“Nothing? It was so ‘nothing’ that you had to struggle to escape. No, no, wait,” he said, lifting a hand. “I think Anne said it better. Her exact words were, ‘Margery kicked him there.’”
She was unable to decide if he was amused or angry. “It worked.”
“How did you learn to do that?”
“My brothers.”
“Did you tell them how well it had succeeded?”
She didn’t answer.
“Of course not. You did not even tell your brothers the kind of trouble you’re in, did you?”
“I could not,” she said. “You don’t know what it’s like to be a woman, Gareth, and to finally be given a taste of freedom. Do you think I wanted to be locked up in some remote castle for my protection? Besides, my brothers are with the army.”
“But now you have me,” he said in a low voice. He remained silent for a moment, his stare skeptical. “Why do you sometimes go to the chapel twice a day?” he asked suddenly.
Her face heated. “I—”
“I think ’tis all related. The attacks, and this thing you pray for.”
“I pray for the protection of my people, and for mercy from God.”
“Mercy for them—or for you?”
Gareth watched Margery’s face turn a sickly white. He gripped the arms of his chair and remained still, waiting for a grain of truth. He felt as if he uncovered another of her lies every day.
There was more going on in Hawksbury Castle than her decision about a husband. Peter Fitzwilliam’s letter had something to do with it, but it would be awkward to ask her about a man she’d almost married. He didn’t want her to think he could possibly be jealous.
“We are all sinners,” she said in a low voice. “Even you.”
The blueness of her accusing eyes pierced him like an arrow, but he felt no guilt in his attempt to marry Margery. His revenge was justified. Still, he was uncomfortable. Did she suspect something?
“I make no pretensions to sainthood,” he said. “I am farther from heaven than most. But my ability to protect you is hampered if you do not tell me the truth.”
She sighed. “Gareth, the only truth is that I didn’t want you to worry about me more than you already do. I feel smothered sometimes—by you, by Sir Wallace, and especially by these men who feel they have every right to come to my home to inspect me like a new purchase.”
“Let me help you make the decision. I know something of each of these men by now.”
She shoved back her chair and began to pace. “The choice of my husband was first my father’s, then my brothers’, then the king’s—and now you want it as well? Am I not intelligent enough to make my own decisions?”
“You know that is not what I mean,” he said. “But I can see these men in a way they won’t show you. On the tiltyard, they reveal themselves to anyone who pays attention to the signs. Humphrey Townsend—”
“—is a greedy braggart,” she finished angrily. She stood above him, hands on her hips. “And my woman’s heart senses even more—that you put yourself in danger by crossing him.”
“Crossing him?” Gareth echoed, leaning back in his chair to study her. She was worried about him? This must be a good sign.
“Mayhap you were too busy trying to win with your bow this afternoon, but I saw Sir Humphrey’s face when you defeated me. Don’t you see that now you stand in his way?”
“That’s where I should be.” He came to his feet in anger. “Between you and other men. I am your shield, Margery,” he said, catching hold of her upper arms, “not the other way around. I know what I am doing.”
Her head dropped back, and he saw that the anger had drained from her face. “But I don’t want you hurt in this mess,” she whispered.
He gave her a little shake. “What mess? Does it have something to do with the letter you received today?”
She let out a strangled gasp, then pressed her lips together.
Gareth searched her face, thinking she was too stubborn. “I overheard the men say it was from Peter Fitzwilliam.”
“He was sending greetings from my brothers,” she said in an emotionless voice. “That is all.”
He wanted to ask what kind of a man Fitzwilliam was, why she’d almost married him. But a tear fell from her eye and ran down her cheek, and he suddenly felt an overwhelming need to protect her from whatever she feared. She would soon be his wife, he told himself. Nothing would harm her. He drew her against his chest and put his arms around her.
Her dark curls seemed to wrap themselves around his arms. The merest thought of another man near her made him primitive with anger. He alone would win her.
