My Lady's Guardian (2 page)

By the saints, why did he have to be reminded of Margery after all these years? He wanted to ignore this vision of danger. She already had a family, and none of them needed Gareth.

He had a sudden memory of looking into the intense gaze of her father, Lord Welles. He was the one man who had ever treated Gareth fairly.

And Gareth had promised the old man he'd always protect his daughter.

With an angry curse, he lay back on his blanket. Lord Welles deserved his loyalty, but his children did not. Yet he would go to Margery and find this danger that awaited her. He would do what was necessary to satisfy his oath, and then he would leave.

The sun blazed down on the rolling hillsides and low stone walls of Gloucestershire. In the distance, Gareth could see the bright spires of a castle glittering atop a hill. Hawksbury Castle. As usual, Margery and her family owned the best. Resentment tasted bitter in his mouth, and he tried to put the feelings aside. His personal distaste didn't matter; only his oath to Lord Welles did.

Gareth was relieved when his horse plodded into the shadows of a cool wooded glen, and he could no

longer see the castle. He glanced at Wallace Desmond, who for once wasn't eyeing him suspiciously.

Gareth had known it was foolish to approach this unknown danger alone, but he hated asking anyone for help. Desmond owed Gareth, though, for saving his life at a tournament. When Gareth called in the favor, Desmond had been willing to return to his homeland to help the woman from Gareth's past.

Though the day was unusually bright for England, Gareth felt a sudden cold chill move through him. He'd spent his whole life trying to ignore such warnings, but now he heeded it.

They were near Margery.

He pulled back on the reins, and his horse danced to a halt. He cocked his head, eyeing the woods all around them.

"Desmond, you go on ahead. Hawksbury Castle is not far."

Desmond leaned on his pommel and stared at him with narrowed eyes. "What is going on, Beaumont?"

"Nothing." Desmond was ignorant of his visions, and Gareth planned to keep it that way as long as possible. Not for the first time, he wondered why generations of a family had been cursed for one ancestor's crime. "I just need a moment to think on what I will say to Margery."

Desmond grinned. "Nervous about a mere woman?"

Gareth said nothing. The longer he traveled with Desmond, the more talkative the man had become, as if it was ever possible for them to be friends. Gareth didn't need friends.

"Very well," Desmond said. "I'll leave you to your peace. Who knows, the fair Margery might take a liking to me."

Margery Welles circled the clearing, keeping the stone bench between herself and a grinning Thomas Fogge. For the third time this day, she cursed her foolishness. Why ever had she thought he was different from all the others—different from Peter Fitzwilliam? Taking him to one of her favorite peaceful places had been the height of stupidity. Now she was forced to fend off his advances, when all she'd wanted to do was talk.

"Lord Fogge, I insist we go back to the castle."

"Mistress Welles—Margery," he said, with an ingratiating smile that showed his blackened teeth, "I am so enjoying our private visit. How else can you come to know me?"

"Then seat yourself, my lord, and we will converse."

Lord Fogge leaned one way. Margery went the opposite way, and found herself against his chest.

"Margery, I ache for one of your kisses. Just one."

She leaned back in his embrace and turned her face away, but felt his hot breath on her neck. She had been in this situation one too many times this last month. Why hadn't she learned by now that every eligible man in England considered her fair game? And yet, what choice did she have? The days were flying by at too fast a pace, and soon the king would need an answer.

Margery felt his mouth on her cheek and grimaced. Just as she was about to bring up her knee and end His Lordship's kiss with pain, Fogge abruptly released her. As she stumbled back against the bench, she realized that Fogge had not willingly let her go. He was caught in the grip of a stranger— a much larger, broader man, who punched him hard in the stomach.

With a groan, Fogge doubled over and staggered against a tree trunk. The stranger grabbed him again, and Fogge covered his head and whimpered.

"Let him go!" Margery said.

The stranger ignored her. His fist connecting with Fogge's chin snapped the man's head back.

