Page 48

Garrick stood and pulled out her makeshift seat. The silence was punctuated by muffled sounds from abovestairs. They did eat, or at least Garrick tried his best. How his friend Conrad would laugh at him if he saw him now. The great Lord of Clave, hardly able to eat because of a woman.

He was utterly and completely . . .

What? Lusting for her? Nay, it was something more.

“I can’t stop thinking of those men,” she said quietly. Battle. A safe topic.

“You’ll likely not rid yourself of the image for some time.”

“Do you? Rid yourself of the image of the men you’ve killed in battle. After so many—”

“The number matters not. I still think of the first man who ever met the end of my blade.” He took a swig of the beer Magge brewed herself. “I was but ten and two. My father and I traveled to York for a tourney. I remember being worried about the squires’ joust, my first. Instead, I should have worried about the mercenaries on the road intent on proving themselves against mounted knights. Though my father instructed me to run, I could not. This was what I’d been training for. The man I felled was twice my size, but I knew how to overcome poor odds.”

He could still smell grass, wet from a recent rain shower, from that day so long ago.

“The blade didn’t slide into his body as I’d imagined. But when it did, he fell immediately and never posed another threat to me, or anyone, again.”

Garrick had never spoken of the incident aloud before, but he found it easy to tell her. His father had berated him for not following orders. One or two of the men had said, “Well done.”

But that had been it.

“For some time afterward, I saw the man’s face. Or what I thought his face would look like. His great helm revealed nothing, but my boy’s mind thought he must be ugly and scarred.”

“Do you see his face still?”

“Nay.”

“So someday I will be able to banish those horrible images.”

Garrick wanted to tell her there were pleasurable ways of distracting oneself from thoughts of the battle, but he bit his tongue.

“Let’s speak of something else,” she said.

Emma’s mind moved as fast as her body did on horseback.

When neither of them said anything, Garrick thought to tease her.

“Just not of the battle. Or my intended. Or Graeme. Or how angry your brother will be when he learns what happened. Let me see, shall we talk about . . .” He trailed off and took another sip of his beverage.

“That kiss?”

He choked then, nearly spitting out the fine ale that somehow made its way down his throat.

“Hardly a delicate topic,” she said.

“But a fine one, nonetheless.”

“Indeed?” Her eyes danced with the merriment of knowing she’d unbalanced him. He’d certainly not expected the suggestion.

“What precisely, my lady, would you like to discuss concerning said kiss?”

“Hmm.” She lifted her finger to the corner of her full mouth. “Shall we discuss the first one, or the second? I believe the second.” As if having made a weighty decision, she said, “The second kiss. Aye, let us discuss that.”

He set down his mug. “Gladly.”

“I’ve been kissed before, of course.”

The words immediately conjured a vision of Graeme de Sowlis bending his head to her, claiming those—