My Lady's Guardian (14 page)

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' polidcs, 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.

"How?" she repeated, wishing he didn't make her feel so uncomfortable.

"If we see you, do we win?"

"That seems a bit too easy." She opened her purse, then pulled forth a lace scarf and tucked it into her belt. "The one who has this, wins."

Margery saw Gareth frown as all the men roared their approval. Did even a game of chase seem too dangerous to him?

"But I cannot promise which lady will have the token," she said quickly.

That did not appease Gareth. "Mistress Margery, perhaps your servants could roam the outer trees of the glen, to alert us to any strangers."

She gave her approval, but when her guests returned to court, they would most likely talk. What would King Henry think if his noblemen reported that Margery lived in fear of an attack? All choices would be taken from her, and she'd be brought back to court.

She rose to her feet, motioned the servants to scatter, then led Anne and Cicely toward the edge of the clearing.

She turned back to the men, who were already waiting to follow. "Give us some moments alone, my lords," she said, smiling sweetly as she lifted the scarf from her belt. "I wonder which of us will have this?"

With a final wave, they walked deeper into the woods, until the sun only crossed the path in dappled shades. When they were no longer in sight of the men, they picked up their skirts and began to run.

Margery laughed with a sudden breathless excitement. "Ladies, which of you would like the scarf?"

"You keep it!" Anne said, already veering away on her own. "They'll expect you to pass it off."

"Very well!" Margery called, climbing up an embankment and into a dense growth of trees. "Enjoy yourselves!"

Soon she was alone but for the sounds of her own breathing and the chattering of squirrels. She ran faster, determined to be the last one caught.

Soon enough she heard the men laughing and calling to one another. Heedless of her gown, she crouched on her knees in the densest copse of trees and felt a rush of excitement when she was passed by. Moments later she finally felt safe enough to stand.

As she leaned around a tree to spy on her opponents, she felt a presence at her back. Before she could even take a breath, she was caught about the waist, and a hand covered her mouth.

"Tis me," the voice whispered.

Margery recognized Gareth and sagged in his grip. He removed his hand from her mouth, but didn't let her go.

"Gareth—"

"Shh! Sir Humphrey stalks you," he whispered.

She listened to the occasional crack of a twig and the rustle of long grass. But her sense of hearing was soon overwhelmed by her sense of touch. She tried mighdly not to feel his hips against her backside, not to notice that his arm rested just beneath her breasts—but her heart began a mad thump. She couldn't allow this to happen again.

"Is he gone?" she whispered.

Gareth removed his arm from around her waist. "I think we have successfully eluded him," he murmured, and his breath stirred her hair.

She turned in the closeness of the trees and looked up at him. He gave her a slow smile as his gaze dropped below her face.

Margery stiffened. "And what are you looking at, Sir Gareth?"

"The token in your belt," he answered, then glanced back to her face. "Should I be looking at something else?"

She felt a blush sweep her cheeks, and she couldn't find words to answer. She was being a foolish girl.

"Does this mean I won?" He leaned against a tree and crossed his arms over his chest.

She glowered at him as she handed over the scarf.

His voice softened. "Do you remember when last we played this game of chase?"

"I remember chasing you about the courtyard many times. I even won a few."

He gave her a lazy grin, the one that always shocked her with its rarity.

"Oh, I imagine you think you let me win," Margery said.

He arched a golden eyebrow. "I was a few years older."

"But I had intelligence."

He chuckled and she quickly covered his mouth with her hand.

"Sir Humphrey could still be about!" she whispered.

They froze, listening. She had leaned one arm against his chest, and her hand on his lips felt so warm, bathed in his breath. She looked up into his face. His humor had fled, leaving that spark of intoxicating danger in his eyes. What was it about him that called to her, that drew her toward emotions she'd vowed to deny?

She yanked her hand away and stumbled back a step. She looked about and saw no one but the two of them in the dense greenery of trees.

Gareth moved beside her as they began to walk. "The last time we played chase was in the forest outside Wellespring Castle."

She sighed. "I remember being terribly frightened, but feeling safe, too. It has not been easy for me to think on those moments with you, because I still feel guilty that my father was dying at the same time."

He hesitated before he said, "I understand."

They came upon a brook meandering between rocks, glittering wherever the sun touched it through the shadow of trees. There were pools and rippling shallows, and the sounds of water falling. It was so very soothing to her frayed nerves.

She smiled at Gareth, and saw a blur of pink moving on the edges of their little clearing. Keeping

her expression as normal as possible, she said, "What other games did we play in the forest?"

Before he could answer, the pink blur became shy Cicely, running with all her might. She snatched the token out of Gareth's hand, and as he reached for her, Margery mischievously pushed him into the brook. But at the last second he gripped Margery's wrist, and with a shriek she fell on top of him.

Chapter 13

Gareth's backside hit the stone bed of the brook, and Margery came down on top of him. The water splashed over them on its way down to the Severn River. He held her there, letting her feel the way their legs entwined and their hips met—letting his own arousal awaken his senses.

Margery's hair slapped across his face in a sodden mass, getting into his mouth and tickling his nose. Grinning, he heaved her to one side, and she rolled face first into the water. She came up on her hands and knees, gasping and spitting.

Gareth started to laugh. Seldom-used muscles in his throat and chest soon ached with the effort, but he couldn't help himself. The normally pristine, regal, perfect Margery Welles was a muddy disaster.

He vaguely saw Lady Cicely waving the scarf in triumph, then the duke's two sons emerged from the undergrowth to chase her into the trees.

Gareth struggled to his feet, his tunic streaming water. He turned to help Margery, but she pushed his hand away and crawled ashore, her dripping skirts clinging to her legs.