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“And you, my dear sister, are going to get yourself killed. How you can so easily dismiss dangers after what you’ve been through . . .”

Geoffrey stopped, likely realizing he’d nearly spoken of the one thing they never discussed.

Their parents’ death.

“Clara will be there in the spring. And I will enjoy telling your children someday about the time your brother kept you alive.”

“Kept me . . .” She could kick him. “Ugh. You are impossible.”

Two days had passed, and neither she nor Sara had yet convinced Geoffrey of the merits of her plan to visit her dear friend. Tired of arguing with Geoffrey, though not ready to resign herself to Kenshire Castle for the remainder of the winter, she stormed out of the solar and made her way through the many corridors, some indoor and others between buildings, back to her bedchamber.

Most young ladies of two and twenty were already married. They ran estates, though most not as large as Kenshire, and tended to their people. Emma’s brother did not permit her to ride further than their admittedly expansive property without an escort. Of course, any attempt to convince Geoffrey of the unfairness of her predicament landed on deaf ears. She’d just laid out her argument for him again, for what seemed the hundredth time, and he’d given her the same predictable response.

“Then accept one of the many suitors clamoring for your hand in marriage.”

She had rolled her eyes and attempted to change the subject.

“I’m not asking for a husband,” she’d said. Only one of those ‘many suitors’ was even the slightest bit compatible. The rest were bores who’d like nothing better than to control her. She’d seen both of her elder brothers marry for love and planned to have no less for herself. But that was an argument for another day. “I’m asking that you trust me. Treat me as a woman and not a girl.”

There. She’d said it.

But her grand announcement had not quite made the impact she’d expected and hoped it would. Emma really did love her eldest brother. He’d sacrificed his own safety and comfort to help provide for them after their parents were killed. Forced to join a band of border reivers, Geoffrey had learned quickly that there was never complete security along the border. Though Emma knew it was the reason for his protectiveness, knowing why he acted in such a way did not much comfort her.

A timid knock on the door was followed by the entrance of her lady’s maid, Edith, the daughter of Kenshire’s marshal. Edith’s pert nose had a natural upward tilt to it, and though the other servants teased her for it, she wasn’t at all fussed. Her pretty face and blond hair made her favored by the boys, and Emma spent as much time fretting over Edith’s future as she did her own. Though her maid didn’t offer herself freely, she had, on occasion, been known to share intimacies best reserved for a husband. She did like to act older than one and nine. And though Emma hated to sound like Geoffrey, she often urged her friend to choose a husband before she got herself into trouble.

“What in the devil?”

She’d not asked for a bath to be drawn, but Edith was followed by an army of servants with a tub and several buckets of hot water. In truth, Emma had wanted a bath, for she’d ridden her beloved horse Nella far and fast this morning to exorcise some of her anger toward her brother.

“My father told me ye rode hard, my lady.”

Eddard. Of course.

Emma threw her arms around her startled maid. “You are the finest lady’s maid in all of Northumbria.”

Edith disengaged herself and got to work, but Emma noticed her slight grin as she pulled away.

“Not in all of England?” Edith nodded to the corner of her chamber, where the tub had been placed in its usual position, and the other servants began to fill it with their wooden buckets of hot water. Emma loved baths nearly as much as she loved riding Nella.

“In all of the world,” she clarified.

Emma noticed a pin in Edith’s cap as she bent down to place the lemon-scented soap next to the tub.

“What a beautiful pin. I don’t believe I’ve seen—”

Edith’s hand went to the ivory sticking out of her hair, its cream color pale against her sunshine-colored locks.

“I heard ye spoke with his lordship.”

For some reason, Edith didn’t want her to know about the pin. So be it. She’d tell her when she was ready.

“Again,” the maid corrected.

Emma watched as additional buckets were brought into the chamber.

“He refuses to allow the trip. And though I’ll never willingly admit it to him, it appears my visit will have to wait until spring.”

Edith arranged, and re-arranged, the soap and drying cloths. She liked to keep her hands busy, even if there was nothing to be done. Much like her father. The marshal seldom sat still and even more rarely took an extended break, even if ordered to do so.