“I’ll let you sleep,” Lady Anne said. “Perhaps Sir Gareth’s pursuit is tiring you.”
“I think not.”
Once he heard them move toward the door, he slowly turned his head to take a deep breath.
“Have a good night, Margery,” Lady Anne said.
Gareth waited a few moments after he heard the door close, then stepped from behind the draperies. Margery was slumped with her back against the door, her face pensive. She looked up, and they stared at each other across the room.
“My coming to your room put you in needless danger,” he said.
“Danger?”
“If she had discovered me—”
Margery raised a hand. “But she did not. And you were only trying to keep me safe.”
He knew he should find something light to say, some way to endear himself to her. But nothing in his experience had prepared him for trying to make a woman like him. Usually women just wanted something from him; he wanted something from them. It was simple.
He cleared his throat. “So I’m not blindingly handsome?”
Her eyes widened and she laughed, covering her mouth quickly. “Anne is young. I could not encourage her in such pursuit.”
“Then I am blindingly handsome?”
“Just go,” she said, pointing to the door behind her, her lips twitching with a smile.
He leaned against the door to listen for footsteps, but instead noticed how close she stood beside him. She had translucent skin draped in thin fabric, hinting at curves he knew he would soon explore. Now that he’d decided to marry her, he could hardly keep his gaze on her face.
“Gareth, you must leave,” she whispered.
“Not until the guards pass by.”
“How do you know they will?”
“Because I planned the route myself.”
She said nothing else, and he forced his attention to the corridor. The guards should pass Margery’s bedchamber every hour. For a few minutes he remained still, listening through the wood, trying not to feel her gaze on his back. She finally moved away from him.
A while later, Gareth glanced over and found her curled in one of the hearth chairs. She was asleep, her head cocked at an awkward angle, her arms hanging limply. He went to her bed and pulled aside the coverlet and blankets. The sheets seemed to beckon him with the promise of warmth and satisfaction. Clenching his jaw, he went to stand above Margery, bracing himself for the feel of her body in his arms, for her head tucked beneath his chin. Now that he had given himself permission to think of her sexually, he had a difficult time doing anything else.
He slid one arm behind her back, and the other beneath her knees, lifting her against him. With a little sigh, she nuzzled her cheek against his chest, as if she trusted him. She was a fool. Someday she would learn to trust no one but herself.
He lowered her into the bed and pulled up the blankets. She rolled to her side, head pillowed in her hand, her forehead creased in the smallest of frowns. What worries followed her into sleep?
As Margery dressed at dawn, she thought about the previous night instead of her problems. She remembered sitting down, watching Gareth listen for the guards.
She had awakened in bed, alone. He must have carried her there, and she didn’t remember it. She was surprised he hadn’t just left her.
God, she was a fool thinking about him—a man who obviously trusted no one, not even a family he had spent years with. He was only here for the money. He would go back to his life, and she would be someone’s sister or aunt. Never a wife, never a mother. The sooner she put aside her fantasies of a normal life, the sooner she could escape the king’s sentence—his prison sentence. That’s all marriage was for her.
And the would-be jailers arrived today.
Gareth held the sword high over his head, his muscles on fire, sweat streaming from his brow. He brought the weapon down hard and Desmond met it with his own sword, parrying it and staggering to one side.
Gareth stepped back, bringing the sword up in readiness.
Gasping for breath, Desmond bent over, hands braced on his knees. “No more!” he said, raising one hand. “What the hell…has gotten into you?”
Gareth slowly straightened, feeling his heart pound, welcoming the exhaustion that appeased his body and took his thoughts away from Margery. “We have not trained much recently. I felt the need for it.”
“You mean you have not trained. I have done nothing but.”
Desmond set down his sword and reached for a drinking horn hung from a nearby post. He swallowed some and offered it to Gareth, who took a sip, then lifted his eyebrows in surprise.
“Water?”
Desmond shrugged. “I need my wits about me today when Mistress Margery’s next suitors arrive.”
Gareth tensed. “Who is arriving today?”
“You have not heard?” Desmond said, his stare playfully disapproving. “Your talents are slipping, Sir Gareth.”
“Just tell me.”
“A whole contingent of young swains are due from London.”
“How many?” Gareth asked, feeling his anger at Margery grow. How could she not tell him something so vitally important to her safety?
Desmond shrugged. “A half dozen, a dozen—who knows how many will take up the challenge of the wealthy Mistress Margery?”
Gareth turned to watch a baggage train emerge from the gatehouse. “Could they already be arriving?”
“Probably just the servants. I imagine their lordships are pillaging through the countryside about now.”
“You’re one of those ‘lordships.’”
Desmond sighed. “A coincidence of birth. These youngsters are far above me at court, as they’ll happily remind me.” He picked up his sword. “We’d best get back to it, then. Mustn’t let the pups show us up.”
“They’ll most likely remember me, even though I’ve been gone a few years,” Gareth said, hoping they only remembered his fierceness in battle.
“Do not worry so. You defeated either them or their brothers or their fathers. I’m sure your reputation will scare at least a few of them away.”
