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“My lady.”

Her tone sent a shiver straight to Emma’s core.

She knew at once what Edith would say. The voice in her own head, the one trying to push aside thoughts of how Garrick made her feel and memories of how sweetly he’d pledged his love sounded much the same as Edith’s.

“Do you think it’s wise to tell Lady Sara?”

“Of course. I share everything with her. She is—”

“Your sister-in-law, but also the Countess of Kenshire. As the countess, what do you believe she’ll say?”

Emma had planned to tell Sara everything, hoping it would ensure she was included in Garrick’s invitation to Clave, and then . . .

Oh dear.

Sara would say that there was no way Garrick could break the betrothal without facing repercussions. This could change the course of Linkirk’s history. It could force neighboring clans, like Clan Kerr and Graeme’s people, to take sides.

Emma wanted to be angry with Edith. She wanted to rail at her, at the Earl of Magnus and his daughter, and at their whole sorry situation.

But she would not, of course. It was no one’s fault that she’d allowed herself to fall in love with a man who was promised to another.

No one’s fault but her own.

* * *

“Have you gone stark raving mad?” Conrad asked. “What are you still doing here?”

He should never have told Conrad the truth.

Garrick had returned to Clave, the torturous ride from Kenshire one of the longest of his life, despite the fact that it was but a few hours away. He’d arrived before the tide could wash away the footpath leading from the shore to the castle gates, allowing him and his men safe passage before the rising tide turned Clave into an island once again.

Looking out of the window of the same solar where he’d taken advice from his friend before his fateful trip to Scotland, Garrick tried to remember the man he had been then.

A son without a father. An earl, a man with as much power as any in Northumbria. But not enough, apparently, to control his own destiny.

“Garrick, think on it. You cannot break this betrothal.”

“’Tis done, Conrad.” Or it would be soon. He’d already sent a contingent of men from Kenshire straight back to Linkirk to change the date of the wedding and summon his mother back to Clave. They’d been less than pleased with the prospect of returning to Scotland so soon, especially since they were less than a day’s ride away from home, but he hadn’t dared send a sole messenger.

Conrad sat with his legs and arms crossed on the wooden chair Garrick’s father had often occupied. His friend was a very different man from the former earl. Their loyalty and ferocity in battle, whether on the field or in a tournament, had united them. But any similarities between the two ended there.

“Why are you smiling?” Conrad asked.

Garrick couldn’t resist. “You are unique, Conrad.”

“And you are a dead man.” Never one to circumvent an uncomfortable topic, much like Emma, his friend was direct and possibly correct. He knew what his decision might cost him.

“I’ve no choice,” he said, trying to explain.

“Of course you have a choice. Marry the Scottish lass.”

“I cannot.”

As was his custom, Conrad was not intimidated by a look meant to silence him. “You must.”

“I love her, Conrad.”

His friend’s eyes widened as large as two round shields. Earls did not marry for love. Even baron’s sons, like Conrad, married for advantage.