The Earl's Entanglement

by Cecelia Mecca

  Again, two barrels held a plank that served as a makeshift table, already weighed down with roasted venison, bread, apples, and cheese. A pitcher of ale and two mugs sat next to the food. The space was warm, but not too warm, thanks to its location directly next to the kitchens.

  “Nay, I’m sure ’tis not necessary,” a voice above him said. “I’m glad to take the meal—”

  “Hush now, you, or I’ll tell your brother ye didn’t listen to ol’ Magge.”

  She’d just begun to descend the stairs. Garrick could see the bottom of her deep green riding gown. The same one that had been pressed against him all day.

  “You know my brothers?” Every time Emma spoke of one of her brothers, her voice took on a softer tone, something that made him smile.

  “I do. Most especially the older two scamps who love to tease and torment your poor ol’ host.”

  Emma chuckled. “That sounds like them. ’Tis their good fortune to have a sister who does no such thing.”

  “Ha,” Magge cackled. “That’s not what they be tellin’ me. An I look forward to your youngest brother’s return.”

  Apparently giving in to the inevitable, just as he had, Emma continued to walk down the creaking wooden stairs. Every step was sweeter than the one before it. First he saw the slim waist that he’d held in his arms. Then the breasts he longed to touch and tease. Then the tips of the black hair he’d touched first with his fingertips.

  Emma. So beautiful she could hardly be real.

  But she was.

  And she froze at the sight of him.

  Garrick nodded to where Magge presumably still stood at the top of the stairs.

  Emma smiled, a conspiratorial smile that made Garrick’s stomach twist into a knot.

  The door to the storeroom finally closed. Was Magge tempting fate on purpose?

  “I suppose we should eat,” she said. “We’ve been given little choice in the matter.”

  He had no appetite for anything but her.

  Garrick stood and pulled out her makeshift seat. The silence was punctuated by muffled sounds from abovestairs. They did eat, or at least Garrick tried his best. How his friend Conrad would laugh at him if he saw him now. The great Lord of Clave, hardly able to eat because of a woman.

  He was utterly and completely . . .

  What? Lusting for her? Nay, it was something more.

  “I can’t stop thinking of those men,” she said quietly. Battle. A safe topic.

  “You’ll likely not rid yourself of the image for some time.”

  “Do you? Rid yourself of the image of the men you’ve killed in battle. After so many—”

  “The number matters not. I still think of the first man who ever met the end of my blade.” He took a swig of the beer Magge brewed herself. “I was but ten and two. My father and I traveled to York for a tourney. I remember being worried about the squires’ joust, my first. Instead, I should have worried about the mercenaries on the road intent on proving themselves against mounted knights. Though my father instructed me to run, I could not. This was what I’d been training for. The man I felled was twice my size, but I knew how to overcome poor odds.”

  He could still smell grass, wet from a recent rain shower, from that day so long ago.

  “The blade didn’t slide into his body as I’d imagined. But when it did, he fell immediately and never posed another threat to me, or anyone, again.”

  Garrick had never spoken of the incident aloud before, but he found it easy to tell her. His father had berated him for not following orders. One or two of the men had said, “Well done.”

  But that had been it.

  “For some time afterward, I saw the man’s face. Or what I thought his face would look like. His great helm revealed nothing, but my boy’s mind thought he must be ugly and scarred.”

  “Do you see his face still?”

  “Nay.”

  “So someday I will be able to banish those horrible images.”

  Garrick wanted to tell her there were pleasurable ways of distracting oneself from thoughts of the battle, but he bit his tongue.

  “Let’s speak of something else,” she said.

  Emma’s mind moved as fast as her body did on horseback.

  When neither of them said anything, Garrick thought to tease her.

  “Just not of the battle. Or my intended. Or Graeme. Or how angry your brother will be when he learns what happened. Let me see, shall we talk about . . .” He trailed off and took another sip of his beverage.

  “That kiss?”

  He choked then, nearly spitting out the fine ale that somehow made its way down his throat.

  “Hardly a delicate topic,” she said.

  “But a fine one, nonetheless.”

  “Indeed?” Her eyes danced with the merriment of knowing she’d unbalanced him. He’d certainly not expected the suggestion.

  “What precisely, my lady, would you like to discuss concerning said kiss?”

  “Hmm.” She lifted her finger to the corner of her full mouth. “Shall we discuss the first one, or the second? I believe the second.” As if having made a weighty decision, she said, “The second kiss. Aye, let us discuss that.”

  He set down his mug. “Gladly.”

  “I’ve been kissed before, of course.”

  The words immediately conjured a vision of Graeme de Sowlis bending his head to her, claiming those—

  “But they were nothing quite like yours.”

  They?

  “How were they different?” Garrick struggled to keep his voice neutral.

  “Well,” she narrowed her eyes. Damn if she wasn’t trying to remember them. Multiple past kisses with different men.

  “For one, I’d never opened my mouth before. Your tongue . . .” She’d reached the limit of what propriety would allow her to say.

  A shame.

  It was a shame there were different standards for what the two of them could discuss. And that she’d felt the need to stop.