Her hands slid up his back, and in a heartbeat, his anger and possessiveness blazed into unexpected passion. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, her breath fanned his neck, their thighs brushed together. She suddenly looked up at him, eyes wide, lips parted. He could see her moist tongue, could imagine the feel of it rasping against his skin. He pressed his lips to her temple. She gave a soft gasp and arched against him. He wanted to grasp her hips and pull her even harder against him.
He waited an endless moment, his lips just above hers, both of them breathing raggedly. He needed to plunder her mouth, to lose himself in the mystery that was Margery.
But it was too soon. A hurried kiss was not in the careful plan he had created to win her to wife.
She broke from his arms, stumbling back until she bumped into the table. “Forgive me,” she whispered, tears etching her cheeks. “It is cruel of me to use you for my own comfort.”
“Margery, ’tis my fault.” He reached out a hand.
“No, no, Gareth, it isn’t you, never think that. ’Tis all me. Now do you see why I pray?”
She ran from the room. Gareth felt satisfied that she turned to him for comfort, but frustrated that he still hadn’t discovered her secrets.
A shadow suddenly darkened the doorway, and he looked up. Wallace Desmond stood there, his face serious and cold.
Chapter 12
Gareth waited in resignation for Desmond to speak.
Desmond stepped into the room and closed the door. He eyed the books on the table, then Gareth. “I didn’t know an embrace was one of the duties of a personal guard.”
“This is none of your concern, Desmond,” he said in a low voice.
“Then I’ll make it my concern. What is going on?”
Gareth refused to answer. He walked past Desmond, but the man caught his arm.
“You have become close to Margery, Beaumont,” Desmond said, his narrowed blue eyes determined. “This is not a crime. But I don’t like secrets being kept from me—or her.”
Gareth gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. To trust Desmond with the truth went against everything he’d experienced in a life full of betrayals. Yet the man had not betrayed him so far, and he could have made trouble for Gareth if he wanted to.
“I have decided I want to marry her,” he said stiffly.
Desmond released his arm, then rolled his eyes. “Then just ask her! Why do you keep this to yourself?”
“Besides the danger to Margery, there is something she’s not telling me, some secret I can’t trust,” Gareth said slowly, trying to rein in his temper. “How can I announce my changed intentions, and have her include me with all the other men she distrusts? Hell, I’m landless and close to poverty—two attributes that make me unsuitable to a lady.” He was powerless to stop the words pouring from him. “She and her family sent me away when I was a child because I wasn’t the right sort of ‘friend’ for her. She needs to learn to trust me again. Then I know she’ll want to marry me.”
Gareth took a deep breath and looked into Desmond’s astonished eyes. He wouldn’t blame the man if he ran out laughing, if he told the entire castle about Gareth’s need to marry into a family that had rejected him.
Desmond gave him a crooked smile. “I’ve never seen this side of you. Did it make you feel better to confide in me?”
“No.�
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Desmond laughed. “I swear it helps. You talk about Margery not trusting you, but you can’t trust anyone, can you?”
Gareth closed his eyes and forced down his impatient anger. Someday Desmond would learn that a man could only trust himself. “Are you going to stand in my way? Margery is looking for a husband, and you cannot be unaware of her charms.”
Desmond shook his head. “Have no fear, Gareth. I would not go against a friend. But be careful; it is a dangerous game to ask a woman to trust you while you lie to her.”
Gareth opened his mouth, then closed it angrily. Desmond was heir to a barony and a decent inheritance. How could he possibly understand what it felt like to be desperate, to know that one family had stolen his only chance at happiness?
After a sleepless night, Margery was angry at herself. Over and over she replayed her actions with Gareth. How had an argument led to being held in his arms? Yes, he had begun the embrace, but she had let herself sink against his body as if starved for a man’s attention.