"That is enough!" she cried, grasping the stranger's arm. She stumbled as his arm came forward again, but hung on grimly. "You've disabled him. He will not be so foolish again."

The stranger abruptly released Lord Fogge, who reeled sideways, blood dripping from his lower lip. Without a glance at Margery, His Lordship darted through the trees toward where they'd left the horses. But she soon forgot him when the stranger turned and looked at her.

She felt a shiver of fear. Her rescuer would have continued to pummel her assailant if she had not intervened. She could trust him even less than Lord Fogge. The man was tall and well-muscled, wearing a leather jerkin over a dark shirt. His bright blond hair was long and shaggy, as if he'd been traveling for some time. Then their gazes met, and Margery forgot to breathe.

She would recognize those intense eyes anywhere.

He was Gareth Beaumont, the boy from her childhood.

Shock and disbelief made her freeze. Not a week went by that she didn't wonder what had become of him. Almost without thinking, she reached for the

purse hung from her belt, and touched the crystal stone through the fabric.

She'd never been able to forget the way his golden eyes seemed to glow with a light of their own. But now a coldness lurking behind those eyes made her realize he was no longer the boy she knew.

She stepped back, barely able to take in the man he had become. He was sun-burnished, golden, his nose straight and strong, his cheekbones as chiseled as if carved by a sculptor. He was so beautifully rendered, yet so male, that it made her uneasy. And in that moment, she felt small and dark and sinful, unworthy to even look upon such perfection. What would he think of her if he knew her secrets?

But this was foolishness. Gareth Beaumont needed to know nothing of her past. He was no longer her childhood friend, but a stranger passing through her land.

And then she remembered the ignoble rumors that had chased him from the country. He was said to be a vicious opponent in battle, who won at any cost.

He, too, was assessing her, staring into her face, then glancing down her body. The trace of his gaze left a burning path in her flesh. She was shocked and unnerved, aware of him suddenly as a man and not a memory. It showed what kind of woman she'd become, how easily the heat of desire consumed her.

But every man looked on her with a covetous bent, and she was disappointed that Gareth was no better.

"Margery."

She heard her name on his lips and she shivered. "Gareth Beaumont, can it really be you? I have not seen you in—"

"Twelve years." His voice was deep, rumbling, as unnerving as his face.

She swallowed. "What have you been doing for all these years?"

"I've been traveling through Europe," was all he said.

She hesitated, then asked bravely, "Doing what?"

He just stared at her in that cool way of his, and she didn't think he'd answer.

"There is money to be earned at tournaments, and noblemen to work for," he finally said. "It is as good a way as any to live."

She remembered then that his parents had died in a fire just after he'd come to foster at her father's castle. The king had taken the Beaumonts' land and possessions as payment for a debt. Gareth had no home, no family.

It was sometimes so easy for her to take her brothers' love for granted.

There was a long, awkward silence.

"Did you like Europe better than England?" she asked, then wanted to wince at her inanity.

"Yes."

She had heard that he had not left the country willingly. She had so many questions, but how to ask without inviting his own scrutiny of her life?

"Then why did you come here?" Margery finally said.

"You are in danger."

Her mouth dropped open in surprise and she sat down heavily on the bench. Fear shot through her, her hands started to tremble, but she forced herself to calm down. He could know nothing.

He remained standing, his hands joined behind his back, staring at her with his chilly gaze. He didn't look like he wanted to help her, or even be there at all.

"How do you know such a thing?" she whispered. She remembered the fateful night of her father's death. Gareth had come to her room when she'd been in danger then.

"I heard things in London."

Margery felt the doubts creeping into her mind. Where had he been? What had he been doing? He

might have saved her life once, but she could hardly trust him now—she could trust no one.

She sighed. "Yes, I am much the talk at court."

"Why?"

"It is complicated. But I assure you, I am not in any danger." She tried to give him a bright smile, but was sure it looked forced.

"Then why was that man chasing you?" he asked dryly.

"For a simple kiss." She laughed. "Surely you have tried to steal a kiss or two from a pretty maiden yourself."

