Heat shot through her like a leather horsewhip. It came from nowhere but consumed everything, its effects utterly unavoidable.
When he touched his tongue to her closed lips, Emma didn’t know what he wanted. She opened her mouth just a bit, intending to ask, and his tongue swept into her mouth.
Something deep inside her knew what to do, and she touched her tongue to his.
She was lost—even more so when he abruptly pulled away.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
She stared at the tip of his tongue when he licked his lower lip. Sorry? She certainly was not.
“I don’t understand, Garrick.”
“I should not have done that. Will you accept my apology? That was inexcusable.”
“A stolen kiss—”
“I made a promise. More than one, in fact. Emma . . .”
“Fine. I accept. But I don’t understand—”
“That way.” He nodded to the corridor on her right. “We’re likely to be missed . . .”
When it was evident he wasn’t going to say anything more, Emma turned away and continued through the passageway. What the devil was that?
Graeme de Sowlis has shown an interest in you.
He could have just as easily said allow me to melt your insides first before we join our host for supper.
Their corridor spilled directly into the hall. As Garrick had predicted, the evening meal was well underway. Their host stood at the other end of the room, alone on the raised dais. Perhaps two dozen or so men sat scattered throughout the room. Just a few ladies, likely the wives of the clansmen who served the chief.
The chief stepped down and walked over to her, taking her hand in his and leading her to the dais. She snuck a glance at him as they walked. Handsome, no doubt. He looked to be about the same age as Garrick, nine and twenty or so. Young, for a chief. And an earl. But if the man had taken a special interest in her, Emma couldn’t sense it. Though his courteous manner was what she’d expect for a man of his station, he seemed to look at her as he would any guest. Garrick must have been mistaken.
When they sat, she glanced around the hall, Garrick on Graeme’s other side.
“It looks much the same as Kenshire’s hall,” she said.
“Not so grand as that, my lady,” Graeme said.
Though they were but a day’s ride from the border, she’d already sensed the suspicion of those around her. Such trepidation was to be expected. It was much the same in England, although less so at Kenshire. Being intermarried to a Scottish family had a way of tempering the usual contempt between the English and the Scots.
She took a sip of the soup, which was a fine barley, one of her favorites.
“I met your brother, once.”
Emma couldn’t help but smile even though the memory was anything but amusing. “Aye, when he and Toren Kerr attempted to lop off each other’s heads. I heard about that meeting.”
As an ally to Clan Kerr, Graeme de Sowlis had been there for the fight between her brother and Toren, the man he’d considered his greatest enemy. Luckily, Catrina had put a premature stop to the fight. Otherwise it would have ended with one of them dead.
Emma suddenly remembered something Catrina had once told her.
“You and Lady Catrina . . .” She snapped her mouth shut before realizing she’d crossed a line. Leaning forward just slightly to catch a glimpse of Garrick, she immediately wished she hadn’t. The look he gave her was anything but encouraging.
She focused on their host instead.
“I am so sorry if I’ve caused offense—”
“Nay, apologies are unnecessary. Catrina and I were very good friends.”
“Were?”
“Are good friends,” he said. “I’ve met your brother since that day.”
She looked up in surprise as the soup was cleared and trenches of roasted duck were placed in front of them.
“Just a few weeks past, in fact. As neighbors, your brother and I have much to discuss with attacks seemingly on the rise. After spending two nights at Bristol, I can see why Catrina married him.”
“You can?”
She supposed it was uncharitable of her to sound so surprised. After all, she loved her brother. And, unaccountably, Catrina did as well. But his disposition was typically not so easily understood by strangers, and there was no denying that his clash with the Kerrs had very nearly led to someone’s death.
“He is quite intelligent,” Sowlis said. “And very loyal to Catrina. I’m happy for them both.”
Emma did not detect the slightest hint of untruth or malice in his statement. Indeed, he seemed quite sincere. How could a man who was once betrothed, or at least nearly betrothed, to a woman be so casual about her decision to marry another? What an extraordinary man Graeme was!
Blast it. She’d accidentally looked at Garrick again. He looked decidedly unhappy. Emma leaned back and tried to forget the feel of his hand on her arm, to forget the sensation of his lips parting her own with . . .
“My lady, more wine?”
“Aye,” she said to the cupbearer.
“Sir, beggin’ your pardon, but the mistress asks if you can see her after the meal.”
“Is it about our visitor?”
“Aye—”
“Pardon me.” Graeme pushed the solid wood chair away from him and stood. “My grandmother twisted her ankle and is unable to join us. And we’re expecting visitors she’s most anxious about. I’ll be but a moment.”
He bowed, leaving Emma to gape at his back as he walked away. Although the main dish had been cleared, it was still extremely unusual for a host to leave during the meal. But then, if his grandmother was ill . . .
He was looking at her. She could sense his gaze, and when she turned to confirm that Garrick was indeed watching her, a flush crept up her neck.
“My lord,” she said, quite politely.
“Emma.”
Could he see her flush? Did he even know he was doing this to her? Did he bite his lip only when he was deep in thought? Annoyed? She couldn’t guess his mood.
