Page 9

He stood close enough now that if she reached out a hand, Emma could touch him. Her hand rose an inch or two unbidden before she convinced it to return to her side.

“Garrick,” he said. And that was all.

So not a knight? She peered around him to look at his horse again. The massive destrier was undoubtedly a knight’s horse. But the familiar greeting, much too familiar since it must be clear she was a lady, proclaimed him something else. Mayhap a merchant?

But then what of the horse?

“I rode ahead of my companions,” he said.

Oh, but that voice . . .

“Emma,” she blurted.

“Lady Emma,” he corrected.

In all of her life, Emma could not once remember a time she’d offered her given name to a stranger so easily.

There was just something about him. She’d first felt it when he’d started to move toward her, and the strange sensation had not left her since. It was as if she were being pulled to him.

“Either,” she said, knowing the implications of such a statement. Not caring.

He raised his brows and she shivered again.

The stranger glanced down as if to say, No cloak?

She had indeed begun to regret not bringing a cloak with her, but then she’d not intended to stay in the stable for more than a few minutes . . . and the cold was not the reason for her body’s uncontrollable shaking.

His gloved hand moved to the clasp at his throat, and a moment later, he swung the heavy material away from his body and began to wrap it around her.

Emma gasped.

“Sir Garrick,” she accused, the admonishment in her voice very real.

Her instincts had been correct. Though she didn’t recognize the crest on his surcoat, the man’s dress proclaimed him a knight at least, more likely a lord of some sort. The overbearing, suppressive sort, most likely.

“Aye,” he said, as he moved even closer and finished wrapping his cloak around her shoulders. When he leaned toward her, Emma couldn’t help but notice his scent. Musky and clean, it was entirely too pleasant. She swallowed as he turned his attention to the clasp.

Though he’d had no trouble removing it, the clasp was evidently harder to fasten with gloves. He pulled the edges of the black fur-lined cloak together with one hand, and held the other hand out to her.

She looked down at it in bafflement and then back up into his eyes. Blue, they were dark blue.

They stood much too close to be proper—so close it addled her wits. Sir Garrick nodded toward his hand, and she looked down again, realizing he wanted her to remove his glove so he could fasten the cloak.

Of course.

Emma freed his hand. Like everything else about him, it was large and strong, though the impression was fleeting—it quickly moved toward her throat to finish the job of securing his cloak firmly about her shoulders.

When he stepped back, Emma simply stared at him for a long moment, unsure what to say. Thank you seemed appropriate, but the words would not escape from her mouth.

“Warmer?”

She nodded, remembering the glove. She reached out to hand it to him, and when he took it, his finger brushed against her thumb ever so slightly.

Emma was not sure what was happening to her or why she’d given a stranger leave to call her by her given name. Or why, though she was no longer as cold, her hands continued to tremble.

* * *

He’d waited across the field from angry Saracens who were prepared to lop off his head. He’d sat across from the future King of England, a man whose temper was legendary, and dared to disagree with him, unsure if he’d pay the ultimate price for his lack of deference.