My Lady's Guardian (17 page)

She shook with fury at life's unfairness, where women were scorned for what men did openly. Probably every man in the hall had bedded a woman. She had bedded a man—and what did it get her? Despair, self-loathing, guilt. She would wager that Lord Shaw experienced none of these emotions,

nor did her brothers, who had not always been the family men they were now.

Margery was finished with guilt.

She suddenly pushed to her feet. The bench dpped back, and Gareth caught the table to keep from falling. Startled, she looked down into his battered face.

"Gareth, you must have other bruises and injuries."

He stood up. "This is nothing."

"You should go rest. I'll come up with salve for your wounds."

He hesitated, then nodded. He was right to wonder about her motives, she thought. She didn't understand them herself.

After Gareth finished eating and left, Margery sent a maidservant for a tray of linens and salves. She hugged herself and stood alone, sdll feeling shocked at her revelation.

A burst of angry voices at the head table made her turn around. The Earl of Chadwick, one of the quietest men she'd ever met, was on his feet, pointing a finger at Lord Seabrook. There were shouts of agreement from both sides of the table. When she approached, they all subsided into a guilty silence. Lord Chadwick's face reddened.

"Gentlemen," she said, "what disagreement harms your friendship?"

Lord Chadwick cleared his throat. "Mistress Margery, our actual argument is not so important as the fact that we're all beginning to argue in excess."

"I do not understand."

"I fear the strain of competing for your attention has proved too much, as was evidenced by the fight this morn." Some men grumbled, but Lord Chadwick's look silenced them. "Rather than allow our friendships to die, we've agreed to return to London after your birthday celebration. You can think in peace on your choice for husband."

How patronizing of them! Margery's anger rose up her throat. She was sick of men altogether.

"Gentlemen, I do not know what to say." She forced a smile. "It has been difficult to choose a husband with such a multitude of worthy men."

She thought they began to seem resigned rather than angry, and that was a good sign.

"Mistress Margery," Lord George said, "will you be attending Lord Cabot's annual tournament next month?"

"Of course. I will enjoy seeing each of you there."

Avery Cabot was married to Sarah, a dear friend of hers. They had grown up on neighboring estates,

and had spent time together in London. Margery's brother James had once courted Sarah before she fell in love with Avery. It was expected that Margery would journey to their home.

But the tournament would be an ordeal; every knight would have heard of the king's proclamadon. She should look on this tournament as a good thing, though, since she had less than two months left to make a decision. There would be even more suitors to whom she could apply her standards.

Yet at this moment, the thought of looking at more groveling men simply made her ill.

Margery stood before Gareth's door, balancing a tray in one hand, with linens draped over her arm. She had chosen to come alone, and could not play the coward now. She knocked briskly.

Gareth opened the door, wearing just a shirt dangling loosely over his hose, and she walked past him. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching as she set the tray on the bed table.

When she turned back to face him, he deliberately closed the door, his face expressionless. The sound set off a little echo inside her.

"Margery, are you my healer this day?" he asked, walking slowly toward her.

"I am competent. You will not die under my ministrations."

He studied her silently, then one corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. "What do you want me to do?"

She wet her lips. "Take off your shirt and let me see your injuries."

He never broke eye contact as he unlaced his shirt and reached for the hem. A wild, reckless need to see him unclothed made her breath come too fast. Though there was no fire, the room felt overly warm.

He lifted his shirt over his head, then tossed it. She watched its flight until it landed on the bed. She stared at the bed a moment too long before looking back at Gareth.

Once, Margery had thought he looked like the statue of an angel, but she was wrong. He had the sculpted muscles and physical beauty of a statue, but he was clearly a man: a man with golden eyes that saw through her pretenses to the wildness underneath. If she walked to him, he would take her in his arms.

Then she noticed blood and purple bruises marring the perfection of his skin.

"Gareth!"

His name was barely a whisper on her lips as she saw what damage a blunted sword could do. Bruises dotted his skin, some the exact width of a sword. Red welts oozed trickles of blood.

