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Her vision blurred, the men and women before them combining into one large mass of people. She stared straight ahead, knowing that both Graeme and Garrick would know what she was thinking if she looked to her left. They’d know that she cared. She shouldn’t. Garrick was not the man for her. He could marry whomever he pleased. Really, perhaps this was for the best. But none of those thoughts prevented her from turning her head away.

And then she remembered the kiss. The blasted man had actually dared to kiss her, knowing he was to be wed to another. She did turn to look at him then.

Garrick was speaking to Graeme, but wasn’t looking at his host.

He was staring directly at her. Watching. Waiting for her reaction? Her eyes narrowed and told him exactly what she thought of the news.

Married.

The devil take him. And his Scottish lass too.

9

Goddamn Scot.

Though he was angry with Graeme, he had only himself to blame. He’d been about to tell her about the betrothal last eve, but their host had rejoined them at a most inopportune time and shared the news for him.

They’d arrived at Dunmure at midday, and though his men were anxious to keep moving, he’d refused to leave without speaking to her again. He’d summoned her to Dunmure’s solar for a private conversation. He knew he owed her an explanation, but the words eluded him. What in hades had he been thinking in that hallway? Garrick was not in the habit of seducing innocents, and Emma certainly qualified as innocent. The only coherent thought he remembered having was that he wanted to be the one to teach her. To hold her. To claim her as his own.

Garrick’s father had been everything to him, and the great man’s nobility and loyalty had always motivated him. Upon his death, Garrick had vowed to put an end to his impulsiveness—the rash actions that had gotten him into trouble in the past. That very quality had driven him to join Edward’s cause . . . and to convince his father to do the same. The guilt of that was a constant weight, made even heavier by the knowledge that his mother had tried to convince him of his folly. Now he was failing his parents again.

“You wanted to see me?”

He spun around, light streaming in through a shuttered window in Dunmure’s solar. As lovely as ever, Emma stood before him in a new pale-yellow gown, its sunny color a stark contrast with her dark hair.

Last eve, Emma had retired early from dinner. He’d briefly considered going to her chamber, which was, after all, directly next to his own. But he’d just as quickly dismissed the idea. Nothing good would come of such an impropriety. Instead, he’d lain awake until the fire had completely died out in the hearth, thinking of his father and mother. Of his impending marriage. And, most of all, of her.

He’d risen before dawn, spent some time in the training yard before sunrise, and arrived at the morning meal to find Emma’s seat from the evening before empty. Graeme had implored him to return on their way back to England. So he could court Emma? He’d noticed the way the man had looked at her.

Hell, who could blame him? Emma demanded attention everywhere she went, and rightly so. His men were enamored. And not just because of her beauty. The lady had a way of brightening a room with her very presence. Something about her seemed to beg those around her to live just a bit more, although she seemed wholly unaware of her effect on everyone.

“I’m surprised you came,” he said quietly. “There is the matter of our return trip to discuss. I will send word, of course. In two weeks, perhaps?”

She folded her hands in front of her. “Very well, my lord.”

She’d reverted from “Garrick” to “my lord” since Sowlis had blurted out the true purpose for his voyage to Scotland.

“I did not attempt to hide it from you,” he said. Which was true, even though he had hidden it from her. “I am to be betrothed. Not married.”

She looked at the bare stone walls rather than at him. Emma was angry.

“As I said, I should not have kissed you. It was—”

“Would you at least care to explain why you did so knowing you are about to be married—pardon . . . betrothed—any day?”

She spoke so evenly that Garrick could only guess at her mood.

There was no other recourse than honesty.

“’Tis my mother’s wish for me to marry. My uncle resents that an English lord inherited the earldom through her, even though the title is hers, was my father’s, by right. She believes a match with Magnus’s daughter will secure my claim. He’s a powerful border lord that none, not even my uncle, will challenge.”

“And the kiss?”

“Was a mistake.”

“I see.”

But she didn’t. Not really. Her doubt was written across her face.