She thought he would smile. Instead, he raised one eyebrow. "I've never had to."

Her smile died. Of course he'd never had to. He was as beautiful—and as cold—as a statue of an angel.

In her brittle voice, Gareth could hear the truth: Margery was lying. She avoided looking at him for too long, as if he were beneath her socially.

Why was part of him disappointed? He knew what kind of family she came from: a family that rewarded kindness with banishment. What lessons had she learned from brothers such as hers?

She jumped up from the bench, and the sun slanting through the trees painted flickering patterns across her face and dress. Her steps were not

delicate and ladylike; she paced like a woman with much on her mind. She was clearly trying to keep something hidden.

But still he was a man, and as she walked before him, he reluctandy noticed the grace of her movements. Her strides kicked her pale yellow skirts out before her, leading him to imagine the length of her legs. He broke into a sweat. This was not the way he meant to think of Margery.

Her waist was long and slender, cinched in fabric that molded upward to cup her generous breasts. Her collarbones arced out like the wings of a bird, and her neck had the unbending grace of a tall woman at ease with her height. Her long hair, dark brown, was pulled back from her face by a yellow ribbon.

And what a striking face Margery had. Her deep blue eyes flashed with intelligence above fine cheekbones. He stared at her mouth and told himself he was unaffected. But the little girl she'd been in his mind was gone, replaced by a woman—and she was as yet unmarried.

He suddenly realized she'd been talking. "What did you say?"

"I asked you to stop staring at me." She put her fists on her waist and leaned toward him.

Gareth kept his eyes on her face, and not her gaping bodice. "You have changed."

Her face blanched. She stepped backward, and her arms slid up to hug herself. She was frightened, and that made him even more suspicious.

"I have not changed much," she said coldly. "And neither have you. I recognized you immediately."

He pointedly glanced down her body. "I have changed a great deal—do not forget that. But one thing that hasn't changed is the oath I swore to your father. You need protection, whether you want to admit it or not."

"Gareth, I am fine," Margery said between gritted teeth. "But please come stay at Hawksbury and rest before you travel on."

He said nothing.

She looked over her shoulder. "My horse is beyond those trees. Ride with me back to the castle; you must be hungry."

As they walked through the woods, Gareth thought again of her startled face when he'd said she'd changed. She must have been so protected behind castle walls that she thought the world's cruelty could never touch her. How naive she was.

She came to a stop so quickly he almost bumped into her. He could see the road just ahead through the trees.

"My horse—" she began, then stopped.

It was nowhere to be found.

He quirked an eyebrow. "I assume it was tethered beside your suitor's?"

"Of course, but Lord Fogge wouldn't..." Her voice trailed off and she sighed.

"Your horse is probably waiting for you at the castle," he said.

She turned around to face him, wearing another forced smile. "I seem to need your help again. Would you mind sharing your horse?"

Reluctantly, he gave a low whistle, and his gray stallion came crashing through the underbrush.

Margery raised her eyebrows. "That is very impressive," she said dryly.

Gareth lifted his hands to help her, but she put her foot in the stirrup and swung her leg up over the saddle. As she sat down, her skirts settled over the horse like a blanket, revealing her lower legs encased in men's boots.

"Are you coming?" she asked, wearing what was obviously a smile of pride at her horsemanship.

He stood beside her leg, looking up into her face. Unwanted memories flooded through his mind, and

he felt a momentary uncertainty. In a low voice, he said, "Do you remember the last time you rode my horse?"

Her forehead wrinkled with a frown. "Yes. My father had given you your own horse, and I wanted to ride it, too. The silly animal dumped me headfirst into the pond."

Gareth still had a vivid memory of Margery rising sputtering to the surface as he'd splashed out to rescue her. Every memory of her involved either rescuing her or escaping her.

"Well, that will not happen anymore," she said, and with a dig of her heels rode off down the path.

He watched as she bent low over the animal's neck. He grudgingly noticed the flare of her hips and her competent seat in the saddle. At least she was not a poindessly dainty woman; her brothers had done something right.