Well, she wished he would stop. Every time he looked at her with that intent, focused gaze, she forgot to breathe. It was quite disconcerting. And she could dispense with the use of her given name as well. It sounded so intimate when he said it.
“Why did you do it?” If she’d learned anything from Sara, it was to speak what she was thinking.
Garrick’s eyes narrowed. “He is my king.”
“Pardon?”
“I would have preferred to stay in England, but—”
“Nay, why did you—”
“Agree to escort you? Truth be told, I owed a debt to Lady Sara.”
Warmth flooded her, though she told herself it was only from the wine. “Garrick, you know what I—”
“Because I’ve thought of nothing else since the moment you stood up from tending Nella, your gown sprinkled with hay. No cloak. Nothing to recommend you against the cold. Just you.”
He remembered Nella’s name, a silly thought that spread another wave of warmth through her.
She should not have spoken so bluntly.
“It was wrong, Emma. Stupid. I should tell you—” He looked up as their host approached.
“So serious, Clave. Is all well here?”
Graeme looked from her to Garrick and back. Emma tried to smile but wasn’t sure if she quite managed it.
“Splendid,” Garrick said as their host once again sat between them.
“Smile, Englishman. You’re about to be wed to a Scottish lass. A lucky man indeed.”
He said it so casually that it took Emma a moment to register the words. And then another moment to recover.
Garrick had come to Scotland to be wed?
Her vision blurred, the men and women before them combining into one large mass of people. She stared straight ahead, knowing that both Graeme and Garrick would know what she was thinking if she looked to her left. They’d know that she cared. She shouldn’t.
Garrick was not the man for her. He could marry whomever he pleased. Really, perhaps this was for the best. But none of those thoughts prevented her from turning her head away.
And then she remembered the kiss. The blasted man had actually dared to kiss her, knowing he was to be wed to another. She did turn to look at him then.
Garrick was speaking to Graeme, but wasn’t looking at his host.
He was staring directly at her. Watching. Waiting for her reaction? Her eyes narrowed and told him exactly what she thought of the news.
Married.
The devil take him. And his Scottish lass too.
9
Goddamn Scot.
Though he was angry with Graeme, he had only himself to blame. He’d been about to tell her about the betrothal last eve, but their host had rejoined them at a most inopportune time and shared the news for him.
They’d arrived at Dunmure at midday, and though his men were anxious to keep moving, he’d refused to leave without speaking to her again. He’d summoned her to Dunmure’s solar for a private conversation. He knew he owed her an explanation, but the words eluded him. What in hades had he been thinking in that hallway? Garrick was not in the habit of seducing innocents, and Emma certainly qualified as innocent. The only coherent thought he remembered having was that he wanted to be the one to teach her. To hold her. To claim her as his own.
Garrick’s father had been everything to him, and the great man’s nobility and loyalty had always motivated him. Upon his death, Garrick had vowed to put an end to his impulsiveness—the rash actions that had gotten him into trouble in the past. That very quality had driven him to join Edward’s cause . . . and to convince his father to do the same. The guilt of that was a constant weight, made even heavier by the knowledge that his mother had tried to convince him of his folly. Now he was failing his parents again.
“You wanted to see me?”
He spun around, light streaming in through a shuttered window in Dunmure’s solar. As lovely as ever, Emma stood before him in a new pale-yellow gown, its sunny color a stark contrast with her dark hair.
Last eve, Emma had retired early from dinner. He’d briefly considered going to her chamber, which was, after all, directly next to his own. But he’d just as quickly dismissed the idea. Nothing good would come of such an impropriety. Instead, he’d lain awake until the fire had completely died out in the hearth, thinking of his father and mother. Of his impending marriage. And, most of all, of her.
He’d risen before dawn, spent some time in the training yard before sunrise, and arrived at the morning meal to find Emma’s seat from the evening before empty. Graeme had implored him to return on their way back to England. So he could court Emma? He’d noticed the way the man had looked at her.
Hell, who could blame him? Emma demanded attention everywhere she went, and rightly so. His men were enamored. And not just because of her beauty. The lady had a way of brightening a room with her very presence. Something about her seemed to beg those around her to live just a bit more, although she seemed wholly unaware of her effect on everyone.
“I’m surprised you came,” he said quietly. “There is the matter of our return trip to discuss. I will send word, of course. In two weeks, perhaps?”
She folded her hands in front of her. “Very well, my lord.”
She’d reverted from “Garrick” to “my lord” since Sowlis had blurted out the true purpose for his voyage to Scotland.
“I did not attempt to hide it from you,” he said. Which was true, even though he had hidden it from her. “I am to be betrothed. Not married.”
She looked at the bare stone walls rather than at him. Emma was angry.
“As I said, I should not have kissed you. It was—”
“Would you at least care to explain why you did so knowing you are about to be married—pardon . . . betrothed—any day?”
She spoke so evenly that Garrick could only guess at her mood.
There was no other recourse than honesty.
“’Tis my mother’s wish for me to marry. My uncle resents that an English lord inherited the earldom through her, even though the title is hers, was my father’s, by right. She believes a match with Magnus’s daughter will secure my claim. He’s a powerful border lord that none, not even my uncle, will challenge.”