They spent another couple of hours exhausting each other and every knight and soldier on the tiltyard. Gareth kept a close watch on the gatehouse, and occasionally sent a page inside the castle to see how Margery was busying herself. She was overseeing the cleaning and the cooking, and airing out bedchambers.
Just before the noon meal, the inner ward came alive with the shouts of young men on horseback racing through the gatehouse. In a pack they galloped about, yelling and raising clouds of dust, and in general making a nuisance of themselves.
Gareth stood beside Desmond and crossed his arms over his chest. “They’re barely old enough for whiskers,” he said with some satisfaction.
He felt Desmond’s amused regard.
“Now, Gareth, Mistress Margery is a wealthy young lady. Of course any marriageable man—”
“Boy.”
“—man would want to woo her. You’re here to protect her from the unscrupulous ones. She is paying you for that.”
The young noblemen galloped by the henhouse, frightening the flock and sending a little serving girl running in terror.
Margery descended the steps from the great hall, her ladies behind her. She wore the vivid green of springtime, and she’d adorned her long, dark curls with flowers. He realized she’d used the daisies he’d left beside her plate that morning, which gave him some satisfaction. Desmond had been right about the flowers.
He walked toward her as the young men dismounted, handing off their reins to waiting servants. Soon a cluster of men gathered below Margery, who remained a few steps above them, smiling.
Gareth, sweaty and filthy, stood beside the elegantly clothed young men in their silks and velvets. They doffed hats and caps as they each presented Margery with a gift.
She smiled and laughed and blushed as she handed the gifts to her ladies, obviously basking in the adoration of all these wealthy men.
; He would make sure none of them suited her.
Margery knew her face was going to betray her at any moment. Couldn’t they all see how forced her smile was, how ill-at-ease she felt? She was a fraud, a sinner, not an innocent maid. She wanted to shout her faults to the world, to send these men away so she could weep in lonely peace.
Their eager faces blended together before her stinging eyes. They handed her gifts and sang her praises, until their reaching hands and garbled voices threatened to overwhelm her.
Just as Margery thought she would run screaming from them all, she saw Gareth standing alone at the back of the crowd.
He was an island of maturity amid a sea of boyish faces. Surrounded by men garbed in clothing more ostentatious than her own, Gareth wore only a sleeveless leather jerkin and carried a sword as if it were a part of his powerful arm. The sweat of hard work glistened on his body, and his stunning face was stubbled in golden whiskers. She wanted to gape in awe at him, not pretend to smile at the rising tide of suitors. She wanted to touch the flowers in her hair, knowing he’d given them to her.
She was such a fool. She didn’t know how she wanted to be treated. Shallow noblemen worshipped and fought over her for her money, while Gareth treated her as distantly as if he were only a servant.
Margery had had enough. She’d done nothing but agonize over being unable to offer her virginity to a man, but did they deserve her worry? These men treated her as a piece of property, as a font of wealth for the lucky man who won her. None of them cared for her personally.
Suddenly the answer to her problem seemed clear, and Margery’s heart lifted. Why should she worry that she wasn’t a virgin? She highly doubted that her husband would come to their marriage bed untouched by a woman. Why should she behave any differently?
The first time she had lain with Peter Fitzwilliam, there had been some discomfort. She could pretend that she felt the same thing on her wedding night. And if there had to be blood on the sheets, she would find a way to deal with that, too.
Her conscience gave a faint twinge, but she ignored it. It was true she had not conceived a child with Peter, but it was God’s will if she ever did. Surely every married couple took such a chance. Why should she make herself an outcast, when none of her suitors were even worthy of her respect?
For the first time in months, Margery felt as if she could take a deep breath. The great weight of despair that had compressed her lungs was gone. She still had to find the perfect man to marry, but at least she had a plan.
Of course, love would not be a consideration. She had fallen in love once, and it had brought her nothing but heartache. No man deserved to have that much control over her. She would pick a man for the attributes she could most use, but love would not be one of them.
If that made her a cold woman, so be it.
Chapter 9
Finally the greetings were done, and Margery announced that dinner would soon be served. Her suitors followed each other into the great hall of Hawksbury Castle, laughing and gesturing as they kissed her hands. Five had gone past her, leaving the last man, Lord George Wharton, still beside his horse.
He looked about and saw Gareth nearby. In a clipped, superior tone, he said, “You, man, take my horse to the stables. Heaven knows where my squire has disappeared to.”
She held her breath as Gareth’s eyes darkened to the yellow of the skies before the fiercest storm. He rammed his sword into the scabbard at his waist.
She saw the exact moment Lord George gave a start of recognition. He backed away and almost tripped. What did he know about Gareth?
“Sir Gareth!” Margery said quickly. “You will of course be joining us at dinner.”
“Certainly, mistress,” Gareth answered. She watched the storm recede from his eyes as he looked up at her. “But please do not wait for me. I have to wash and change.”
“We will wait, Sir Gareth. I’ll have hot water sent up to your bedchamber.”
Lord George almost raced past her, not meeting her eyes. She told herself Gareth’s reputation only made him an even better protector. But still, she could not hide her curiosity.
