My Lady's Guardian (19 page)

Could the man on the horse be—himself?

He walked back to her bed and stood over her as he donned his doublet. Though she was covered to her waist by a thin blanket, her white nightclothes fell in shadowy folds across her breasts. With a little sigh, she turned her head away from him.

Gareth smoothed his fingers through her curls. He had forgotten that the visions didn't always foretell doom. Sometimes they told him useless information, like where his mother's knitting needles had gone. Maybe this time his knowledge could be helpful. Perhaps he had let his natural

suspicion cloud his judgment where the visions were concerned.

For a moment, he felt an unfamiliar twinge of conscience, which he was determined to ignore. He might be using Margery for revenge, but the rewards to her would be sufficient. She would have his protection and his loyalty, which was more than she had ever given him.

Silently, Gareth returned to his own chamber.

By midday, the noblemen were on their way to London, followed by their baggage carts, their servants, and their squires. Margery returned to an almost empty great hall, and the relief of solitude was nearly overwhelming.

Not that she was really alone. She smiled at the servants dismantling the trestle tables from the last meal. A maidservant hummed as she swept out the old rushes.

For just a moment, Margery pretended that the last few months had not happened, that she was a carefree girl with the promise of the rest of her life to look forward to.

Then she saw Gareth sitting in a chair before the fire, legs spread, a tankard of ale in his fist resting on one knee.

In her mind, she saw again his pale face when he'd taken ill, the way his eyes had glazed over, frightening her. She didn't believe a simple illness was the cause, especially not when he looked so... healthy.

She should not meet his gaze, but she found herself caught in his penetrating stare, embarrassed, yet aware of the secret things they had done to each other. He made her feel self-conscious and sensual and endangered all at the same time. She walked toward him slowly.

He looked up into her face. "So, the London suitors are gone."

"Yes. Your dudes should prove lighter."

"I think not," he said with a shake of his head. "Unless you are locked in a room alone with me, there is always a danger."

And there wasn't danger when she was alone with him? 'Tis what attracted them to each other, she was certain. She must be blushing furiously.

Gareth smiled, which only added to her discomfort. Did he know everything she was thinking? Did he know that even now she couldn't forget the way his body had rubbed against hers, the wild thrill she'd felt with his tongue in her mouth? She wanted to experience it all again, for a secret memory to cherish long after he was gone and she was married.

But there was still so much to do, to restock and resettle the household now that their guests had departed. Within the week her brothers would be arriving. Her brief respite from entertaining would be spent supervising the cleaning.

Suddenly, it was all too much. Margery had been trapped in this castle for weeks now, and she needed to get away.

But not alone.

She looked down at Gareth, who sipped his ale and waited patiently for her to speak. She gave him a slow smile, and he raised one eyebrow.

"Wait here," she said, then walked quickly back toward the kitchens. Soon she returned, carrying a basket brimming with food. "Follow me."

She headed toward the double doors leading to the inner ward, and he caught up with her as they crossed the packed earth courtyard.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"The stables. Do you think you can fit all this food in a saddle pack?" She swung the basket toward him and he caught it against his chest.

"Of course, but—"

"Do not ask questions. I don't know where we're headed or what we're going to do, but I have to get away from here."

Chapter 17

Gareth rode beside Margery beneath the gatehouse, but the moment her horse left the tunnel, she kicked into a gallop and raced away, laughing. He should be annoyed, but he understood her need for freedom after a week of pretenses.

He rode hard and he nearly caught up with her, then decided he preferred the view better from behind. Her blue skirts flared off the horse's back like a cape. He could see her dark hair streaming in the wind, the ruffle of her white smock, her stockinged legs. She looked over her shoulder at him, then laughed with a care freeness he had never seen in her.

How did she put aside her problems and enjoy a simple ride in the countryside? Nothing was solved by running away, yet she seemed to exist only in the

moment. This was a fantasy, but he suddenly wanted to join her in it, to pretend that there was no past or present, no secrets. Just the two of them.