He stared at her lips. "They look much worse than they feel. An ordinary day's training can give a man these meager injuries."

"I've lived beside soldiers my entire life, Gareth, and these are not ordinary injuries. Sit down on this stool, please."

Margery tried to be objective; she had washed and treated many wounds. But the thought of touching Gareth's bare skin made her feel all hot inside, especially between her thighs.

He wasn't helping much. He sat down, bringing him to her eye level. He didn't even blink as he stared at her, his eyes molten.

Though it was difficult, she broke their shared gaze and wrung a cloth in the basin of steaming water on her tray. Then she walked around him and stopped at his back. His head turned. She wanted to rest her cheek against his skin, to press her mouth to Gareth's. Her fingers itched to reach over his shoulder and trail through the scattered hair on his chest.

Using soft strokes, she washed his back, pausing often to rinse the cloth. She felt flushed, and so

boneless she could collapse against him at any moment. She dipped the cloth again and moved around to his front.

She didn't look into his face—she couldn't. His gaze was like a physical thing. She stood between his knees to wash his wounds, and touched him as she'd only touched one other man. But even that had never affected her like this. She was breathless with longing, with the excitement of doing the forbidden.

Somehow she had to distract herself.

Chapter 15

Margery said, "My suitors have decided to return to London after the celebration."

Gareth listened to her voice, husky, low, arousing. Never had he let a woman affect him so. Though she was only tending his wounds, a shudder moved through him as if she were making love to him.

He stared in surprised fascination at her hands. She took a fresh cloth and dipped one edge in wine. Her free hand rested on his shoulder as she dabbed the welt on his arm. He was light-headed from the smell of roses, and the danger of her secrets seemed far away.

"Why did the noblemen decide to leave?" he finally asked. He knew he had the upper hand, yet his voice sounded dazed.

"I think your battle this morning brought to light a division among themselves. They found it amusing to court me as a group, but never considered how competition could divide them."

"They've been divided? It hasn't seemed that way to me."

Her eyes glistened with angry satisfaction as she dried him off with a towel. "Gareth, they've become so quarrelsome that some were backing you this morn."

"Hard to believe," he murmured. His gaze followed the tumble of her hair down to her breasts. If he reached out now, he knew she'd let him touch her. He could barely resist dragging her to the floor beneath him. He wanted to pull her clothes off and lick her body as if it were the sweetest marzipan candy.

"I've promised that I would see them all again at Avery Cabot's annual tournament. Have you attended before?" She reached into a glass jar until her fingers were coated in something gray, like old grease.

"Until they refused to invite me. What is that?" he asked, grabbing her wrist before she could touch him.

"A salve to protect your wounds," she said in a bewildered, dreamy voice.

He watched her eyes drop down his body. "I won't need it," he said. "Besides, it will get all over the bed."

What would she do if he led her there now? Once again, they were alone in a bedchamber. Her blushes were lovely.

"I have bandages," she said. "And why did the Cabots refuse to invite you?"

He took a cloth and began to wipe the salve off her hands. "I kept winning. Rather than treat me as a competitor, they were frightened of me."

"Does this happen often?"

"It happens enough." He tossed the towel on the tray and she pulled back her hand. He looked into her eyes. "It is difficult to earn money to eat when no one will let you do what you're best at."

Margeiy backed away from him. He gripped his hands together to keep from pulling her against his chest. He could almost taste victory and revenge— and he could almost taste the sweet saltiness of her skin against his tongue.

"I should go," she said awkwardly, turning to straighten up the tray.

"But my legs are grievously wounded, mistress."

She looked over her shoulder with skeptical amusement. "Then I shall leave the tray for you. Bring it down when you're through."

Gareth shook his head. "But I am not as skilled as you."

"You'll learn." She opened the door, looked both ways, and disappeared into the corridor.

The next evening, Gareth blocked Desmond's way out of the stables. "Margery's birthday celebration is tomorrow. I need you to teach me how to dance."

