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He took a deep breath. “I cannot marry her.”
“You cannot . . .”
Garrick had steeled himself for battle many, many times. Disappointing her again was far more difficult. “I am in love with Lady Emma Waryn, the younger sister to the new Earl of Kenshire. I escorted her to Dunmure—”
“I remember you mentioned that when you visited.”
“And we formed an attachment. This is why I delayed the wedding. I never thought—”
She shook her head. “Garrick, you cannot break this betrothal.”
Gentle but firm. His mother’s way.
“I understand the repercussions and am prepared to face the consequences. But I cannot, will not, marry a woman I will resent for the rest of my days.” Garrick forged ahead. “I’ve learned that Uncle Bernard was behind the attack. I also understand that if I do not marry Lady Alison, his pursuit of the title will be relentless. Magnus will likely—”
“Declare Linkirk an enemy.”
“Aye.”
“Garrick, think about your actions. You—”
“Have made my decision.”
He hadn’t made it this morning after Emma’s visit to Clave. Or the day before when Magnus and his betrothed had surprised him in his great hall. Or even when he’d snuck into Kenshire, no easy task, after learning Graeme had traveled there from Scotland.
He’d made his decision that night in Kenshire, in the cold, misty minutes between sleep and awake, with the taste of Emma still on his lips. The feel of her against him, the contentment that came from knowing, or thinking, she lay next to him. In those moments, he’d realized something: the thought of waking fully and not having her next to him, for the rest of his life, was unacceptable.
As he looked into the eyes of the woman who’d brought him into this world, an unbearable memory reared its head—King Edward, bringing him to his father’s dead body on the battlefield.
“I know I’ve disappointed you again,” Garrick said, gritting his teeth against the pain, “and I am sorry—”
“Disappointed me?” Her confusion appeared genuine. “Son, you’ve not disappointed me. Ever.”
That steely tone nearly convinced him of her words. But not quite. While his mother may be willing to absolve him, he knew the truth.
Yet he wouldn’t be the one to say the words aloud, to shed light on his deepest shame.
“Look at me.”
He’d been doing so, though she somehow knew his mind had been elsewhere.
“When do you believe you’ve disappointed me?”
“Can we discuss—”
“Garrick. When?”
He felt his muscles tense as if in preparation for battle. Well, this was a battle of a different sort. “When I killed Father.”
Neither of them spoke. Of course, when she did recover, his mother would tell him he was wrong. Like Emma, she would attempt to convince him that his father had made the decision to leave on his own. That he was no more responsible for his death than he was for a summer storm.
“So you killed your father.” Her tone caught him by surprise. Rather than deny the truth, she stated it factually. “Let me see . . . you talked him into joining you on one last adventure. To use the skills he’d trained his whole life to gain. And because of it, I no longer have a husband, Clave and Linkirk have a new earl, and your father can no longer offer the advice you so crave from him.”
“Aye,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.
“Then you knew the man not at all.”
What was she saying?
