My Lady's Guardian (15 page)

"I hope you realize," she said, gasping as she flopped onto her back in the grass, "that a gentleman would not laugh."

"I have never claimed to be a gentleman." He tried to speak solemnly, but the corners of his lips kept twitching uncontrollably.

He sat down beside her and started wringing the water from his sleeves, seeing from her expression that she was trying hard not to laugh herself. He didn't think it wise just yet to inform her that her face was smeared in mud, and that a fern leaf was caught in her hair.

Margery sniffed and wiped her arm across her face. "You could have pretended to be a gentleman and not pulled me in after you." When she saw the mud on her sleeve, she moaned.

"You could have been a lady and not pushed me."

She shrugged and closed her eyes, leaning back on her hands until the sun shone on her face. "I was

simply shocked that Cicely—not Anne!—had thrown herself so completely into the game, and I wanted to help her."

Gareth dropped back on his elbows, gazing at Margery's wet, clinging gown. The pale yellow fabric molded to every curve, from her hardened nipples down to the indentation between her thighs. The impulse to cover her body with his was suddenly overwhelming.

He came up on one hand and leaned over her. All he had to do was remove a piece of her clothing— almost any piece—and let themselves be discovered. The game would be over and she'd be his, married as soon as the banns could be read. She desired him; he knew it. What would she do if he licked the moisture from her skin?

She frowned. "Gareth, what are you doing?"

Yet he didn't have her trust. He needed her to choose him as her husband, to stand against her brothers.

"Forgive me, mistress. I sometimes forget I am a paid servant."

"Do not say that," she murmured, looking up at him so earnestly. "We are also friends."

"Even after what happened yesterday?"

She remained silent, and Gareth waited, searching her face.

"I was as much at fault as you," she finally whispered. "You were only trying to comfort me. I was distraught and overwhelmed at having too many choices for husband."

"I think it is more than that. What pain do you hide, Margery?"

He lightly brushed her hair from her cheek. She stared almost wildly at him as her eyes filled with tears.

"Tell me," he whispered. He cupped her face in one hand, wiping a tear away with his thumb. She closed her eyes and bit her trembling lip, and more tears escaped. He looked down into her beautiful face, so full of sorrow, and something painful lurched inside his chest.

Then familiar anger bubbled back to life inside him, and he was relieved. He could trust nothing Margery said or did. Maybe this behavior was just her way to soften a man.

She rolled away from him and rose unsteadily to her feet. "We should return and see who won." She plucked at her skirts. "My, this is heavy."

Gareth got to his feet and caught up with her.

When they finally reached the clearing where everyone else had already gathered, Margery moved farther away from him. Conversations stopped and every gaze fastened on them.

"I'm all right," she said. "I fell in the water, and Sir Gareth rescued me."

She put on a good performance, marching across the clearing with abused dignity. Her suitors surrounded her, asking what they could do.

Lady Cicely finally approached him, her smile tentative, a blanket in her hands. "Sir Gareth, please accept my apologies. In my haste to win, I did not think of the consequences to you."

He wrapped the blanket about his shoulders. "No lasting consequences, Lady Cicely. Did you win?"

"Lord Shaw caught me and the token," she admitted, a faint blush staining her freckled cheeks.

His gaze returned to Margery, and he was distracted again, wondering how Peter Fitzwilliam was connected to her secrets.

At Mass the next morning, Margery immediately noticed that Gareth was missing. She was almost through eating her morning meal when he finally entered the great hall. He was again wearing that leather jerkin he trained in, but this time he had done without the shirt. His muscled arms were tan from the sun. Though his hands seemed best suited to holding weapons, now they held wildflowers of all colors. The blossoms dropped from his arms, trailing across the hall behind him.

Margery sat back in surprise as he strewed her table with flowers. They fell into her goblet, across her plate, and into her lap.

"Did I not see these near the clearing where we ate yesterday?" she asked, feeling flustered and touched, and trying not to show it.

"Yes, mistress," Gareth said. "I had to have them for you. I must confess, I couldn't quite remember where I had seen them, so I had to search. Forgive me for being late."

She was well aware of the grumbling of her suitors, some in amusement, some in disdain. "Thank you for your gift," she said softly.

He sat down at the end of the head table, and she watched as three giggling maidservants converged on him at once, offering food.

Before the meal was through, she managed to whisper a message to one of the servants, asking Gareth to join her in the sewing rooms. It was time to follow through on her promise.

When Gareth finally arrived, Margery looked up from the work table where she was cutting out garments. There were many tables, spread with the different fabrics needed for every kind of servant, from soldiers to serving maids to kitchen boys.

Her seamstresses stopped working to stare at Gareth, and Margery tried to pretend that it was not admiration but shock at having a knight invade their domain.

"Ethel," Margery called to the woman in charge, "Sir Gareth lost his trunks on the crossing from France, and I offered to provide him with a few new items of clothing. Would you measure him to begin?"

Ethel was a woman of middle-age, graying, stoop-shouldered from cutting and sewing fabric all day. Her manner was brisk as she circled Gareth.

"Aye, mistress, we can help the lad. Go on about yer duties."

"I'd like to help pick out the colors and—"

Ethel gave her a disapproving frown. "'Tisn't right that a lady be with a man discussin' such a subject. Go on with ye, now."

Margery thought Gareth gave her a rather irritated look as two more women circled and studied him. She could only shrug and back out into the corridor. Since no one else was about, she lingered, peeking in as the women held up cut pieces of fabric for size. He would look handsome no matter what his garment.

A hand suddenly covered her mouth. Margery gave a muffled scream, but already the man was dragging her backward. She tried to dislodge his arm, even caught her heels in the floorboards. Panic overwhelmed her and she flailed helplessly.

They didn't go far. He dragged her into the garderobe and shut the door. Only then was she turned around to face Sir Humphrey Townsend. He grinned at her.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, backing up against the wall.

The knight shrugged. "I don't mean to hurt you, Mistress Margery. I never get a moment of your dme, and Beaumont always does. How does he manage that, I wonder?"

"This isn't an abduction?" she asked in shock.

"Of course not. I just needed some time to convince you that I am the perfect husband."

She didn't know whether to laugh or hit him. "Do you think it is romantic to bring me into the garderobe? The smell alone—" She broke off, red- faced, trying to look anywhere but at the two holes near the far wall.

Sir Humphrey glanced around and had the decency to seem embarrassed. "I guess this was not the best location."

"No, it most certainly was not. And the manner in which you brought me here—" She took a deep

breath, controlling herself, knowing that she shouldn't anger him.

Sir Humphrey stepped nearer. He wasn't very tall, but he was broad and muscular. He gave her a cajoling smile. "Now, Margery, can you not see how much passion I feel for you?"

As he slid his hand along her arm, Margeiy pressed so close to the wall she could feel the indentations of the mortar. Her panic was returning. Was this his clumsy attempt to compromise her? Clumsy or not, it could actually work.

Just as the knight took another step closer, and she was thinking of making a dash for freedom, the door slammed open.

Gareth stood there, hands on his hips, looking as cold and dangerous as ever. Margeiy sagged with relief, then worried that there would be immediate bloodshed. She didn't want anyone hurt.

"Townsend," Gareth said, "did you wish to speak with me? I saw you lingering outside the sewing room."