My Lady's Guardian (13 page)

She should be happy that her brothers were safe, that they had sent her warm greetings through Peter. She wanted to look forward to their visit. But how could she, knowing that Peter might be there? What possible reason could he have to come, unless he meant to expose her?

Gareth sat at the table, watching Margery frown over the letter. At first he ignored the low conversation among her suitors, until he realized that they were discussing the delivery of the letter.

"I tell you," said Townsend, "he wore Fitzwilliam's livery."

The Earl of Chadwick, who so far had proved himself a decent, quiet man—and a threat to Gareth's courtship—shook his head. "It cannot be. He and Mistress Margery are no longer speaking."

Gareth leaned forward for another bite of cake, trying not to be obvious as he strained to listen.

"It was rumored they would definitely marry," said Lord Seabrook tentatively.

The Wharton brothers exchanged glances. The eldest, Lord George, said, "Fitzwilliam himself told me he was no longer pursuing her—and he was damned mysterious about why."

Gareth looked once more at Margery, who stared at the gatehouse, the letter crumpled in her hand. With all his plans, he had never considered that she had had a serious suitor, that she'd come close to marrying.

But what could have happened that made her look so forlorn on reading Fitzwilliam's letter? And why, suddenly, did he care about Margery's sorrow? Surely it was because Fitzwilliam was a threat to his own seduction of her. He didn't need a rival who had the advantage of a prior relationship.

Margery spent the afternoon spinning thread with her ladies and maidservants in her solar. She put

Peter's letter from her mind as best she could. After all, she had been living with the threat of him for months now. She refused to let him affect her plans for marrying the perfect husband. Instead, she listened to the casde gossip about her suitors and how each treated his servants.

Twice, Gareth passed by the open doorway, but he never came in. He distracted her, made her wonder about this curse and his more relaxed behavior.

Just before supper, she sent a page to find out where Gareth had been keeping himself for the afternoon. The boy, without even the first fuzz of manhood on his chin, stammered as he told her that Gareth was in the library.

Margery nodded and dismissed him, looking speculatively down the corridor toward the room. Not very far away after all. As she neared the room, she heard the sound of women's voices, and found Anne and Cicely sitting across the table from Gareth. When they looked up and saw her, their gazes slid away with guilty haste.

The library was darkly paneled, hung with portraits and landscapes. One wall contained shelves of rare bound books. There was a table and comfortable chairs, even a desk where her steward sometimes worked on the castle ledgers.

Gareth seemed to make the room his own, books spread out before him, his manner confident. Margery hated the momentary doubts that gnawed at her, that made her wonder if he had another motive besides her protection. She'd never had thoughts like this before Peter had destroyed her trust.

"Mistress Margery," Gareth said, leaning back in his chair. "I was just having an interesting conversation with your two ladies."

"Pertaining to what?" she asked.

Both Anne and Cicely got to their feet.

"You can have my chair, Margery," Cicely said, taking hold of her sister's arm. "We have much to accomplish before supper."

"And what could that be?" Margery asked.

They didn't answer as they disappeared down the corridor.

She rested her hands on the table and leaned forward. "Sir Gareth, may I ask why you are working your wiles on my ladies?"

"My wiles?" he repeated. "I have no motives— other than information."

"What kind of information would that be?" she asked, sitting down opposite him at the table.

"About you, of course."

She kept a smile on her face as a shiver of apprehension worked its way up her back.

"Your ladies told me about how the three of you were attacked in the glen before I arrived."

"It was nothing," she said, lowering her gaze to hide her relief.

"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 somedmes 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 Casde 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."

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 endtled?

The day was hot and damp, and he needed to batde 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 dme. Gareth sighed as he listened to Desmond discuss the casde 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.