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Emma turned around. Bad idea. Garrick was looking at her with such concentration he probably didn’t realize he was biting his lip. But she couldn’t take her eyes from that. He had such lovely lips. If only she could—

“He is a good man. An honorable one. Aye, he’s a clan chief, and likely as protective as your brothers, but that doesn’t mean he won’t give you independence.”

“Would you?”

Blast it! She hadn’t meant to reveal more of herself to him.

“Nay.”

His response was so quick, so terse, that she didn’t doubt him for a minute. Garrick would have her locked up in her bedchamber if they were married. Well, that might not be such a dreadful thing—

“But then, it’s not me you’re considering for a husband.”

She turned back around. Of course not. You are already betrothed, oh great lord of England and Scotland.

Blasted earl.

“Pity.” He said it so softly, Emma thought for a moment she’d misheard it. But when he tightened his grip again, his hand shifted up just slightly to rest beneath her breasts.

An accident?

Nay.

A flutter began in her stomach and moved down to where she sat upon the horse, her legs wide open and her thighs touching his under their cloaks.

Three more days of this torture.

13

Garrick ignored his captain.

He trusted the man. Had put his life in his hands during more than one battle. Having fought the same enemy under the same intelligent but often misguided king, they understood each other on a deep level.

But at the moment, ignoring him was preferable to listening to him.

“Lord, if I may be so bold,” his captain had said after pulling him aside in the entrance to The Wild Boar, “shall I tell Magge you’ll not be dining in the storeroom tonight?”

Two days. For two damn days he’d avoided her as much as possible given that he could not bear to let her ride alone after the attack. And after one more day they would find their own futures, separately. He with a Scottish wife he’d never met. She at Kenshire, or perhaps as the wife of a Scot herself. Their connection, their kisses—he may have been right to tell her there was something very special about them. Hell, he knew it was true. But it mattered little compared to his desire to secure the Scottish earldom peacefully, and to accept his mother’s inheritance without broken alliances or bloodshed. He would keep his mother safe. A feat which would have been easier had she agreed to come back to England with him.

“I will tell her,” he finally grumbled to his captain.

It would seem Magge had taken it upon herself to secure private rooms for him and his captain as well as for Emma. She had prepared the storeroom as well, assuming he would request the same arrangement as before.

Impossible.

After ensuring Emma was shown to her room, where Magge would retrieve her later, he and his captain retired to theirs to clean after the long journey. As soon as he was done with his ablutions, he hurried downstairs to find the innkeeper.

“Magge,” he called out as he wandered into the great room, which was just beginning to fill with patrons for the evening. She was nowhere to be found.

Until a plump form sidled alongside him.

“Magge takes care o’ her favorites, she does.”

“The very reason The Wild Boar thrives.”

Whereas other innkeepers around these parts often resorted to brute force or bribery to keep their establishments safe, Magge accomplished the seemingly impossible with only her wiles and reputation. She could be a mother or a seductress. An innkeeper or a brewer. Magge could be whatever her patrons desired as long as they kept their fights away from the inn. English, Scottish—it mattered not to her.

“I appreciate the extra care—”