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He remained silent, watching her expression turn from anger to resignation.
“Very well.”
“Nay, Emma. It’s not,” he said in frustration.
She clearly didn’t understand. Hell, how could she possibly understand when he made no sense, not even to himself?
“I kissed you because I wanted to.” Just as he wanted to right now. That and so much more. “Why are you not married?”
“Pardon?”
“Why are you not married?” he repeated. “You are the sister of an earl. The most desirable woman I’ve ever met. Just last night you had a great Scottish clan chief clamoring for your attention. And I am sure he has not been the only one. Why?”
He didn’t think she’d answer. Nor did Garrick know why he’d asked. But she surprised him, this woman, just as she did nearly every time they were together.
“I would love nothing more than to have my own household to run. To have this”—she motioned around them—“and make my own decisions for once. But I haven’t found the man who will allow it. Great clan chiefs. Mighty border lords.” She made a decidedly unladylike sound. “Powerful earls”—she shrugged—“do not interest me. You are all too enamored with your own ideas to care for someone else’s.”
Her meaning was clear. If a match between them were possible, she’d not have him anyway.
Which was just as well. The question was a foolish one.
Garrick bowed, as anxious as his men to leave Dunmure Tower for Linkirk. “I understand. Good day, Lady Emma.”
Though his feet felt as if they were made of the same molten iron that forged the sword at his side, Garrick walked out of the solar. Away from Emma.
And toward his future.
* * *
Emma sat on a bench in an alcove inside Dunmure Castle and tried not to watch him leave. Her reunion with Clara was everything she had hoped. Now, of course, it was time for her escort to move on.
Betrothed. Married. It mattered not. They were practically one and the same.
“Emma, I can’t wait to . . . Emma.” Her friend rushed over to sit next to her. “What’s wrong?”
Clara’s face was slightly rounded, and her mid-section showed signs of her pregnancy. The lady of Dunmure radiated happiness. Her brown hair, once as short as a lad’s, now hung about her shoulders, and her light brown eyes sparkled.
“Oh Clara, ’tis so good to see you.”
She wrapped her arms around her friend, and they sat there just so until Emma finally pulled away.
“I’m fine. May I?” She nodded to her belly.
“Of course,” Clara beamed.
Emma laid her hand on the slight swell of Clara’s stomach, but she could feel nothing other than the soft velvet of her friend’s gown. She’d laid her hand like this countless times on Sara’s stomach when she was with babe, and her little Hayden had eventually begun to move.
“Just wait until he or she begins to protest in there,” Emma said with a grin.
Clara’s eyes widened. “You can’t feel it? My wee one is moving right now.”
Emma pressed her hand a bit harder but couldn’t feel any movements. “Nay, nothing.” She took her hand away “Now you must tell me everything about Dunmure. And Alex. And the babe. I want to know it all. How do you like Scotland? Do the people treat you well? If they don’t just because you’re English—”
“Emma, you haven’t changed a bit.” Clara repositioned herself on the bench. “And we’ve weeks together. Your escort said at least two. But first”—she cocked her head—“you will tell me what’s wrong.”
While Emma loved Sara like a sister, she’d known right from the beginning that her friendship with Clara would be different. She could, and would, tell Clara anything.
“Garrick.”
