The Earl's Entanglement Page 10

  “I cannot say the same.”

  He had not heard the man’s faint accent before, but this time it was clear. The leader was Scottish, a borderer, and seemed to know him. Without warning, his opponent spurred his mount forward. Garrick pulled his sword from its sheath and yelled, “Defend! Protect!”

  Just like that, he and his men were engaged in battle. Another man reached Garrick before the leader could. The sound of clanging swords behind him forced his sword arm to move as if possessed by the Devil. He’d slain the man, or at least unseated him, before he was able to look behind him.

  They’d taken Emma far enough away to avoid the fighting but not so far they could be cut off from aid. Good. Though the ground glistened with freshly fallen snow and the air cut through his chest like a blade of ice, all else was the same. Though the men and the weapons were different, the screams sounded the same. It mattered not if they were at the Scottish border or on an open field in Acre. However, he and his men were outnumbered this time.

  But not for long.

  He heard their shouts even before the borderers turned their backs on Garrick and his men. Graeme de Sowlis had arrived. But how could he have gotten here so quickly?

  Cutting down two—no, three—more men, Garrick fought his way to their leader. But before he could dismount, intending to capture the bastard, the cowards fled. Those who were left scattered in every direction. The trees, though many were bare, would make it difficult for his men to cut a straight path to any one man. As quickly as they’d come, the raiders were gone.

  Turning Bayard around, Garrick rode as quickly as the destrier would allow back to the circle of men. “She is well?” he asked anxiously.

  “Aye, sir.”

  He couldn’t see her. Garrick needed to see her.

  “Let me through,” he shouted, and they did. Parting to either side of him, the wall of mounted knights revealed a proud but shaken young lady.

  “Emma? Are you hurt?”

  He knew she was not. Could see it for himself. But he needed to hear it from her lips.

  Garrick jumped from Bayard and reached her in just a few strides.

  “It’s over,” he said, stating the obvious.

  “What happened?”

  Emma, who still sat atop her horse, was covered in a thick cloak and hood, only her face visible.

  “I don’t know,” he said, reaching his hand up to her.

  She took it. “Who were they? And why did they attack us?”

  He squeezed her hand, the first contact they’d had since last eve.

  “Garrick?” Graeme said from behind.

  He let her hand go and turned around to see more than fifty of Graeme’s men with him.

  “How did you get here so quickly?” Garrick asked. “And with so many?”

  “We were already on our way to you. They were spotted by the extra scouts I stationed along our borders after the rumors reached us yesterday. Though it seems they are not rumors after all. Who were they?”

  With one last quick glance at Emma, who nodded in answer to his silent question, Garrick allowed himself to be pulled back to the scene of the battle. More than five of the attackers lay dead. None with any markings upon them.

  “I would ask you the same question. They are your countrymen.”

  Graeme kneeled down by the body lying closest to him. “You’re sure?”

  “Aye. Their leader spoke to me briefly before they attacked.”

  “Did he know you?”

  “Aye. They knew well my identity.”

  “The blood.” He pointed at Garrick’s mantle. “It’s not yours?”

  “Nay.”

  “My lord fought like Saladin himself. Killed most of these men,” Henry de Crecy, his captain, bragged.

  He should have known better. Garrick was proud of his men, but individual feats had no place in battle.

  “Sir Henry—”

  “Apologies, my lord. It’s just that I’d never seen anything like it, not even in . . ..” Henry finally realized Garrick was still not pleased and stopped talking.

  “Do you think these are the raiders you’ve been hearing about?” Garrick asked, turning back toward Graeme.

  The chief shrugged. “Possibly. I’ve never seen any of these men before, but they don’t appear to be reivers. What reason could they possibly have to attack you?”

  As if a spark had lit inside him, Graeme looked up abruptly, meeting his eyes.

  “Nay. He wouldn’t,” Garrick said.

  “You’re sure?”

  Garrick’s uncle hated him as much as he’d hated his father before him. But to murder him? And that wasn’t all. He’d have to kill Garrick’s mother to claim the title. To be caught performing such a treasonous act risked everything, and the man was hardly destitute or driven by desperation. The man’s wife, Garrick’s aunt, had received one-third of her father’s lands—just as all the sisters had. The only thing his mother had claimed beyond that shared inheritance was the title. Would a man really go so far just to be called earl?

  Garrick didn’t like his own answer.

  “Can you spare men to Linkirk? To send a message to my mother? Just to be safe?”

  He would send one of his own, but Garrick wanted the remainder of his retinue intact to best protect Emma.

  “Of course. And I will send others with you to Kenshire.”

  “That isn’t necessary, Graeme.”

  “It may not be. But they’re coming anyway.”

  Graeme looked behind him and Garrick followed his gaze. So he’d sent them for Emma. “I need to get her to the abbey.”

  “Of course. I will take care of this.” Graeme gestured to the bodies that littered the dirt road in both directions and the two men that had been taken captive.

  Garrick stuck out his hand and Graeme took it.

  “Thank you.”

  “Garrick, I’m sorry this happened here—”

  “’Tis not your fault. You saved me and my men. And Emma.”

