than snow.
“My mother’s on the way, no need to take on her role,” he said with a smirk. “Any tidings?”
Conrad always seemed to know everything. He wasn’t sure how, though perhaps it had something to do with the vast number of women who shared his bed or his affable nature. Either way, it had been that way since they were children. And he didn’t disappoint.
“She must have brought some of Linkirk’s men. There were more men attending her than you sent as escort.”
“How many?”
“More than twenty.”
His mother would be cautious after the attack. Rightly so.
“You’ve not changed your mind then?” Conrad asked.
Conrad still did not agree with his decision. Hell, Garrick would hardly have believed it himself a couple of months earlier, but the love he’d found with Emma was the sort that changed a man from the inside out.
Nay, he’d not lose her. Though this past week of waiting for his mother had nearly killed him—especially since he knew Graeme de Sowlis was with Emma—he was more determined than ever. He’d been furious, of course, that night. She’d run from him, turned her back on him. But on the cold ride back to Clave, he’d come to respect Emma’s fortitude. It was one of the qualities he loved most about her. And it made sense that a strong woman who’d long felt controlled by her brother would encourage him not to let anyone influence his decision.
“Aye, Conrad. I’ve just this moment changed my mind,” he jested. “Thanks to your wise counsel, I shall tell my mother the wedding is no longer delayed. Indeed, it can commence at once.”
They climbed the stone stairs toward Clave’s main keep. Its rear entrance, a door accessible only from the path they walked upon, which led directly to the training yard, was nevertheless guarded by two men. He was taking no chances after the attack. Garrick nodded to both guards before resuming his speech.
“I will, of course, need to send a messenger to Kenshire to inform Lady Emma of my decision. Pity the Scots chief is gone.”
Conrad’s sidelong gaze told Garrick he would attempt to match wits with him. “And if he’s not? Perhaps he is still there, an honored guest of the earl and his wife. He’s not bound by the chivalric code as we are.”
Garrick would not allow his friend to goad him. He attempted and failed to keep a straight face. “The only code you keep, Conrad, is to avoid the tip of an angry husband’s sword.”
Conrad, unapologetic, followed him through the dank corridor and up another set of stairs within the keep. “There was a time, my friend, I could rely on you to do the same. If I could have chosen any man least likely to fall in love . . .”
“You say the word as if it were poison.”
“And indeed it may be, if I am forced to go to battle to defend you.”
Garrick still hoped it would not come to that.
They arrived at an entrance to the great hall. “And this is where I leave you, amusing as you are, my friend,” Conrad said. “You’ll want time alone with your mother, no doubt.”
It appeared word of his mother’s arrival had reached the castle as well. Mable stood in the middle of the great hall, her hands expressive as she ordered the servants to and fro.
Despite his words, Conrad lingered. He looked at him, waiting for him to speak. “You know I disagree,” Conrad finally said, “but I admire you as well.”
Garrick would not have been more surprised if Conrad had announced he was finally going home. “Admiration from a skeptic such as yourself. A mighty fine compliment indeed.”
Indeed, Conrad appeared to be quite serious. “I know you blame yourself for your father’s death, but marrying the Scottish heiress will not bring him back. Though I do still believe you should marry her.”
The conviction in his words gave Garrick pause. It was, perhaps, the first time the two men had been in complete disagreement on such an important decision.
Conrad’s eyes widened at something behind him.
Garrick turned to see why his mother’s appearance should so shock his friend, for the rush of cold air and raised voices had announced her arrival.
What he saw at the entrance made his blood run cold.
23
He’s not coming.”
Emma sat in Sara’s chamber, staring at the flames in the hearth. When she first came to Kenshire, she had been shocked at the size of it. In most castles, it would be considered large for a great hall. Though she’d since become accustomed to many of the luxuries at Kenshire, she still appreciated them.
Even after a pleasant visit with Graeme, a man she’d come to like very much—though like a brother—she still could not bring herself to tell Geoffrey about Garrick. She promised Sara she’d do so, but it was as if he, and not her intended, were the final barrier between them.
“Mayhap because you told him not to come?”
If only she could deny it. “What could I have been thinking?”
Sara looked down at Hayden, who lay sleeping peacefully in her arms. She didn’t answer right away.
Each night, Emma imagined Garrick’s lips on hers. She thought of his warm, capable hands touching and exploring her body. She woke in the morning with the memory of visions still quite clear, her body craving his touch as much as it did food and drink. Her ears craving the sound of his voice. Her mind craving his conversation.
