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“What are you—”

“There are matters at play you do not understand. For the first time in thirty years, there is serious instability at the border. This is not about stolen cattle or sheep. Nor is it about protection payments, which have become more and more common since we lost Bristol. Reivers grow bolder. Clave’s uncle paid a group of Scottish mercenaries to attack him. Emma, listen to me.”

“Have I any choice?”

“Further disruptions, like an English earl breaking a betrothal with a powerful Scottish border chief, will not stand. Blood will be shed, either by Magnus or Inverglen. Or perhaps at this point, both. In this, I must disagree with my wife.”

She’d told him?

“Sara would never—”

“Break your confidence. Nay, she would not, but I know my wife. She believes in love. Hell, I do too, though I’d never imagined saying as much. But she’s also mighty stubborn, a trait that sometimes guides her to the wrong decision.”

“Don’t you dare speak ill of that woman—”

“Speak ill?” He looked genuinely confused. “I would never do such a thing. We all have faults. Mine nearly cost me the love of my life, the security of my family, and my very soul. Accepting imperfections makes you stronger, not weaker.”

He truly believed his words.

“So I suppose I should slow down, use my head, consider the consequences.”

Though she’d said the words glibly, her brother didn’t take them as such. “Aye. And think about it more carefully.”

She did stand then. “Well, I did. I told Garrick that I couldn’t let him break off his betrothal without further consideration. I probably sent him back to Clave thinking I didn’t want him any longer. And I may have lost him forever. So are you quite happy?”

He didn’t flinch. “Happy? To see my sister so upset? To know she fell in love with an honorable man she can’t marry? It keeps me awake at night, Emma. How could you ever imagine any of that would make me happy?”

Emma was taken aback by his sincerity, and by the evident grief in his face. Indeed, it seemed he might even be . . . but no, it couldn’t be. Did she see a . . .

Emma walked closer to where her brother sat and knelt down in front of him.

Holy St. Mary, it was. Emma reached up, and he let her wipe away the single tear that traced a path of wetness down his cheek.

Emma could not remember seeing her brother cry before. Ever. Not even after their parents were killed. Knights were equipped with the same feelings as mere mortals, of course, but the tales would lead one to believe they did not cry.

She covered his hands with her own. “I’m sorry. ’Tis frustration talking, not your sister. How long have you known?”

The side of his mouth quirked upward. “Nearly the same time as my wife,” he said, as if guessing her emotions were a sport. “And well before you,” he boasted.

The heaviness of the moment began to lift. “Is that so?”

“When we were in the courtyard, the day you left for Scotland.”

“You may know many things, brother, but on this you are—”

“I thought the look he gave you was one of desire.”

Emma jerked her hands away from him. To hear him speak thusly . . .

“But then you spoke to each other, and I knew for certain.”

She rolled her eyes and stood.

“Not that you were in love, of course, but that you would be. He could have mentioned his purpose for traveling to Scotland. But he did not.”

“He had already told you, I take it?”

“Aye. He’d mentioned it the evening before. And kept it from you. Not to be deceptive, I believe, but . . .” He shrugged. “It matters not. You and Garrick Clave simply cannot be.”