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Graeme whistled, and it took every ounce of fortitude Garrick possessed not to roll his eyes.

“Do you think such a match necessary?”

Garrick shook his head. “Nay, but my mother believes so. Inverglen had become difficult to control in my absence.”

His uncle, the Baron of Inverglen, hated Garrick for the same reason he’d hated his father. They were both English.

“Foolish bastard. The title was never his. Could never be his.”

There was one way. “Without my mother. Without me?”

Graeme narrowed his eyes. “Do you think he means to—”

“Nay. If I thought he’d risk my mother, do you think she’d be alone in Scotland?”

“Garrick, by God, if that man so much as gives your mother an untoward look . . .”

This was what he’d liked about the Scottish chief from their very first meeting. He took his sworn loyalty as seriously as any man. It mattered not to Graeme de Sowlis that an Englishman had inherited the title of Earl of Linkirk. An ally in the true sense of the word, the man would no doubt go to war on his behalf. Which, luckily, his betrothal to Magnus’s daughter would avoid.

“To alliances,” Garrick said, holding up his cup.

“New,” Graeme said. “And old.”

That was exactly what worried him.

* * *

Emma attempted to slow her pace as she barreled down the corridor in Graeme de Sowlis’s home. For as long as she could remember, she’d been told that she walked too fast, spoke too fast, though none of it was said with malice. Her brothers merely liked to tease her; Emma’s parents, God rest their souls, had hoped to school her; and Aunt Lettie and Uncle Simon, well, they’d long ago given up on changing her ways. They’d said so in the kindest way possible, of course. She loved her family, and was eternally grateful to have their love in return.

But none of them quite understood her.

Emma wanted to live. Every moment. Every day. Each night she lay in her bed and imagined how she could eke out a bit more joy the next day—for one thing her parents’ early death had taught her was that there may not be a next day. Before she’d gone to the market on that fateful day, her mother had kissed her cheek and said, “Until later, my love.”

Later had never come. Which was why she was so unwilling to wait for anything. To follow anyone. She slowed her pace a bit, but not too much, until she came to a corridor with two possible routes. Perhaps it had been foolish to send the maid ahead, whether she liked to do for herself or not.

“I can find my way,” she’d said stubbornly. Clearly, she’d spoken without thinking, as usual.

Now was it this way? Or that?

“To your right, my lady.”

Emma didn’t turn around. She’d recognize that voice anywhere. Instead, she focused on the flickering of the wall torch that lit the path before her. He was directly behind her now, his presence a tangible warmth behind her.

She peered around her shoulder then.“My thanks, Lord Clave.”

“Garrick.”

Emma picked up her skirts once again. She’d only taken two additional gowns. This one, a bright crimson with a straight neckline just slightly lower than the others, was one of her favorites. Whenever she wore it, Emma felt pretty. She felt like a woman and not a girl. Sara, bless her, had commissioned it to match a similar one of hers that Emma had always admired.

“Of course,” she said, beginning to turn around until he stopped her with a hand on her sleeve. Even through the thick layer of material, Emma could feel the warmth of his touch. Or maybe she was simply imagining it.

“May I have a word first?”

When she turned fully around to face him, his hand dropped. He looked as regal as he had that first night in their hall. Every bit an earl. Including . . .

“You shaved,” she blurted.

When he smiled, Garrick’s eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the corners.