“Sir Gareth, only time will tell if you are honorable.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Gareth stood between the three women, a big man who seemed too uncivilized for lutes and singing and embroidery. When she looked up at him, she saw bonfires in the wilderness, the howl of wild animals kept at bay, the protection and warmth of a man’s body through the night.
Anne cleared her throat. “Margery, would you like to play a game with me?”
She shook away such dangerous, forbidden dreams, and quickly agreed. A contest was just the thing to distract her. Anne brought out the Tables board and playing pieces, and began to set them up at the head table.
Gareth remained still, looking down on Margery, who stared at the fire, not at him. He reluctantly admired her quick wit and intelligent responses. To his surprise, he had almost enjoyed saying just enough of the truth to make her uneasy. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had such a conversation with a woman.
Or the last time he had become so easily lost in a woman’s eyes. When she had stared up at him, he’d felt…strange, remote, as if there was more beneath the surface of their shared glance.
He told himself he had simply missed the company of gentlewomen for too long.
Margery stood up without warning. Her shoulder brushed his chest; her skirts surrounded his legs. He caught her elbow, and noticed that the twins’ backs were turned.
“I taught you this game,” he whispered.
She was silent. He tried not to breathe, so as not to smell the scent of roses that was a part of her.
“Do you remember?”
“Did we play before a hearth?” she asked, and he could hear the hesitation in her voice. She slowly turned to look up at him.
“We lay on our stomachs.”
She shook her head. “I did not remember that.”
She pulled her arm away and Gareth let her go, watching as she seated herself at the table. After a moment’s indecision, he moved to stand behind Lady Anne. The head table was on a raised dais, which put the Tables board at Gareth’s chest, and the women’s heads equal with his own.
Margery began the game. For a few minutes they played in silence, and Gareth watched her slender fingers roll the dice. He should leave the women alone, but he was amused by Margery’s concentration. With lucky rolls of the dice, her skill should let her win.
She seemed to win at anything she attempted, just like her entire family. His humor faded, replaced by anger—anything was better than the memory of the hollow emptiness in his soul when he’d ridden away from her family home so long ago.
Gareth stepped up and slid onto the bench beside Lady Anne. When she was about to make a move, he said, “No, not that piece.”
All three women looked at him and he shrugged.
Margery puffed out her lower lip in a pout and glanced up at him with storm-cloud blue eyes. “Why, Sir Gareth, you’re not going to help me?”
“You do not need my help.”
He could see why she got her way, even with her brothers. He wanted to tell her that her problems couldn’t be solved with a flutter of her eyelashes—but he’d settle for watching her soundly defeated at Tables.
He boldly studied her, and not always her face. He told himself he merely wished to fluster her, but more than once his eyes lingered on the shadowy indentation between her breasts, and his thoughts were not only of anger.
He whispered suggestions in Lady Anne’s ear, and soon Margery was floundering. They’d attracted a vocal audience of soldiers and knights, who were actively betting.
“Anne, you’ve blocked me,” Margery said pleasantly, but she was almost glaring at Gareth.
There was laughter all around them, Desmond the loudest of all.
“Gareth,” he called, “Don’t make me lose a day’s wage on Mistress Margery.”
“You should have bet on Lady Anne.” Gareth smiled. “I may not yet have convinced Mistress Margery of my worthiness as her suitor, but even she cannot doubt my skills.”
As everyone laughed, Margery’s gaze was locked with his in a contest of wills older than any table game. Couldn’t she see that her wiles were no match for his?
Yet she soon beat Anne at Tables, and the knights led her away, showering her with admiring congratulations. Gareth put the game away, and tried not to let his frustration show.
Later in his bedchamber, Gareth set a candleholder on the table and moved to the windows. The room was dark, shadowy, with only the single candle for light. He’d asked the maids to leave his fireplace cold, since the summer nights were warm enough.
He opened the shutters and pulled back the glass window. He’d been at Hawksbury Castle for only two days, and already he was growing used to the luxury of glass in every window. Life here was making him soft.
Outside, the landscape was illuminated by a half moon, and he could see the faint traces of the descending hillsides and wooded glens between squares of farm fields. In the southeast, the Cotswold hills jutted toward the stars.
Margery lingered on his mind. He wasn’t quite sure why he felt the need to defeat her, and why he was so disappointed that it hadn’t happened. She was just a woman he was being paid to help; just an ancient oath he had sworn to a dead man.
He heard a sudden muffled clatter in the hall and he froze, listening. It wasn’t repeated.
He crossed his room and opened the door to find the corridor dark, silent, empty. He walked toward Margery’s bedchamber, three rooms down from his, put his ear against the door, and listened. He heard the faintest movement inside.
Could someone be with her?
Just before he touched the door latch, he heard the sound of booted feet echoing through the hall. He swore softly. It must be the patrol he’d had Desmond assign.
As two men rounded the corner, Gareth nodded to them and stepped into the garderobe. Perhaps they’d think he just didn’t like to use a chamberpot.