  “If you never kissed a man using your tongue,” he said, “then you’ve never been properly kissed.”

  “But—”

  “Before me,” he clarified.

  “Did you kiss your intended?” she blurted.

  “Did you kiss Graeme?” he shot back.

  This was a dangerous game they played.

  He inhaled, the scent of burning wax overpowering the stores of wheat surrounding them.

  “Why would I kiss Graeme?” she asked it innocently enough, giving him his answer.

  “Sometimes admirers will—”

  “I never said the chief was a suitor.”

  “So he is not? He expressed no interest—”

  “I didn’t say that either.”

  “So he did express interest.”

  Of course he had, Garrick admonished himself. The man had asked for permission, as if it were his to give, to visit Kenshire Castle. To properly court her.

  “You never answered my question,” Emma said.

  They looked across the table at each other, Garrick wanting nothing more than to pull Emma onto his lap and show her a proper kiss. Ensure that no matter who came after him, it would not be the same.

  “I didn’t even meet her,” he said, his tone neutral.

  “Oh.”

  Did she seem pleased by that news?

  Neither of them said another word as they continued to pick at the meal.

  When they were both finished, Garrick pushed himself away from the tray and stood. “If you’re ready?”

  Emma stood as well and wordlessly turned toward the stairs. This was it. The last time they were likely to be truly alone together. She had just put her foot on the first wooden step when he stopped her.

  Garrick, this is not a good idea.

  As soon as she felt the tug on her arm, Emma knew she was lost.

  She had little experience with men and even less with desire, but she’d begun to understand both a little more over the course of the meal. To be around Ga
rrick was to experience a constant state of desire. Her rapid heartbeat was so strong she imagined everyone could hear the pounding in her chest. The need to look at him whenever he was in the same room was almost overpowering. The utter lack of control, not that she had much to start, over what came out of her mouth.

  Around him, Emma felt like a witless fool. She’d never be as controlled as Sara, but she strove to emulate at least a shred of her poise.

  Not with Garrick near.

  The very thin thread of control she had clung to these last days was about to snap. He was pulling her back toward him now, and she’d not stop him.

  When she slammed against his hard chest, Emma wanted more. She pressed against him, wrapping her arms around his neck as his head descended, his lips covering hers. Their tongues performed a wild and erotic dance.

  As he pressed into her, Emma’s knees buckled. Rather than pull her back up, Garrick allowed her body to fall backward onto the stairs, his hands cushioning the initial impact. She half sat, half lay against the stairs as Garrick moved on top of her. He cradled her head with one hand, leaving the other free to explore.

  And explore it did.

  No part of her wanted this to end or cared about tomorrow. This man, pressed against her, showing her what it meant to be desired . . . this was all that mattered.

  “This cannot be,” he murmured against her ear while at the same time nipping the sensitive flesh there. The warning seemed more for himself than for her.

  In response, she pressed her hips against him, easily able to feel the thick column through the folds of her gown and his tunic and hose. It wasn’t quite in the perfect position, though, and she squirmed to make their bodies match.

  “Oh God, Emma, no . . .”

  But his words didn’t match his actions. For as soon as they were perfectly aligned, he pressed his body against hers and kissed her again. He circled his hips against her, and Emma did the same, their bodies moving in rhythm with their tongues. With his free hand, he covered her breasts and squeezed so gently Emma thought perhaps it best not to interfere.

  But she wanted more.

  She arched her back to feel her hips and breasts more firmly again him.

  Garrick responded by squeezing again, this time harder. His thumb ran across the tip of her breast.

  “Gown, shift . . . it matters not. I can feel your tips beneath me.”

  His hand moved even lower, then inside her gown, dipping under the layers of fabric to cover her breast. When he took her nipple between two fingers and squeezed, Emma broke the kiss. It was an overwhelming surge of sensations. His tongue, his hand. The pressure of him against her.

  “What is—”

  “Shh, just feel.”

  Then all at once, his hot breath against her neck, his body and hands against her—pushing and circling, squeezing and pinching—everything started to vibrate and intensify.

  “I—” Emma tilted her head back and allowed herself to let go. When she did, a flood of pleasure washed through every part of her body like a tidal wave, but concentrating down there. She began to shake, her fingers clasping onto his tunic as the tingling became a steady throbbing.

  “Look at me, Emma.”

  She did. He watched her, waiting for something, she knew not what.

  She couldn’t breathe. Emma tried to inhale a deep, calming breath, but she couldn’t. Her breaths were shallow and fast. Her grip tightened, and Garrick’s intense gaze only made it worse.

  Then, with the smallest of smiles, he pressed her hips into the stairs below and squeezed her breast with his rough, strong hand.

  And she was undone.

  “Look at me.”

  Doing so made her shudder—not just there, but everywhere—and she struggled to form a coherent thought.

  Eventually, the throbbing dulled and retreated like a cat slinking back after it received its treat. Everything relaxed . . . her grip, her body. Everything but Garrick.

  He didn’t move.

  “How did it feel?”

  “Like . . .” She shuddered.

  “There’s more,” he said. “Much more.”