But that was foolishness. She was giving him the perfect opportunity to further his revenge. He had her alone for as long as he liked. If only it would rain, trapping them in an abandoned shelter, the two of them alone in the dripping darkness...

"Gareth!"

He realized she was outdistancing him as he daydreamed. She saluted him as her horse entered the dappled greenery of the glen where they'd first seen each other. He leaned over the horse's neck and galloped harder, the wind ruffling his clothes and hair.

He caught up to her just past the last trees, then surged ahead down the slowly winding hillside roads of the Cotswolds. The Severn Valley spread out before them, with the river sparkling in the sunlight as it twisted and turned upon itself. Sheep by the thousands grazed the green pastures, separated by low stone fences and the occasional cluster of trees.

"Gareth!"

He turned his head and saw that Margery had veered off the road, and was now following a narrow line of trees and piles of stones. With a pull on the reins, he brought his stallion up on its hind legs. He turned and headed back up the hillside.

The path disappeared over the crest of a hill. When Gareth reached the top, he looked down into a small wooded valley with a stream running down to join the Severn. Margery was just entering a copse of trees.

He followed and trotted up next to her on the bank of the stream, then slid to the ground. He reached up to help her dismount, but she fell in a breathless heap into his arms. It was as if she trusted him, and he felt stunned, even humbled, in a strange way.

"I won!" she cried, throwing her arms wide and dropping her head back.

He gripped her waist before she fell. "Only because you changed the rules."

Her head came up and she gave him a saucy smile. "They were my rules to change." She lingered a moment, one hand resting on his chest. Though he didn't quite understand it, this reckless, amusing side of Margery appealed to him. Anything she did appealed to him.

He covered her hand with his and grinned at her. Somehow over the last few days, his smiles had become less forced. He could feel the beating of his own heart and thought it was pumping a bit too fast. It must be the exertion of their horse race.

Her eyes narrowed with amusement. "You have changed since you arrived just over a sennight ago."

To distract her, he slid his fingers beneath a wayward curl on her forehead, and followed it with the tip of his finger down her cheek. He tucked it safely behind her ear. He studied her reaction: the soft parting of her lips, the lowering of her eyelids.

"We spent a few days learning to know each other again," he murmured, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her cheek.

Margery broke from his embrace, not meeting his eyes. "Gareth, I'm hungry."

"You brought enough food for both the horses and us," he said, but inside he wondered if this was another ploy, leading him on, then pulling back.

"Not that kind of food—freshly caught food." She backed away and he stepped nearer. "I haven't fished in ages. Do you still carry string and hooks?"

"Always." He let her keep her distance for the moment.

Soon they were seated side by side, their backs against two tree trunks, their bare legs dangling over the embankment into the cool, gurgling water below. They each held a stick with string attached. They fished in silence, Margery obviously intent

and competidve, Gareth because he watched her, wondering at her motives for this private trip.

Soon enough, he began to think of ways he could accidentally touch her. He was just about to rub his foot along her leg when she spoke.

"Gareth, can I ask you something personal?" she said in a low voice.

He tensed. "I don't promise an answer."

"Understood." She tugged on her string, then turned to look at him. "What is the real Beaumont Curse? How did your grandmothers die?"

Gareth's heart gave a painful squeeze. No one ever asked for something as simple as the truth; they either wanted to jeer at him or to fear him. But not Margery. She wanted an honest answer from a man who never told the truth about his past unless forced into it.

If he told part of the curse, she might trust that he was telling the truth—but she might also run in fear for her life.

"Many years ago," he began, surprised that his voice sounded hoarse, as if this foolish history still affected him, "after victory in a wild, vicious battle, my grandfather's father raped a young woman. The girl's mother was a famous healer, and some even called her a witch. She cursed the Beaumont men to despair and savagery."

Margery gazed intently at him, a frown of concentration on her forehead. "Despair and savagery?" she repeated.