Other times, she was quite proud that she’d pushed him away, encouraged him to take his time and be sure of his decision. He would give up too much to be with her. Risk too many lives.
“I believe”—Sara looked up finally—“you were thinking like a leader.”
A leader. No one had ever used such a word to describe her before.
“Once,” Sara said, “when I was maybe ten and three, I wanted to accompany my father to London. He explained that there had been a rash of recent attacks and it would be safer for me to stay at Kenshire. It was a common enough refrain, so I should have been used to the disappointment. But I wasn’t.”
Emma adjusted herself on the chair, one
of only two in the room. There was also an array of stools, but she was grateful for the cushion below her. “I saw the cart as a sign. My father rarely traveled with one, but he was bringing a gift of Scottish wool to the king.”
“You didn’t.”
“I thought it was quite a clever plan.”
“Until?”
“Until my father caught me, but not until nearly dusk. They’d planned to make camp for the night, but my presence changed their plans. Instead, he was forced to ask Lord Stanton for shelter.”
Emma didn’t understand.
“Lord Stanton had asked more than once for my hand in marriage. Each time my father refused. This time he was forced to do so in person. Though very few liked the old man, most respected his influence with the court. A powerful enemy, my father had called him.”
“So what happened?”
“My father sent me home with an escort the following morning, but not before he gave me a blistering for forcing him to keep company with someone who could, and did, cause problems for Kenshire for years to come. Although my father never chastised me after that. He didn’t need to. I understood, and learned from my mistake.”
“The lesson?” She thought she knew but wanted to be sure. In truth, she had done something rather similar when she was a child. Every year, when her father and brothers refused to take her to the tournament, she would spend the day sulking, angry. Though her mother had tried to convince her father to bring her with the lads, on this he’d proved stubborn. On the last Tournament of the North before the attack on Bristol, word got around that King’s Crown, the prized Arabian, would be coming, and Emma decided she could not accept her father’s decree.
But, unlike Sara, her father discovered her trailing behind them almost immediately, and even now she could hear his admonishment.
“Girl, back to Bristol immediately or you’ll earn the honor of being the first Waryn child to receive a lashing.”
The thought of her father actually carrying out such a threat, even if she didn’t believe he would, had made her turn around at once. When it came to her safety, the man was ruthless.
Not unlike her brothers.
Was it any wonder she had wished for an easygoing husband?
“I thought only of my own desire to go to London,” Sara continued, jarring her from her thoughts. “Before I hid in that cart, I did not consider that my presence would require extra men, an altered route, or an increased risk to those around me. Over time I came to learn how my father’s decisions impacted other people, but it was a new lesson at the time.”
“So why did you support Garrick’s decision to break the betrothal?”
Hayden made a soft cooing noise, and Emma stood to get a closer look. She was anxious for him to wake so she could hold him. But the sweet boy fell right back to sleep.
She sat back down and waited for Sara’s answer.
“His decision, your decision . . . they are not mine to make.”
“So you would not have broken the betrothal?” The pinch at her heart told Emma she already knew the answer.
“I didn’t say that, precisely. You know my own circumstances, between your brother and I.” Sara frowned. “I simply trust you, and Garrick, to make good decisions. And I would support you, no matter the cost.”
Emma froze. “The cost?”
Sara rocked Hayden, likely without realizing she was doing it. “You asked me what I’ve been thinking, and the incident with Stanton and the wool cart came back to me.”
Sara didn’t need to elaborate.
Emma’s cheeks tingled, tears springing unwittingly to her eyes.
“I cannot live without him. I can’t.” When tears spilled onto her cheeks, she wiped them away and tried to make them stop. “But perhaps I must.”
She hardly noticed Sara standing, but suddenly she was crouched next to her. Sara put one arm around her and pulled her close. After looking at dear, sweet Hayden’s sleeping face, Emma sobbed into her sister-in-law’s shoulder, only stopping when she felt the wetness of her own tears.
Emma pushed away and then looked into another set of eyes as blue as her own. Hayden was awake. She reached for him, and Sara handed her nephew to her. She held him against her, soaking in his sweet smell, a combination of his mother’s and his own.
“Perhaps,” Sara said. She didn’t elaborate.
“Emma?”
Both women looked toward the oak door, which had swung open. Geoffrey.
“Something is wrong?”
“I—” She couldn’t deny it.
“She will be fine,” Sara said with such finality that her brother, rather than questioning her, simply walked toward his wife and thanked her with a kiss. He then came toward her, taking Hayden before she realized what he had been about.
“But I just got him,” Emma said.
“Then perhaps you should have been quicker, sister.” He winked, unapologetic.