  He stood and pulled her up with him. Garrick wrapped and held her face in his hands as he’d done that first night. He ran his thumb across her lip, and she touched her tongue to it without thinking.

  Garrick was not hers.

  She took a step back, and his expression immediately dropped. He knew what she was thinking. What she was about to say.

  “Garrick—”

  “I will not keep apologizing, Emma. It’s wrong. Very wrong. But I want you more than I’ve ever wanted a woman. And that is the truth.”

  “But not enough.”

  Try as she might, Emma couldn’t control her thoughts. If she could, she’d tell them to stop wanting more of this man she couldn’t possibly have.

  “Emma—”

  “Nay, ignore me. I’m just a tad . . .” She looked down at her gown and pulled it back up to where it belonged. “Overcome.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “As am I.”

  So there. They had both made a mistake. No harm done.

  “Garrick—”

  “Emma—”

  She would never know what he’d intended to say. The door opened, and Emma spun around to see a servant standing in the doorway. They’d come so close to being caught . . .

  “Pardon, ma’am. Shall I take the tray?”

  Emma licked her lips and began to ascend the stairs. “Aye, you may.”

  She didn’t look back.

  14

  They arrived at Kenshire well after dark.

  Though they were cold and wet from the snowstorm that had caught them just as they rode into view of Kenshire Castle, Garrick had no wish to stay the night. But if the look on his men’s faces were any indication, they had no other choice unless he wanted to tell them, “We traveled through the night because of a certain raven-haired woman who enflames my senses and makes me want to forget the Earl of Magnus and his daughter even exist.”

  “Emma,” her brother called from the courtyard as they made their approach. Apparently not content to wait for his sister to enter the keep, Geoffrey bounded toward her. She’d ridden separately for most of the day. On Caiser property, Garrick knew there was no need for them to ride together. And as much as it had pained him to watch her walk away, he didn’t think arriving with Waryn’s sister snuggled between his legs would help defuse what would likely prove to be an extremely tense situation.

  “I’m fine,” she said, allowing herself to be engulfed in her brother’s arms.

  They’d not spoken since the night before. They’d ridden together for a time this morning, and he’d opened his mouth more than once, but nothing had come out. Instead, he’d concentrated on the road ahead, on watching the coming storm, on anything that would get his mind off of the feel of her body pressed against his. Off the wide, joyful smiles she gave his men when they teased her, Emma taking their jests in stride.

  Though she didn’t actively seek attention, his battle-hardened knights could not resist her smile. They laughed when she stuck out her tongue to capture snowflakes on it and demanded they do the same. And when they’d stopped around midday to rest the horses, Garrick hadn’t been surprised to feel the clunk of a snowball hit his back. Not the kind that fell apart when it landed, but a wet and hard bit of ammunition tossed by a minx who tugged at his heart every time she was near.

  He’d been just about to mount Bayard at the time. Though she’d packed it up well, his gambeson absorbed most of the impact. Even so, he immediately knew what it was. He’d seen her toss them at some of the men, who refused, after looking to him for approval, to toss them back.

  The brutes hardly knew their own strength and would likely injure the poor woman.

  “I saw you warning away the men,” she yelled to him.

  “If we want to reach Kenshire by dark—”

  “You don’t have time to toss a snowball?”

 
The men looked at him and then Emma and back again. He’d like to toss her into his bed and be done with it. But a snowball? “Nay.”

  He turned and another landed square on his neck, its wetness already seeping into his tunic. Exactly what he deserved for taking off the cloak.

  When Garrick spun back around, he found Emma holding her stomach in laughter. More than one of his men wore a smirk.

  If she wanted a snowball fight, then by God he’d give her one.

  When he lowered his gloved hands into the snow, just enough to form a decent-sized ball, he caught the look of surprise on his captain’s face.

  Garrick wasn’t known for his frivolity, after all.

  He’d stopped the men because he feared they would accidentally hurt her. Aye, the legs should be safe. He took aim and threw his missile gently, connecting exactly where he’d intended.

  By now the others were fully mounted, watching, but Garrick knew it wasn’t over. He didn’t wait for her to come at him this time, but instead bent down to form another ball. He stood, pulled back his arm, and was pelted square in the face this time.

  Emma laughed so loudly Garrick was sure the men who’d attacked them in Scotland would hear and come finish the job they’d started.

  He reached her in a few short strides, grabbed her arm, which was already prepared to finish him with another snowy bit of ammunition, and held it in the air.

  “You, my lady, are a menace.”

  “You, my lord, have poor aim.”

  Garrick would like to show her how untrue that statement was—and he very nearly told her so—until he remembered the men were watching them from all sides.

  “I’m afraid we’ll be forced to call a truce.” He let go of her arm.

  “Truce? More like a win for the fairer sex.”

  At that simple word, his cock stirred and hardened. Her ability to affect him so was unparalleled.

  “Very well, a win. What is to be your prize?”

  Though he’d said it low enough for her ears only, Garrick regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. There was only one prize he wanted to give her.

  Rather than say something else equally as foolish, he turned and walked away.