"I give you her words. In his guilt, my greatgrandfather believed her, and slowly went mad. He killed my great-grandmother. Their own child, my grandfather, caused the death of his wife in a fall down the stairs. Though people saw the accident and claimed he was innocent, he blamed himself until the grief made him lose his mind."

She touched his arm and whispered, "Oh, Gareth."

He shook off her hand. "I'm not through. You wanted to hear this." He held back the words that pushed for release, about the strange visions that haunted the men in his family, driving them all insane. For a wild moment he wanted to confide everything in her, no matter what she'd done, no matter the lies she was telling.

But Gareth was not one of his ancestors. He let no emotion control him; refused even to worry about what the visions meant for his future.

"Tell me the rest," she murmured. This time her hand rested on his thigh. "It sounds like you've never told anyone."

"You know the rest. My parents died in a fire."

"It must be difficult when people know your history," she began softly. "Does everyone react like my suitors?"

"Most, but it matters not." The unfairness of his life lashed through him, and he wanted to hurt her like she'd hurt him. "Now it is my turn to ask a question. Who is Peter Fitzwilliam?"

Margery felt dizzy, as if the world suddenly had dropped from beneath her feet. When she tried to move her hand from Gareth's thigh, he caught it and held it tight. He looked so deeply into her eyes that she had to turn away.

"Look at me," he said, cupping her cheek and turning her head back. "Who is he? Why do you look like this, like someone died?"

She gave a bitter laugh and pushed his hands away. "He's not dead."

"But you wish he was."

"No, never," she said too quickly.

She fisted her hands. She could tell Gareth some of her story, but not all—she owed him no more than that. She just had to make him believe her.

"Peter courted me, and told me he wanted to marry me." She spoke through a tight, aching throat. "Then he changed his mind."

She blinked back tears and watched Gareth's face. His eyes were narrowed as he studied her. He wasn't a fool; he could probably tell she was holding back something.

"You loved him," he said. It wasn't a question.

She shrugged, then looked away as a tear slid down her cheek. "Yes," she whispered. "Once. But not anymore."

"He sent you a missive."

She glanced at him quickly. "How did you know that?"

"The day Fitzwilliam's servant came, your suitors recognized the color of his livery."

"They were talking about me?" she demanded, feeling anger take away her pain.

"Of course," Gareth said. "You are the prize they all seek."

"Then you had heard something about Peter already," she said warily.

"Not much; only that he was once your suitor." He reached up and rubbed the back of his hand against her wet cheek. "But I saw your face as you read the letter. I was concerned."

"Do not be. Peter was only sending greetings from my brothers, and mentioning that he might come with them when they visit."

His hand slid down to her neck, and he cupped it gently. "How do you feel about that?"

Margery was very aware of their privacy, of his large hand rubbing her neck. The sunlight through the trees flickered light and dark across his face. "Let him come. He will see that my feelings for him are gone."

She came up on her knees, the fishing pole tumbling from her lap, water dripping from her legs. She didn't want to talk about Peter anymore. She put her hands on Gareth's face, and heard his quick intake of breath just before she gave him a swift kiss. "Your lips have haunted me," she whispered.

He caught her arms and pulled her across his lap, her head near his shoulder. Their open mouths came together with an urgency that consumed her, as his tongue explored her lips.

"Sweet Margery," he murmured, nuzzling her throat.

She stroked her hands through his hair, silently urging him on, letting the wildness in her soul take flight. Nothing mattered when Gareth held her. Their past and their mistrust vanished with the need they shared.

His hand slid up from her rib cage to cup her breast. She moaned against his mouth as he stroked her through her gown. She felt afire, restless, aching for more. He smelled wonderful, like the outdoors, not like a court dandy.

He lifted his head and watched her face as he continued to caress her breasts. She gazed at him through half-closed eyes, waiting, wanting. He reached beneath her and loosened the laces at her back. When she made no protest, but sighed and arched her back, his hands stilled.