  The flicker of emotion in the man’s eyes—interest and protectiveness and speculation—was painful to Garrick. It made him recall the chief had pulled Emma aside for a short conversation before they’d left that morn. What had he said to her? Garrick released his hand, doing his damnedest to shove the thought of a courtship between Emma and Graeme from his mind.

  “If you learn anything—”

  “I will send word.”

  Garrick moved back to Emma, who still looked shaken.

  He held up his hand to her. Without a word, she allowed him to help her dismount. Garrick whistled to Bayard, who came to them on command. Unbelievably, Emma then extended her hand, and Bayard placed his head under it. It was as if he were comforting her. Or just the reverse.

  Mounting, he lifted Emma up in front of him. He nodded to his men and then left the bloody scene of battle without a backward glance, telling Emma to close her eyes as they passed the bodies. Whether she listened or not, he wasn’t sure. All Garrick knew, or cared about, was that she was safe.

  He certainly wouldn’t think about how tempting she felt in front of him—like she was practically sitting on his lap.

  The abbey. Must get to the abbey.

  Emma shook her head, trying to clear the sound of screaming horses and clashing blades from her ears. Certainly she had heard such sounds before in a battle she’d witnessed at her aunt and uncle’s home. But today she’d heard a man scream as he died. It was an awful sound, worse even than the pained neighs of the innocent horses. She did close her eyes, as Garrick had instructed, but only after she spied a black and white courser, its legs bent at an unusual angle that could only mean it was dead.

  This was the danger Geoffrey had warned her about. Of course, she’d known better than to doubt him. She and her brothers had lost their home and their parents—something that had brought them face-to-face with the harsh realities of the borderlands. But even she knew this battle was unusual. Those men hadn’t been intent on taking a keep for the
ir king. Neither were they reivers who’d hoped to steal from them. They’d seemed intent on killing.

  “Who were they?” Shivering despite the heavy layers atop her, Emma turned her head just enough for Garrick to hear her.

  “We don’t know.” He didn’t elaborate. So much like her brother Bryce.

  “I heard what you said to the chief. Were they Scottish?”

  Along the border, English and Scottish were nearly indistinguishable by sight. But they were still north of the border, so . . .

  “I believe so.” Again, nothing more than a terse answer to her question.

  “’Twas brutal,” she said, thinking once again of the glimpse she’d gotten just before she closed her eyes.

  “Battle is never a pretty sight.”

  Nay, she supposed it wouldn’t be.

  Emma pulled her cloak tighter about her neck and adjusted herself.

  Garrick sucked in his breath.

  “Too close?” She edged away from him as much as possible given their close quarters.

  “Nay.” He reached around her, still holding onto Bayard’s reins, and pulled her back.

  She wasn’t sure what to say. Every time she opened her mouth to speak, the words seemed silly. Insignificant. Nothing could encompass what she was feeling after the night before. After the battle.

  The silence stretched on until the steady sound of their travel began to lull Emma’s eyes closed. She’d hardly slept, thinking of—

  “What did Graeme say to you?” he suddenly asked.

  Her eyes popped open. “After the battle?”

  “Nay, before you left. I saw him draw you aside.”

  Ah, that. “He asked for permission to visit Kenshire.”

  Garrick’s arm tightened, just slightly, but enough for her to notice.

  “And?”

  “And I gave it.”

  Emma wasn’t sure what Geoffrey would think, but Graeme de Sowlis was a good man. A single man. “There was no reason to do otherwise.”

  Certainly not for you.

  “Emma, I—”

  “You asked why I haven’t married,” she blurted, not sure why she should tell him anything. It was not as if she needed to explain. And yet the words continued to spill out of her. “Every year for as long as I can remember, my father and brothers would travel south to the Tournament of the North. They’d talk of its splendor. Of my brothers’ victories. Of the prizes and jousts, the melee. And every year, I’d ask to accompany them.”

  She thought of standing in the courtyard at Bristol, watching them all ride off without her, their excitement palpable.

  “I could tell they felt badly about it. None ever mentioned the horse race.”

  On the third day of the tournament, a horse race, the largest one in England, determined the “jewel of the crown.” The winner could pick any horse he desired from the royal stable. Even though the king no longer attended the tournament, their representatives continued to do so, taking with them some of the finest horseflesh in the world.

  She’d dreamed of being there, of seeing such fine animals race. Her daring had its limits—she’d never imagined herself in such a race, but she’d longed to be around it. Maybe to have one of her brothers enter so she could have someone to cheer for.

  “They apologized every year, of course. But all of them agreed, Neill included. It was no place for me. ’Twas too dangerous.”

  “But you must have been young—”

  “The same age as Neill.”

  “Your twin?”

  “Aye.”

  Emma closed her eyes and tried to imagine, as she had so many times, what it must have been like. The horses everywhere, the excitement of the race.

  “Father loved me,” she said. “And my brothers love me still. Geoffrey will be enraged when he finds out what happened today. He’s spent a lifetime trying to protect me . . .”

  “Emma?”

  “Aye?” She had been trying to forget his face. To forget that the warm body behind hers belonged to him. But that was impossible to do when his voice, so intimate and familiar, was whispering in her ear.

