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She could hear herself breathing.

“But Graeme—”

“Not now, Geoffrey, please. Not now.”

Geoffrey pulled her toward him. His happy life at Kenshire had softened him, and embraces came more freely to him these days.

She didn’t want to think of Garrick or Graeme. Or of Geoffrey’s revelation that he’d known all along. In fact, Emma didn’t want to think of anything.

Eventually, she pulled away. “I’m going to the stables.”

He let her go, but not without a softly uttered reminder. “The chief will be wanting an answer. And given your aversion to well-titled Englishmen—”

“A Scots clan chief is no better.”

“I believe he would serve you well.”

Emma groaned. “I need time to think. I will speak to him myself and tell him to go home, that I do not have an answer,” she said, giving Geoffrey a quick squeeze. “Thank you for not being upset about Garrick.”

“I never said I wasn’t upset.”

And with those ominous words following her from the room, Emma tore through the castle and discarded any sense of decorum.

Graeme expected an answer from her. Unfortunately, she had none to give him.

24

He straddled her, and Emma couldn’t resist running her hands along the ridges of his stomach. Desire pooled in her core, the aching for his touch unbearable.

“Make me yours, Garrick.”

Where were her clothes? Though she couldn’t recall removing them, when he reached up and cupped both breasts in his hands, there was nothing to inhibit his caress.

“Not yet,” he said.

It was an order that she didn’t mind obeying. His thumbs rubbed her nipples, forcing them to peak under his expert touch.

And then his hand moved lower, the light touch along her waist a promise of more to come. Then lower still until it rested there.

“Please.” Was that what he wanted? For her to beg? “Please,” she whispered again, arching, finally getting his hands to move.

Her eyes snapped open.

Garrick was not in her bed, and the hand lying at the precipice of pleasure . . . was her own. She pulled it back and looked around the chamber.

Of course he was not there. It had been nothing more than a dream. A wonderful, beautiful—

Emma could wait no longer.

She’d told him to make his own decision. She’d made a mature decision.

Yet she’d never been more miserable in her life.

The last few days following her conversation with Geoffrey had been especially torturous. She’d nearly gotten herself killed on a reckless ride that could have ended badly if not for Eddard’s companionship. She hardly slept, and when the blissful blackness finally settled upon her, it was always invaded by thoughts of him.

Garrick protecting her against the mounted Scottish warriors. Cherishing her body at the inn. Tossing snowballs at her. Touching her. After every single dream, she woke breathless and disappointed.

She would know her future.