The moment they passed, he burst into Margery’s room.
Chapter 7
Margery felt sluggish, weary, as she changed into her nightclothes. She lit candles on the bed tables and mantel, hoping the cheery light would help. The fire crackled its warmth as she sank down amid the cushions scattered on the carpet.
Her head ached in dull waves. Tomorrow all her noble young visitors would arrive. Only six months ago, before her infatuation with Peter, she would have been thrilled to be the object of so much attention, to have her choice of husband. Now all she felt was discouraged. She would have to be polite yet keep her distance, wondering which of the men would be desperate enough to try to force her hand in marriage. She felt as if she had long since lost any control over her own fate. She had to come up with a solution.
The door was suddenly flung open, and Margery came up on her knees in shock to see Gareth Beaumont wielding a dagger, an angry scowl distorting his face. He slammed the door shut and gazed about the chamber. With a gasp, she scrambled to her feet, pulling her dressing gown tighter.
“Gareth, what—”
“I heard something in the hall,” he said, moving farther into the room. “Did someone come in here?”
“No.”
He checked behind the draperies and under the bed. He obviously didn’t think her word was enough. When he approached her near the fireplace, she folded her arms below her chest and glared at him.
“Did you think I was hiding someone?” she demanded.
He slid the dagger back into his belt. “I could not be certain you were answering of your own free will.”
She relented with a sigh, but continued to eye him warily. “I suppose I can understand that. Thank you for your diligence.”
She waited for him to leave, but instead he studied the room, especially the cushions heaped before the fire.
“Your bedchamber is…frilly,” he finally said.
She didn’t take it as a compliment. “And you’ve never been in a woman’s chamber before?”
He arched a brow. “I didn’t say that.”<
br />
“Oh, of course not.” She raised both hands. “How dare I encroach upon your manliness?”
Gareth scowled. “By the saints, what are you talking about?”
“Nothing understandable, obviously.” She slumped into a chair before the fire. “Never mind. A good evening to you.”
He didn’t leave. They were alone in her bedchamber, in the silence of the night. She should force him out the door—but she didn’t. She had behaved like this before, and it had brought her nothing but trouble, yet once again she couldn’t stop herself. She sat with her eyes half-closed and let herself feel the dangerous thrill of not knowing what he would do next.
He sat down in the chair beside her, and Margery held her breath. She noticed the width of his legs, the muscles that sloped and curved. As he stared into the fire, she studied his lips and the curve of his cheek. His blond hair fell forward, and she felt the urge to tuck it back.
Gareth felt like a fool. There had been no intruder, no reason for him to burst in on Margery. There was nothing he wanted to say to her. So why had he sat down?
It could only be his physical attraction to her—and that angered him all the more. Yes, she was beautiful, with long dark hair that tumbled about her shoulders. She looked smaller, frailer in her thin nightclothes.
But all this blossoming femininity hid a spoiled, selfish heart. She and her family expected the world to bow to their demands. They used people for their own ends, just like Margery now used her beauty to keep his attention. She must know what she looked like sitting there in the firelit shadows, soft and sleepy.
He heard her sigh. She pulled her legs up beneath her and propped her chin on her hand. It had been a long time since he’d been alone with a woman. And she wore so little. The bed suddenly seemed large and conspicuous, and it was a struggle not to glance at it.
This line of thought had to stop. He tried to remember his first night away from Wellespring Castle, the cold rain that had soaked his garments and ruined his food, how desolate he’d felt. But it was all so long ago. He was a man now, and thoughts of Margery called to him.
“So…” she said in too bright a voice. “When you’re not working, what do you do with yourself?”
“Do?” he said thickly. “I train.”
“But ’tis the same as working. Have you no interests that don’t include…” she hesitated, “hurting people?”
He glared at her. “That is how I survive, and that is what you hired me for. I do not have time for poetry or painting pictures. Without my sword-fighting skills, I would have been dead long ago. But I imagine a woman can’t understand that.”
She gripped the chair arms, and her eyes flashed angrily at him. “Some women can. My sister by marriage is an excellent swordswoman.”
His eyes widened. “I do not believe you.”
“So now I’m a liar, besides a silly fool?” she demanded.
Surely she couldn’t expect him to trust her, and he knew she was already lying to him about something in her past. “All right then, which brother is she married to?”
“James.”
“That pompous—”
“Gareth!”
“From what I remember of him, I thought his wife would be a meek noblewoman with no thoughts of her own.”
For a brief moment, he saw amusement in her eyes. “He thought he wanted that, too. But King Henry gave him Isabel, who’s almost as tall as James, and fights just as well.”
He remembered the last time he’d seen her brother, barely an adult, looking down at Gareth with all the arrogance of an earl who thought his bloodlines made him a better man. Bolton had judged him unworthy of friendship or loyalty.
His bitterness, always so near the surface, flamed to life.
“And your other brothers?” He wanted to look in Margery’s eyes and think revenge not sexual release.