The meal itself was a disaster. Margery tried to keep six bickering men from elbowing one another aside to sit near her. Anne and Cicely were constantly whispering into her ears, telling her which man was a duke’s younger son, and which was but a simple knight.
Margery was alone in a room full of people who seemed desperate to see her married, but none of their opinions mattered. She felt stronger, better, than she had in weeks. No longer would she trudge through each day, waiting passively for a fate decreed by the king. She would find a husband on her own terms.
After the awkward meal was over, she spent the afternoon embroidering, introducing herself to some of the men, reacquainting herself with others. The men played cards and gambled at dice. They seemed to have every intention of uselessly whiling the day away. Her husband would definitely have to be busy—no idle amusement for him. That only encouraged a man to think he should be waited on.
Yet she had to think of Anne and Cicely, too, both of whom would soon be looking for husbands. They were basking in the attentions of so many men. Anne played cards, and even shy Cicely carried on an occasional gentle conversation.
Margery would use such afternoons to further study her suitors. She had to give thought to exactly what kind of man she was looking for.
She smiled absently at Sir Humphrey Townsend, the boldest of them all, who was recounting another of his deeds in service to King Henry. Her gaze often strayed to Gareth, who sat at his own table, a book opened before him. He didn’t gamble with the other men; in fact, he ignored them. She had promised to have the seamstresses make him new clothing, but she had yet to do so. It made her feel ungrateful, considering all that he was doing for her.
Sir Humphrey suddenly said, “And who is that poor fellow, the one who’s made such bold use of your library, mistress?”
Margery felt startled, uneasy. “Do you mean Sir Gareth? He is here for the same reasons you are, sir. I gave him permission to use my library.”
Gareth lifted his head and looked at them, and it was as if his golden eyes had become ice.
Sir Humphrey’s voice grew even louder. “Mistress Margery, what is his full name?”
Something was wrong. Some wariness that she didn’t understand moved through the room. Everyone was looking at Gareth, who closed his book and sat back, arms folded across his chest. He gazed at Sir Humphrey calmly, yet danger simmered beneath the surface, like a pot about to boil. Sir Humphrey must be a fool not to see it.
“He is Sir Gareth Beaumont,” she said.
Looks passed between the knight and his companions, and their frowns made her even more nervous. She didn’t know what was happening, what knowledge had been loosed through her great hall.
“Gareth Beaumont,” Sir Humphrey said in a loud voice. “Why, Mistress Margery, do you know what kind of man dares to court you?”
Gareth studied Sir Humphrey coldly. “I have nothing to hide. Say what you will.”
Margery set down her embroidery frame and tried not to panic at the animosity between the two knights. “Any good man is welcome in my castle.”
“Even ones who carry with them a curse?” Sir Humphrey said with a smirk.
Her various suitors looked either triumphant or uneasy. Her brother James had used that same word in connection with Gareth. Why had she put off asking Gareth what it meant?
“What superstition is this, Sir Humphrey?” she said coolly. “Do you enjoy judging another man so unfairly?”
Sir Humphrey shook his head. His long, lank hair swayed. “I am only concerned for your safety, mistress. You do not know—”
“For a man so concerned with my safety, you seem gleeful.”
The knight paled for a moment before he smiled. “Did you not ask Sir Gareth about his family?”
“He and I are just renewing our acquaintance,” she said, forcing herself not to look at Gareth. �
�Am I questioning you about your ancestors?”
“Mayhap you should, mistress. I thought for certain your brothers would have told you about the Beaumont Curse.”
Margery took a deep breath, and this time couldn’t stop herself from glancing at Gareth. His face expressionless, he studied the other knight from under lowered brows.
“Sir Humphrey, I do not indulge in idle rumors,” she said with winter frost in her voice.
“This is no rumor, mistress, but fact. Have you not heard how Sir Gareth’s parents and grandparents died?”
Had Gareth lied about his parents dying in a fire? Well, she would not let cruel rumors be spoken in her presence. He could explain his past in his own time—in private.
“Mistress Margery,” Gareth said, raising those golden eyes to look at her.
She did not wish for him to play into the hands of this petty knight who took such pleasure in other people’s sorrows. But she was as frozen as everyone else in the hall, waiting for the words Gareth would say.
“’Tis no secret that my parents died in a fire when I was but a child,” he said.
“Who started the fire?” Sir Humphrey asked.
“We never knew.”
“A witness said your father drank heavily that day. Perhaps—”
“My father drank heavily every day,” Gareth interrupted coldly. “As do many of you. Are you claiming someone saw him start the fire?”
In that emotionless voice, Margery imagined a world of suffering. So this was the curse—rumors about a sad death? She could barely swallow past the lump in her throat.
But Sir Humphrey seemed unaffected. “You do not think such a death is worthy of suspicion, considering the way your grandmothers died?”
Margery saw Gareth’s knuckles whiten where they grasped his tankard, but his face betrayed little. She couldn’t imagine being the focus of so much condemnation.
He rose to his feet, looking powerful, remote, as if his past had never touched him. The room was hushed, save for the crackling of the fire and the distant sounds of servants’ laughing voices. Margery felt raised bumps along her arms.
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