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“Emma. No.”

“That you will make the right decision. For yourself.”

“Emma.” His tone was one she was sure he’d used on his men many times, but she wouldn’t allow it to sway her.

“And consider my earlier advice. Allow the wardens to handle your uncle.”

She had said what needed saying, and now she needed to leave. Immediately. Emma broke away, ran to the stable doors, and tossed them open. No one was about. She ran through the courtyard, past the entrance of the keep, and around to the back. She ran until her chest hurt, until she knew Garrick had not followed her.

Panting, she stopped beside the kitchens. Smoke billowed into the sky, its stench mixing with the smell of dirt and cold. She watched it climb into the air and disappear. If only she could do the same. The thought of sitting at dinner, entertaining their guest after what had just happened . . .

What had just happened? Garrick had come for her. Risked himself to see her. And he’d felt so good, so perfect in her arms.

But when he’d told her of his uncle . . .

His mother’s life, threatened. The mercenaries who’d attacked them, dead or soon to be that way, even if Garrick did listen to her. Their time would come on the Day of Truce. This was real. It wasn’t some tale told on a tapestry or a bard’s song to entertain its noble guests. Garrick was risking everything for her, and she couldn’t allow it, not unless he made the decision with open eyes.

What had she said? That he should make the best decision for himself?

What would he choose?

Emma tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter. That she’d spoken from the heart but also used her head, something her eldest brother was forever encouraging her to do.

And if it meant she risked losing Garrick?

Oh Emma, what have you done?

* * *

“Garrick.”

Garrick swung his sword into the pell, over and over again. Unlike the men he’d felled earlier, the wooden stake could not be injured. He thrust and sliced, closing his mind against all thoughts beyond the training yard, his sword, and the pell. His mother and uncle, Magnus, and Emma . . . the men who’d met the edge of his sword in battle—all fought for his attention in the background, but the constant motion helped hold it all back.

“Garrick.”

He tightened the grip of both hands and was preparing to swing again when the shout finally penetrated.

“Garrick!”

After delivering a final blow to the pell, Garrick allowed his sword to drop.

Conrad and a dozen other men stood to the side of the training yard, watching him. Though they were unsheltered from the elements and likely cold, there were no scowls or complaints. Those who had been with him in Acre knew the importance of training, and the others, the ones who had never seen battle, they would know too, someday. Perhaps sooner than any of them would like.

“Your mother’s riding party has been spotted near the village,” Conrad said.

Garrick handed his sword to a squire and clasped his friend on the back. “Good,” he said. “How long have you been standing there?”

Conrad had already changed for the midday meal. The largest meal of the day, it was his friend’s favorite. “Long enough to know the pell did not deserve such treatment.”

Garrick disagreed. Unwavering against his attacks, it had taunted him for as many years as he’d been training.

“What else have you heard?” Garrick asked, leaving the training yard. Once he did so, the other men began to disperse as well.

“Watch yourself,” Conrad said. The ground beneath them was covered by a thin layer of ice, courtesy of an overnight storm that had brought more ice than snow.

“My mother’s on the way, no need to take on her role,” he said with a smirk. “Any tidings?”

Conrad always seemed to know everything. He wasn’t sure how, though perhaps it had something to do with the vast number of women who shared his bed or his affable nature. Either way, it had been that way since they were children. And he didn’t disappoint.