The Earl's Entanglement (Border Series Book 5)(26)

“Aye, he is,” she whispered back.

She pretended not to see him as she strode over to Alex, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and then marched out into the cold. So grand was her exit that it took a moment for her to realize she’d forgotten—

“Your cloak?”

Garrick came up from behind her with the offending garment in hand. She’d intended to mount and ride all day without speaking a word to him.

Blast it.

She lifted her chin and tried really, really hard not to notice the scent of pine as he reached around her and, not for the first time, covered her against the cold.

“It seems I’ve made a habit of this.”

She would not speak to him. She would not speak to him.

Emma finally looked him in the eyes.

Oh God . . .

“So you’re betrothed, then?”

He finally buckled the clasp and took a step back. Thank heavens. Now if only she could take back her words. She was supposed to act like she did not care.

Emma’s stomach lurched at his expression before he even answered.

“I am.”



She turned away, but not before he saw the look of deep disappointment on her face. A look he had put there. He watched as she mounted and joined his men, riding away from Dunmure. He eventually did so himself, taking the lead, and ignoring the flakes that had just begun to fall. Another blustery January day.

Aye, I am betrothed.

Garrick had been greeted at Linkirk by his mother. Still quite beautiful despite her age, she looked no worse off for the tragedy she’d endured. The only difference he could see was a few gray hairs replacing some of the brown ones. She said not a word, their shared grief palpable in the empty hall of her childhood home. Linkirk Castle stood as tall and proud as any along the Scottish border. Not as sprawling as Kenshire, but with enough buildings, including a centuries-old keep, to make it one of the borderland’s greatest treasures.

“I’m glad you’ve come,” she said, walking through the lower corridors at Linkirk, the sadness in her voice pinching at Garrick’s chest.

“Of course, Mother. Where else would I be?”

Indeed, where else but in England, where he belonged? He’d often wished growing up his mother would be content at Clave, but Scotland had always sung to her. A song as lilting and lovely as any, she’d often said. He’d visited often enough, at least once or twice each year, but its steward was truly the lord here. Linkirk’s battle scars gave testament to its vulnerabilities. There were no tides to protect it, and it was closer to the border than Clave. But despite the dangers, this was home, his mother often said.

Either way, it belonged to him as surely as Clave did.

“Have you seen Uncle?”

“Nay, nor my sister. They dare not show their faces here after the blasphemies they’ve been spouting.”

“Tell me.”

And she did. The moment she learned of her husband’s death, Lady Joan had traveled to Linkirk. The whispers began within a week. Inverglen wanted Linkirk for his own. It should never have gone to the English earl, he said to anyone who would listen, and certainly he and his wife had a better claim to it than the English boy who already had an earldom. The refrain surprised no one now that Garrick’s father was dead.

“You’ve made arrangements?”

Lady Joan nodded. “Her father should be arriving any time. The betrothal has already been negotiated. Much of this is a formality. Your uncle will not dare to continue his absurd claim once Magnus’s daughter is family.”

So it was done.

He was to marry a woman he’d never met. A woman he wouldn’t meet before the wedding.

Lady Alison’s influential father, the Earl of Magnus, had arrived the next day with a retinue of men three times larger than the one Garrick had brought from England. A show of force, though Garrick wasn’t sure why such a thing was necessary.

It became clear after he spent some time with the man.

Mean. Unrelenting. Powerful. Garrick had interacted with plenty of men like Magnus. Men who felt an unrelenting need to display their wealth and power. He’d fought for one of them in the Holy Land, and there was none more powerful than King Edward—save his father, the King of England.

Garrick had been home just a few weeks before coming to Scotland, and his only stipulation was that the wedding be delayed until the following month. The earl wasn’t pleased, but he’d agreed to give Garrick time to get his affairs in order.

“Garrick, we cannot afford a delay,” his mother had said to him later that day, pulling him into the solar for a private conversation.

“A betrothal is as binding as a marriage. It matters not.”

He’d told himself the delay was necessary. He needed time to acclimate. To become the Earl of Clave and of Linkirk in truth.

But is that the real reason?

The thought had plagued him so much, he’d nearly sent a message to Magnus to recant. But the very idea was preposterous. And unnecessary. As he’d said to his mother, the betrothal was just as binding as a marriage. Breaking such an agreement with a man like Magnus would mean war.

Then he saw her again, and his question was answered immediately.

Nay, it was because of her.

He’d made the betrothal agreement to secure his mother’s inheritance. Signed his name to the papers to make it official. And yet, he’d found himself setting a furious pace to Dunmure this morning. His men must have thought him crazed.