Desmond shot him a surprised look. "You know as much about dancing as I do." He lit two small lanterns, throwing hazy shadows over the sleeping horses and mounds of straw.

"That cannot be true, for that means you know nothing. A baron's son, not trained in dancing?"

"A knight, not trained in dancing? When you were fostered, did you not learn with your lord's daughters?"

"No." Everyone had been afraid to touch him, let alone dance—the cowards.

Desmond swore sofdy and looked around. "What if the grooms come, or worse yet, a soldier?"

Gareth smiled. "Surely you are not worried about being seen dancing with me?"

"Is there not a place more.. .private?"

"Being discovered someplace private would be worse, do you not think?"

"Oh, very well," Desmond said with a growl. "You know, I am already quite tired of your smile. Just a week ago, I would have sworn you were incapable of one."

Gareth shrugged as he leaned back against a stall.

"Let us do this quickly. Really, 'tis nothing difficult—just occasional patterns of steps, and lots of dancing in big circles."

"Show me."

They were tromping about in the straw when they heard a woman's giggle. Margery leaned in the doorway, holding back her laughter with a hand over her mouth.

"Sir Gareth, I grew worried when you disappeared from the hall," she said. "I asked a squire where you'd gone, but.. .maybe.. .you didn't want to be found." She erupted into peals of laughter, letting the door post hold her up.

Desmond's face was red. Gareth had a suspicion that so was his own.

"Then you teach him!" Desmond said, stomping out into the night.

Margery wiped tears from the corners of her eyes with her fingers. "Teach you what?"

Gareth linked his hands behind his back, and struggled not to let his embarrassment become anger. He hated feeling ridiculous. "How to dance."

"The last place you fostered was negligent in your training," she said, moving forward into the stables.

They were alone. His body forgot anger and remembered the smoky heat of desire, and her hands touching his bare skin. She was a dark, seductive shadow, illuminated with glimmers of lantern light. All he could think about was throwing a blanket over a pile of hay, pulling her down on top of him, and—

"Gareth?" she said, coming close. "Did you hear me?"

He cleared his throat. "What?"

"Why did you never learn to dance?"

He shrugged. "You know of the curse. Not many wanted to touch me."

"But surely the women—" She broke off, searching his face.

Margery wondered what woman could resist him. She would have given anything in her foolish youth to dance with him.

Well, she was a grown woman now, with a woman's needs. Why shouldn't she enjoy herself? She wanted to touch him, to surround herself with the danger he represented. This was Gareth, who from boyhood to manhood had always protected her —but could he protect himself against this wildness that rose up inside her?

She reached for his hand and saw his narrowed eyes focus on where they touched. His hand was warm, callused from hard work, and so much larger than her own. She wanted to feel it against her skin.

"Let me teach you to dance," she said, pulling him away from the wall to where the lanterns spilled their meager light. "The dances we do in the country are much simpler than those at court."

Gareth said nothing as she took his shoulders to position him opposite her. It was as if a fire raged between them, drawing them ever nearer to something forbidden.

"We step toward each other, then back," she said.

He stared at her body, following her movements. Awareness of his smoldering gaze burst to life within her.

"Step forward again," she whispered, and this time she let her body brush against his.

His eyes closed and she saw him shudder as he stepped away.

"Again."

Before the dance even brought them together, Gareth pulled her hard against him, turning around

to press her to the wall. Her body heated with new, dangerous sensations as they stared at each other, poised on the threshold of something so explosive, it would change their relationship forever.

She could stop this now.

Instead, she put her hands on either side of his face. His skin burned her palms, his rough whiskers scraped her. She wanted the passion of his mouth covering hers. She moistened her lips, puckered them, waiting—

With a groan, Gareth lifted her clear off the floor and ground his body into hers. The hot onslaught of his lips slanted over hers. She gasped as a lightning burst of desire moved through her, chasing all thoughts from her mind. His tongue licked along her lips, then between them. She surrendered her mouth gladly, sucking his tongue, tasting his mouth in return.