“And the kiss?”
“Was a mistake.”
“I see.”
But she didn’t. Not really. Her doubt was written across her face.
He remained silent, watching her expression turn from anger to resignation.
“Very well.”
“Nay, Emma. It’s not,” he said in frustration.
She clearly didn’t understand. Hell, how could she possibly understand when he made no sense, not even to himself?
“I kissed you because I wanted to.” Just as he wanted to right now. That and so much more. “Why are you not married?”
“Pardon?”
“Why are you not married?” he repeated. “You are the sister of an earl. The most desirable woman I’ve ever met. Just last night you had a great Scottish clan chief clamoring for your attention. And I am sure he has not been the only one. Why?”
He didn’t think she’d answer. Nor did Garrick know why he’d asked. But she surprised him, this woman, just as she did nearly every time they were together.
“I would love nothing more than to have my own household to run. To have this”—she motioned around them—“and make my own decisions for once. But I haven’t found the man who will allow it. Great clan chiefs. Mighty border lords.” She made a decidedly unladylike sound. “Powerful earls”—she shrugged—“do not interest me. You are all too enamored with your own ideas to care for someone else’s.”
Her meaning was clear. If a match between them were possible, she’d not have him anyway.
Which was just as well. The question was a foolish one.
Garrick bowed, as anxious as his men to leave Dunmure Tower for Linkirk. “I understand. Good day, Lady Emma.”
Though his feet felt as if they were made of the same molten iron that forged the sword at his side, Garrick walked out of the solar. Away from Emma.
And toward his future.
Emma sat on a bench in an alcove inside Dunmure Castle and tried not to watch him leave. Her reunion with Clara was everything she had hoped. Now, of course, it was time for her escort to move on.
Betrothed. Married. It mattered not. They were practically one and the same.
“Emma, I can’t wait to . . . Emma.” Her friend rushed over to sit next to her. “What’s wrong?”
Clara’s face was slightly rounded, and her mid-section showed signs of her pregnancy. The lady of Dunmure radiated happiness. Her brown hair, once as short as a lad’s, now hung about her shoulders, and her light brown eyes sparkled.
“Oh Clara, ’tis so good to see you.”
She wrapped her arms around her friend, and they sat there just so until Emma finally pulled away.
“I’m fine. May I?” She nodded to her belly.
“Of course,” Clara beamed.
Emma laid her hand on the slight swell of Clara’s stomach, but she could feel nothing other than the soft velvet of her friend’s gown. She’d laid her hand like this countless times on Sara’s stomach when she was with babe, and her little Hayden had eventually begun to move.
“Just wait until he or she begins to protest in there,” Emma said with a grin.
Clara’s eyes widened. “You can’t feel it? My wee one is moving right now.”
Emma pressed her hand a bit harder but couldn’t feel any movements. “Nay, nothing.” She took her hand away “Now you must tell me everything about Dunmure. And Alex. And the babe. I want to know it all. How do you like Scotland? Do the people treat you well? If they don’t just because you’re English—”
“Emma, you haven’t changed a bit.” Clara repositioned herself on the bench. “And we’ve weeks together. Your escort said at least two. But first”�
�she cocked her head—“you will tell me what’s wrong.”
While Emma loved Sara like a sister, she’d known right from the beginning that her friendship with Clara would be different. She could, and would, tell Clara anything.
“Garrick.”
“The earl who brought you here?”
“Nay, the other Garrick. Of course the one who—”
“Stop.” Clara laughed. “He is quite handsome. Very . . . earl-like.”
“Earl-like?” She knew what Clara was trying to say and couldn’t resist laughing at her description.
“Alex told me of him when we learned he was to escort you here. You know Linkirk is an ally to Clan Kerr. ’Tis only one day’s ride from here.”
“Aye, I know.”
“So . . .”
“So . . .” She might as well be out with it. “He kissed me.”
“He what?” Clara scrunched up her face. “But he is to be wed to—”
“Precisely.”
Clara’s eyes widened. “Oh dear. Emma, please tell me that is all he did.”
Emma couldn’t resist a bit of teasing. “Or what? You’ll be forced to toss my sheets with virgin’s blood on them into the fire?”
They both looked toward the hall not far away from where they sat in the stone corridor. The cushioned seat overlooked Dunmure’s courtyard, the precious glass window a rare delight.
Bursting into laugher, they both spoke at once.
“I can’t believe you did that.”
“I’m glad I was there that morning.” Emma continued, “You . . . Sara . . . Catrina. Do any of the women in our family do things in the conventional way?”
“By conventional, if you mean marriage before the marriage bed, nay, I don’t believe so. Although”—Clara turned serious—“I don’t recommend as much for you. Especially if . . .”
“You’ve no worries there. As you said, he is to be married.”
“Into a family as powerful as any here along the border.”
“Aye.”
“And an alliance that will end the Baron of Inverglen’s mad claims to Clave’s earldom here in Scotland.”
She should not be surprised Clara knew of such things. Her friend, who had spent years running from possible political revenge in England, was very much involved in the politics of her clan and the happenings at the border.
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