None of this was part of her plan! Gareth was certainly not the perfect man for her. He could be kind when he wanted to, but contentment would never be one of his virtues. He was strong-willed—and he was dangerous. She could not control her feelings when she looked into those golden eyes. She would find a man who didn’t make her feel wild, reckless; a man whom she wouldn’t mind lying to.
She imagined Gareth’s face when she told him her sins, told him she couldn’t bear children. She felt ill just imagining the contempt and disgust he would try to hide.
So why did she keep allowing him to touch her? She could still feel his thighs against hers, his chest a solid wall of strength.
Margery reminded herself that she had employed him for his strength and skill. Of course she admired those qualities—but from now on, she had better admire them from a distance.
When Gareth faced Desmond at the tiltyard the next morning, he wondered what to expect. Would the man now feel free to intrude on Gareth’s private concerns, to discuss his pursuit of Margery as if he were entitled?
The day was hot and damp, and he needed to battle out his frustrations, not talk about Margery. His training partner merely grinned, hefted his sword, and began the attack. Gareth wanted peaceful silence, but Desmond could easily talk and fight at the same time. Gareth sighed as he listened to Desmond discuss the castle defenses, Margery’s suitors, anything that seemed to surface in his cluttered mind between grunts of exertion. Gareth attacked harder and harder, but still Desmond had enough wind to prattle on.
He suddenly realized that Desmond had mentioned Margery’s plans for the day. “What?” Gareth said, ducking away as the sword arced past his head.
Desmond laughed. “I knew you were not listening.”
“If I listened to everything you said, my mind would explode.” Gareth parried away Desmond’s sword. “Did you say that Margery wants to eat a meal in the glen?” He crashed his sword down toward Desmond’s head, and watched him use his shield to parry it. “You just want to get rid of me so you don’t have to fight.”
Desmond gasped for breath and slashed with his own blunt sword. “Not…true. Remember, I train…all day, while you…pick flowers.”
Gareth drove him back, until Desmond came up flat against the curtain wall. He heard a whistle of wind only a moment before he had time to knock Desmond’s sword aside.
“You’re good,” Gareth said, stumbling toward Desmond’s right.
Desmond crouched and held his sword before him. “You are too easily distracted these days.”
Desmond was right, and it was all because of Margery. Gareth straightened and let his sword dangle. He looked toward the castle, wondering what she was doing. They hadn’t spoken since the previous afternoon. He’d pushed too hard about her secrets, even though he knew she didn’t yet trust him. In penance, he’d left flowers by her plate again this morn.
Desmond came up beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. “My friend, I’ve been thinking.”
“Instead of talking?” Gareth asked dryly. “I am amazed.”
Desmond laughed. “Why do you not declare yourself her true suitor? I think she would welcome it, and you would not have to lie anymore.”
Gareth shook his head. “We discussed this yesterday. Nothing has changed.”
“I heard what they’ve been saying about this family curse of yours. Why didn’t you tell me before? It explains why you came to France, why you’re lying to Margery. If I don’t hold your ancestors’ deeds against you, she won’t.”
“You don’t have to marry me,” Gareth said coldly. “Nor do you have to convince your brothers to accept me with all my poverty.” He shrugged Desmond’s hand off his shoulder and forced a smile. “I have an outing to prepare for.”
Late in the morning the servants set off for the glen, driving carts loaded with provisions, even pavilions in case of rainfall. Gareth, mounted on his stallion, looked up at the bright sky and hazy sun. Perfect courting weather.
Squires dressed in the colors of their lords stood ready with the horses. Margery and her ladies and suitors descended from the great hall in a boisterous group. Gareth watched them take up their reins, saw who bothered to thank his servant. Already he knew how well each man fought. Now he just had to talk to them. Surely he could find a good reason for Margery to dismiss every one of these men as unsuitable.
He settled on Rutherford Norton, the Earl of Chadwick, as his first target. The man seemed quiet and easygoing, which perfectly matched Margery’s definition of a husband. Perhaps he hated court politics, and would never leave Margery’s side. Then she’d be burdened with Chadwick every day of her life.
