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He held up his hand to her. Without a word, she allowed him to help her dismount. Garrick whistled to Bayard, who came to them on command. Unbelievably, Emma then extended her hand, and Bayard placed his head under it. It was as if he were comforting her. Or just the reverse.

Mounting, he lifted Emma up in front of him. He nodded to his men and then left the bloody scene of battle without a backward glance, telling Emma to close her eyes as they passed the bodies. Whether she listened or not, he wasn’t sure. All Garrick knew, or cared about, was that she was safe.

He certainly wouldn’t think about how tempting she felt in front of him—like she was practically sitting on his lap.

The abbey. Must get to the abbey.

* * *

Emma shook her head, trying to clear the sound of screaming horses and clashing blades from her ears. Certainly she had heard such sounds before in a battle she’d witnessed at her aunt and uncle’s home. But today she’d heard a man scream as he died. It was an awful sound, worse even than the pained neighs of the innocent horses. She did close her eyes, as Garrick had instructed, but only after she spied a black and white courser, its legs bent at an unusual angle that could only mean it was dead.

This was the danger Geoffrey had warned her about. Of course, she’d known better than to doubt him. She and her brothers had lost their home and their parents—something that had brought them face-to-face with the harsh realities of the borderlands. But even she knew this battle was unusual. Those men hadn’t been intent on taking a keep for their king. Neither were they reivers who’d hoped to steal from them. They’d seemed intent on killing.

“Who were they?” Shivering despite the heavy layers atop her, Emma turned her head just enough for Garrick to hear her.

“We don’t know.” He didn’t elaborate. So much like her brother Bryce.

“I heard what you said to the chief. Were they Scottish?”

Along the border, English and Scottish were nearly indistinguishable by sight. But they were still north of the border, so . . .

“I believe so.” Again, nothing more than a terse answer to her question.

“’Twas brutal,” she said, thinking once again of the glimpse she’d gotten just before she closed her eyes.

“Battle is never a pretty sight.”

Nay, she supposed it wouldn’t be.

Emma pulled her cloak tighter about her neck and adjusted herself.

Garrick sucked in his breath.

“Too close?” She edged away from him as much as possible given their close quarters.

“Nay.” He reached around her, still holding onto Bayard’s reins, and pulled her back.

She wasn’t sure what to say. Every time she opened her mouth to speak, the words seemed silly. Insignificant. Nothing could encompass what she was feeling after the night before. After the battle.

The silence stretched on until the steady sound of their travel began to lull Emma’s eyes closed. She’d hardly slept, thinking of—

“What did Graeme say to you?” he suddenly asked.

Her eyes popped open. “After the battle?”

“Nay, before you left. I saw him draw you aside.”

Ah, that. “He asked for permission to visit Kenshire.”

Garrick’s arm tightened, just slightly, but enough for her to notice.

“And?”

“And I gave it.”

Emma wasn’t sure what Geoffrey would think, but Graeme de Sowlis was a good man. A single man. “There was no reason to do otherwise.”

Certainly not for you.