The Earl's Entanglement (Border Series Book 5)(8)

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.

But Garrick had never before stood immobile as an awareness of another human being crept into his very soul. When Emma—Lady Emma, he corrected himself—had emerged from that stall, he’d thought two things at once, evident from her posture and expression.

This was a woman who, despite her station, was neither biddable nor docile.

And he wanted her.

He wanted this raven-haired beauty with an intensity that should have sent him running from the stable immediately. You are nearly betrothed to another woman. Yet here he stood, taunting his own instincts, moving much closer to her than was wise. Conrad would roar in laughter if he ever came to know how completely Garrick’s usual instincts for how to woo a beautiful woman had left him. For several minutes, he’d been completely tongue-tied, and when he finally introduced himself, he’d unaccountably shared his given name.

Why did I withhold my title?

She was small but well-endowed. He shouldn’t have noticed such a thing, but she’d lacked any kind of coat to keep her warm against the winter chill. He certainly shouldn’t have noticed her lips were made to be kissed.

When he moved in closer to wrap the cloak about her, Garrick was drawn in by her gaze. Those ice-blue eyes stood out in stark contrast to hair so black it shone. But it wasn’t the color of her eyes he noticed as he wrapped his cloak around her. It was the strange intensity of the moment, as if it were somehow significant.

Garrick wanted her, whoever she was, which was exactly why he took a step back after securing the cloak.

“Aye, thank you,” she said, the words seeming to come from deep within her throat, the simple thanks penetrating the icy chill he’d worn since leaving Clave.

The door to the stables creaked open behind him.

“My lord? My lady?”

The invisible net that had been cast around them was lifted as a stableboy ran toward them.

Garrick turned, watching as the boy stopped next to Bayard and took a step back. Not that he blamed him. The warhorse was massive, his head as wide as a tree trunk. He’d been bred for the kind of fighting he’d left behind in the Holy Land.

“He senses your fear,” Garrick told him.

“I’m not afraid,” the boy replied. He ruined the effect by taking another step back. “I just ne’er saw a beast so . . .”

Pulling his woolen cloak tighter around his shoulders, the boy cocked his head and looked at the long scar that traveled the length of Bayard’s neck. With a bow to the woman who’d so stunned him earlier, Garrick made his way toward his mount.