  “What does this have to do with you not being married?”

  She’d gone and rambled again. It would have been best if she’d never tried to explain. “I want what Geoffrey and Sara have,” she said. “And my brother Bryce and his wife. But . . .”

  “But?”

  Emma watched as a single snowflake dropped onto the horse’s head. It dissolved, ceased to exist. Forever.

  “I want to go to that tournament more.”

  It was the best she could do. He likely didn’t understand, but what did it matter? He didn’t have to.

  “And Graeme?”

  “He is a clan chief.”

  “Which, I take it, is a bad thing?”

  “Well, of course it is. He’s accustomed to leading men. Giving orders. The exact kind of man—”

  “You don’t want to marry.”

  Aye. But she’d given him permission to court her anyway.

  This time the silence between them stretched out for so long she thought perhaps Garrick had fallen asleep. But of course he had not.

  “Maybe you can have both.”

  It took her a moment to understand what he referred to.

  Emma turned around. Bad idea. Garrick was looking at her with such concentration he probably didn’t realize he was biting his lip. But she couldn’t take her eyes from that. He had such lovely lips. If only she could—

  “He is a good man. An honorable one. Aye, he’s a clan chief, and likely as protective as your brothers, but that doesn’t mean he won’t give you independence.”

  “Would you?”

  Blast it! She hadn’t meant to reveal more of herself to him.

  “Nay.”

  His response was so quick, so terse, that she didn’t doubt him for a minute. Garrick would have her locked up in her bedchamber if they were married. Well, that might not be such a dreadful thing—

  “But then, it’s not me you’re considering for a husband.”

  She turned back around. Of course not. You are already betrothed, oh great lord of England and Scotland.

  Blasted earl.

  “Pity.” He said it so softly, Emma thought for a moment she’d misheard it. But when he tightened his grip again, his hand shifted up just slightly to rest beneath her breasts.

  An accident?

  Nay.

  A flutter began in her stomach and moved down to where she sat upon the horse, her legs wide open and her thighs touching his under their cloaks.

  Three more days of this torture.

  13

  Garrick ignored his captain.

  He trusted the man. Had put his life in his hands during more than one battle. Having fought the same enemy under the same intelligent but often misguided king, they understood each other on a deep level.

  But at the moment, ignoring him was preferable to listening to him.

  “Lord, if I may be so bold,” his captain had said after pulling him aside in the entrance to The Wild Boar, “shall I tell Magge you’ll not be dining in the storeroom tonight?”

  Two days. For two damn days he’d avoided her as much as possible given that he could not bear to let her ride alone after the attack. And after one more day they would find their own futures, separately. He with a Scottish wife he’d never met. She at Kenshire, or perhaps as the wife of a Scot herself. Their connection, their kisses—he may have been right to tell her there was something very special about them. Hell, he knew it was true. But it mattered little compared to his desire to secure the Scottish earldom peacefully, and to accept his mother’s inheritance without broken alliances or bloodshed. He would keep his mother safe. A feat which would have been easier had she agreed to come back to England with him.

  “I will tell her,” he finally grumbled to his captain.

  It would seem Magge had taken it upon herself to secure private rooms for him and his captain as well as for Emma. S
he had prepared the storeroom as well, assuming he would request the same arrangement as before.

  Impossible.

  After ensuring Emma was shown to her room, where Magge would retrieve her later, he and his captain retired to theirs to clean after the long journey. As soon as he was done with his ablutions, he hurried downstairs to find the innkeeper.

  “Magge,” he called out as he wandered into the great room, which was just beginning to fill with patrons for the evening. She was nowhere to be found.

  Until a plump form sidled alongside him.

  “Magge takes care o’ her favorites, she does.”

  “The very reason The Wild Boar thrives.”

  Whereas other innkeepers around these parts often resorted to brute force or bribery to keep their establishments safe, Magge accomplished the seemingly impossible with only her wiles and reputation. She could be a mother or a seductress. An innkeeper or a brewer. Magge could be whatever her patrons desired as long as they kept their fights away from the inn. English, Scottish—it mattered not to her.

  “I appreciate the extra care—”

  “Well, ye be an earl in two countries now.”

  She didn’t care about any of that.

  “I’ll have the real reason, love.”

  She shrugged, looking past him at one of her serving girls. “I liked your father.”

  He laughed. “Of course you did. Everyone did.”

  “And yer just like ’im.”

  How many times had he heard that before?

  “Now go see how nice I made it for you an yer lady. A shame her maid ne’er made it to you,” she said with a wink.

  She pushed him toward the door that led to the storeroom.

  “Magge, this is not—”

  “Well, ye gonna make her eat in there?” She gestured to the great room, where a serving maid’s bosom nearly toppled onto the guest she served. “Go now, it’s all set up for ye.”

  He could lead a few hundred men into battle, but this one woman, twice his age or more, shoved him down the stairs with no difficulty.

  When he reached the bottom, Garrick knew why she’d insisted on the arrangement. The room appeared much as it had before, but the tallow candles had been replaced with beeswax ones. A gift, most likely, since no innkeeper could afford such a thing. Many noble households could not.