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“Perhaps. But he—and I—care only for your safety and happiness.”
Her shoulders sank. “’Tis too late for that.” She refused to say any more.
“Whatever happened today, I think you would do well to consider Graeme’s offer. You know I will support any decision you make, but—”
“I accept.”
She was not meant to be with Garrick Clave. And if she was going to marry a man she didn’t love, why not choose a handsome, honorable one who could be an ally to Kenshire across the border? One who lived close to Clara and a good distance from Clave Castle. She could not continue to live here at Kenshire, knowing that Garrick was close.
“I won’t allow you to make that decision now. Think on it—”
“Allow? Did you not just tell me I am a woman capable of deciding my own fate?”
He didn’t look convinced. “Wait until—”
“I accept his proposal,” she said with as much finality as she could muster. “But if you do not mind, I’d like to be alone.”
She pushed around him and ran—aye, ran—toward her chamber.
So she’d be marrying a Scottish noble after all. Just not the one she loved.
26
Garrick nodded to the maid who scurried past him, away from the lord and lady’s chamber, where his mother prepared for the evening meal. It was not the first time Garrick had the chance to speak to her alone. But the events of the previous day and this afternoon had deeply affected him. Emma had affected him.
When they were together, everything was perfect. He knew what to do, knew the only path forward. But then doubt crept in like the stealthiest of enemies, lying in wait to strike him down.
He’d chided himself for a fool as soon as Conrad had ridden off behind Emma. His friend’s admonishment to stay at Clave, though logical, had torn at his very core. He hated himself for letting her go.
And hated himself equally as much for what he was about to do.
He knocked on the door and walked in as soon as she bid him to enter. “Mother?”
She turned, her hand resting on the material that draped from the top of a decorative wooden pole at the corner of the bed. Silk hung from each of its four corners, the bed an elaborate example of the luxuries they enjoyed at Clave.
He’d give them all up, every one, not to have this conversation.
“Your father always hated these,” she said, running her hand up and down the bright green material. “I never asked him why, precisely, but I can imagine him shoving them away as if they were horseflies.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“As am I.”
He let her misunderstand.
She looked up as if seeing him for the first time. “Is something wrong?”
“Aye.”
She cocked her head to the side, a frown marring her normally affable expression.
“We need to talk.”
She motioned to a stool across from the bed, and they sat at the same time—she on the bed, he on the stool.
“It’s about Magnus. And his daughter.”
She still did not appear concerned. Yet.