By the time they reached the clearing Margery had chosen, Gareth could hardly stay awake in the saddle. Lord Chadwick cared mostly about farming and chess. All he needed was a brood mare to continue his line—and he loved court politics. Gareth would have to keep Margery away from this “ideal” man.
During their conversation, Gareth had brought up Fitzwilliam. Lord Chadwick said he and all his friends were late to court Margery, because they thought it inevitable that she would be betrothed to the heir to the earldom of Kent. Chadwick had confided that earlier in the year Margery and Fitzwilliam had seemed on good terms, but something went wrong in their relationship, opening the door for Chadwick and his friends.
Gareth remembered her frightened face when she’d looked at Fitzwilliam’s letter. Whatever had happened, he didn’t think the worst was over. But how to get her to confide in him?
Margery pulled her horse to a stop, closed her eyes, and just breathed deeply of the summer breeze and the scents of wildflowers. The gelding moved restlessly beneath her, and she patted its neck as she opened her eyes.
She could now see the reason for the animal’s distress—suitors were rushing at her from all sides, their hands lifted, all wanting to help her dismount. She sighed, tempted to kick her horse into a gallop and escape to ride blissfully alone. But no, there were still so many men she had to converse with. She allowed Lord George to help her to the ground.
Soon she and her ladies were seated on blankets, the men sprawled out all around them in the grass. She ate her meat pie and sipped her wine and tried not to notice how Gareth sat apart from everyone, how little anyone except she or the twins spoke to him. She could not believe that grown men gave any credence to a superstitious curse.
What must it be like to be shunned, not for anything he’d done, but because of his lineage? Should her sins become public, she, too, would be shunned. But she would never be able to handle it with the arrogant self-assurance Gareth did.
She watched the breeze lifting his blond hair, his solid body clothed in that plain brown tunic. My lord, she’d forgotten all about his wardrobe again. He deserved a new garment for this birthday party the queen had planned for her.
Margery turned her attention back to the men around her. She chose the government as her topic of conversation, and listened closely to each
of her suitors. Many of them said they would prefer to be home with their wives instead of at court. Surely they were saying what they thought she wanted to hear, so she kept asking questions, hoping at least one man might slip and tell the truth. Finally Lord George, the duke’s son, admitted he had a fondness for London.
As she continued to chip away at her suitors’ politics, she kept watch on Anne, who walked the edge of the clearing with Lord Shaw. For a brief while she couldn’t see Gareth, but then he reappeared through the trees. He spread marigolds at her feet with a bow.
“Mistress Margery,” he said, “I searched far and wide to find flowers to match your beauty, but as you can see, I did not succeed.”
She made an attempt at a cool smile. “So you have been my secret gardener these last few days?”
He bowed. Behind him, she saw men rolling their eyes or shaking their heads. She knew they must secretly wish they had come up with such a romantic gesture.
Romance was not something she would care for in her perfect husband. That would require too much of his attention—and might involve love.
She had thought Peter romantic until she realized it was all physical; that he wanted only her body, not her heart and mind and soul.
“Mistress Margery!” called Sir Chester, a man who did his best to hover near the duke’s two sons. “I believe we should play a game.”
She was grateful for the distraction. “Very well, Sir Chester, what do you suggest?”
“A game of chase, mistress, like a fox hunt. Only you could be the prize.”
Everyone laughed as Margery nodded her head. “I hope you mean that a moment of my company would be the prize.”
The knight reddened. “Oh, of c-course. I did not mean to imply—”
She lifted a hand. “I understand, Sir Chester. I feel quite youthful today, so a child’s game suits me. My ladies and I will await you gentlemen among the trees. Do promise to give us a suitable start.”
Sir Humphrey got to his feet. “And how shall we catch you, mistress?” he asked, his lips twisted in a sly smile.
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