Emma wiped away the last of her tears, well aware that her brother was still watching her.
She gestured toward a chair, but Geoffrey shook his head, pacing the room with his son instead. Emma sat, watching him. The look on her brother’s face nearly brought her to tears again. It was one of pure joy. And love. She understood it. Emma loved that baby with every fiber of her being.
“Did you come for Hayden?” Sara asked, sitting back down herself.
“Nay.” He looked at her, and Emma knew she wouldn’t like whatever he’d come to say.
“Graeme de Sowlis. He’s offered for you.”
An uncomfortable silence settled into the room. Sara stood, took Hayden from Geoffrey, and began to leave.
“Sara, why do you—” Emma started.
“’Tis time for you to talk.”
Though talking to Geoffrey was the last thing she had a mind to do—she knew what he’d say—it was time her brother knew the truth.
Geoffrey sat just as she started to stand, but he wouldn’t let her. “Sit, please. When you circle me like a buzzard eyeing his next meal, I find myself . . .”
A loud crackle from the fireplace stopped him. Or perhaps he was not prepared to continue. Either way, Emma had to prompt him to continue. “Aye?”
“I find myself thinking of Mother.”
Emma welcomed the vision that rose in her mind. Once, she would have shut out the memory of her mother. But no longer. Aye, it made her chest constrict, but the fear of not remembering, of her beloved parents fading over time, was too terrifying to contemplate. So she welcomed the smiling face in her thoughts.
“You know, you have much of her in you.”
“Geoffrey—”
He leaned forward, hands on his knees. “You cannot marry Lord Clave.”
“What are you—”
“There are matters at play you do not understand. For the first time in thirty years, there is serious instability at the border. This is not about stolen cattle or sheep. Nor is it about protection payments, which have become more and more common since we lost Bristol. Reivers grow bolder. Clave’s uncle paid a group of Scottish mercenaries to attack him. Emma, listen to me.”
“Have I any choice?”
“Further disruptions, like an English earl breaking a betrothal with a powerful Scottish border chief, will not stand. Blood will be shed, either by Magnus or Inverglen. Or perhaps at this point, both. In this, I must disagree with my wife.”
She’d told him?
“Sara would never—”
“Break your confidence. Nay, she would not, but I know my wife. She believes in love. Hell, I do too, though I’d never imagined saying as much. But she’s also mighty stubborn, a trait that sometimes guides her to the wrong decision.”
“Don’t you dare speak ill of that woman—”
“Speak ill?” He looked genuinely confused. “I would never do such a thing. We all have faults. Mine nearly cost me the love of my life, the security of my family, and my very soul. Accepting imperfections makes you stronger, not weaker.”
&
nbsp; He truly believed his words.
“So I suppose I should slow down, use my head, consider the consequences.”
Though she’d said the words glibly, her brother didn’t take them as such. “Aye. And think about it more carefully.”
She did stand then. “Well, I did. I told Garrick that I couldn’t let him break off his betrothal without further consideration. I probably sent him back to Clave thinking I didn’t want him any longer. And I may have lost him forever. So are you quite happy?”
He didn’t flinch. “Happy? To see my sister so upset? To know she fell in love with an honorable man she can’t marry? It keeps me awake at night, Emma. How could you ever imagine any of that would make me happy?”
Emma was taken aback by his sincerity, and by the evident grief in his face. Indeed, it seemed he might even be . . . but no, it couldn’t be. Did she see a . . .
Emma walked closer to where her brother sat and knelt down in front of him.
Holy St. Mary, it was. Emma reached up, and he let her wipe away the single tear that traced a path of wetness down his cheek.
Emma could not remember seeing her brother cry before. Ever. Not even after their parents were killed. Knights were equipped with the same feelings as mere mortals, of course, but the tales would lead one to believe they did not cry.
She covered his hands with her own. “I’m sorry. ’Tis frustration talking, not your sister. How long have you known?”
The side of his mouth quirked upward. “Nearly the same time as my wife,” he said, as if guessing her emotions were a sport. “And well before you,” he boasted.
The heaviness of the moment began to lift. “Is that so?”
“When we were in the courtyard, the day you left for Scotland.”
“You may know many things, brother, but on this you are—”
“I thought the look he gave you was one of desire.”
Emma jerked her hands away from him. To hear him speak thusly . . .
“But then you spoke to each other, and I knew for certain.”
She rolled her eyes and stood.
“Not that you were in love, of course, but that you would be. He could have mentioned his purpose for traveling to Scotland. But he did not.”
The Earl's Entanglement (Border Series Book 5) Page 19