She smiled sadly. “Edmund died a few years ago. He took sick after an injury.”
“I am sorry for your loss.” Edmund had been frail, and destined for the priesthood. They had little in common, but Edmund had taught him to read.
And since Edmund hadn’t protested when they sent Gareth away, he must have known and approved.
“Reynold is married, too,” she said, “though at first he took Edmund’s place in the monastery.”
“However did he meet a woman?”
“She was imprisoned there. He rescued her and they fell in love.”
“So all of your brothers are at peace,” he said. His voice was careful, as if the anger might erupt at any moment.
“It took a long time, but yes, they’re happy.”
She smiled at him, ignorant of the savagery that lurked in his soul, panting and straining like a leashed beast.
They were all so happy, the Bolton and Welles families. Her brothers had found women who loved them, women they trusted, and Margery would soon choose her own husband.
The last decent threads of his life had begun to unravel when her family had thrown him out. He turned slowly to look on her, his neck moving stiffly, as if it would shatter with the eruption of his rage.
As he gazed upon her lovely face, suddenly everything became clear. Margery was the answer to his retribution.
She owed him.
For payment, he would take her to wife.
Her dowry and lands could keep him from starving, and give him back the respectability his family had long since lost. She was looking for a husband—who better than he? She would be protected, and he would have the use of her body and her money. What else was marriage about—except begetting heirs, something he would have no problem beginning immediately.
They were alone in her bedchamber, with the bed turned down. He could take her maidenhead right now, and they’d be married in the morning. There would be nothing her brothers could do when they returned.
But…if he took his time, made Margery care for him and choose him of her own free will, how much sweeter would be his revenge on her brothers.
For the first time, Gareth let himself truly admire her beauty. It would soon be only his. Perhaps he should begin his slow seduction tonight: just a touch of her cheek, a longing stare into her eyes. That was all he’d ever needed before.
Margery met his gaze, and her smile slowly died.
He rose to his full height, then stepped before her, letting his knees brush hers.
There was a sharp knock on the door, and they both flinched.
Chapter 8
As the knock sounded again, Margery jumped to her feet, wondering frantically where Gareth could hide. To be discovered like this, to ruin both their lives with her sins—she couldn’t bear it.
“Just one moment!” she called, her hands on his lower back as she pushed him toward the window.
She motioned to the draperies and he stepped behind them. She glimpsed the dark amusement in his face as she arranged the folds of fabric to fall around him, making sure his feet were covered. After walking quickly to the door, she took a deep breath and opened it.
Anne stood in the dark corridor, her hair loose, a robe and blanket around her shoulders. She gave Margery a frown and looked toward the bed. “Were you asleep? I did not mean to awaken you.”
“I wasn’t asleep yet,” she said, then gave a wide yawn. “Can I help you with something?”
Nodding, Anne walked in. Margery’s shoulders slumped as she closed the door in resignation and watched the girl curl up in the chair Gareth had recently vacated.
“Anne, I am actually quite tired. Could this wait until morning?” Margery was certain she could hear Gareth breathing. Did the draperies rise and fall with his chest?
“I promise this will take but a moment.”
Anne proceeded to talk about one of the young men who’d be arriving on the morrow. Margery painted a smile on her face and worriedly watched the draperies over Anne’s shoulder.
It suddenly occurred to her that Gareth could take advantage of this situation. He was a poor knight; just by st
epping into the room again, he would have the most eligible heiress in England, and all the reward that went with it. She found herself holding her breath with anxiety, her gaze darting constantly to the windows.
Gareth’s face was covered in fabric, and he inhaled his own warm breath, trying not to feel light-headed. He longed to turn his head, but didn’t dare move. Perspiration dripped down his temples.
All he had to do was step out from the draperies—or better yet, pretend to sneeze. It would seem an accident, and Margery would never have to know that it had really been deliberate.
But she would be humiliated, and might never forgive him for taking away her choice. And it wouldn’t allow him the ultimate revenge against her brothers.
No, there was still time. He would be her choice for husband.
“Margery!” Lady Anne said. “You are so tired your eyes are glazed.”
“Forgive me.” Margery didn’t sound nervous so much as distracted. “What was the last thing you said?”
“If Lord George should not take your fancy, could you guide him my way? And make sure ’tis I, not Cicely.”
“Anne, you are the daughter of an earl, and could have any young man in England. I am sure Lord George will be quite taken with you.”
“You are a dear, Margery. I must say, that new man following you about is interesting.”
“Sir Gareth?”
Margery’s voice sounded a bit faint, and Gareth’s interest intensified.
“He is blindingly handsome, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m not sure ‘blindingly’ is the right—”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” Lady Anne interrupted. “’Tis a shame he is only a knight. My father expects at least an earl from me. But you have your choice—what freedom.”
“Sometimes I wish I had let my brothers choose for me long ago,” Margery said.
Gareth heard the sad wistfulness in her voice, and wondered again what secrets were hidden in her past.
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