My Lady's Guardian (7 page)

There had been other unsuitable women he'd been attracted to. He'd always overcome such a dangerous weakness, and this time would be no exception. He only bedded experienced women who

expected nothing from him, not maidens with marriage on their minds.

Another serving maid interrupted Gareth's thoughts, holding a shaking pitcher in her hands.

"More ale, milord?" she asked timidly.

The awe in her eyes as she filled his tankard made him wary, and he told himself it was only his face which caused her reaction. He didn't know how much longer his anonymity would last, especially when he was not hiding his name. He could only hope the story of Warfield's Wizard had not spread from the southern coast of England. Then every girl here would flee from him, and men would fear him.

But why was he having visions at all? Before he'd found Margery, he'd often gone months feeling normal, with no clue of the future. Now in a span of weeks, he'd felt and seen too many things that made no sense.

He could tell Margery was in danger, but what could he make of the vision today? His frustration and anger mounted.

As another maidservant began to make her approach, Gareth quickly left the hall. There was only one place to go when he felt his emotions ready to erupt.

The tiltyard took up half of one side of the inner ward. Dust rose in hazy clouds as the packed earth was trampled by horses and men. Troops of soldiers practiced archery and sword-fighting, or took turns riding low over their mounts, trying to jab the quintain with their lance. Overall, he thought they showed much promise, especially with someone as skilled as Wallace Desmond to guide them.

Desmond himself sauntered over a few minutes later. He was coated in sweat and dust, but looked quite pleased with himself. He waved at the dairymaids who'd gathered to gawk and giggle.

Gareth linked his hands behind his back, finding his frown hard to keep." 'Tis a good thing I don't feel any guilt for making you take this position."

"Well, you should feel guilty," Desmond said. "While you have a private chamber, I'm sleeping in the barracks."

A young man wearing an overlarge plated brigantine ran toward them. "Excuse me, Sir Wallace, but we could use your help with the archers."

"In a moment, lad." Desmond watched the man bow and walk away." That was the captain of the guard just yesterday."

" 'Tis rather amazing their mistress hasn't been hurt before now."

"Did you know a man tried to capture her and her ladies in the woods just a month ago?"

Gareth felt his stomach clench with anger—at Margery, he told himself. "She never told me."

"Probably because before the man could do more than struggle with her, she kicked him between the legs and they escaped."

Desmond grinned, but Gareth saw nothing amusing. "Are the defenses secure now?"

"Yes. The gatehouse is never unguarded. But has she told you her troubles yet?"

"Some, but not all."

"And..." Desmond leaned forward.

"Her problems are her own, and not to be bandied about the tiltyard."

The smile left Desmond's face. "You think I would tell a woman's secrets to the world?"

Gareth said nothing.

"I know I'm not your friend," Desmond said coldly. "But I'm the only man here you can trust. How can I help her if I don't know what I'm looking for?"

Gareth stared hard into Desmond's eyes. He hadn't trusted a soul in so many years that he was unsure who was an enemy and who was not. But Desmond had no stake in Margery's troubles, and had been faithful—so far.

Gareth leaned against a fence, and motioned Desmond nearer. "The king recendy gifted her with wealth and the power to choose her own husband. Since then various men have been trying to compromise her. Her brothers are away with the king, and she's been dealing with this all alone."

"So are we here to play midwife to a marriage?" Desmond asked in disbelief.

"No. She's hired me as her personal guard. But she doesn't want anyone to know she's become desperate. To stay near her, I'm pretending to be another of her suitors."

Desmond grinned. "So when I saw you earlier in the garden on your hands and knees..."

"I was acting as a suitor," Gareth said uncomfortably.

"Have you ever courted a woman?"

Why had he ever felt it was necessary to confide in Desmond? The man was a fool. "Is it so inconceivable?"

"But women usually crawl into your lap. I never quite understood why they would want to warm up that cold demeanor of yours, when they could have sunny, cheerful me."

Gareth clenched his fists. "Wait here while I find a sword."

Desmond shot him an amused glance. "You look.. .aggravated."

"Only from lack of training."

"I don't think so."

Desmond was waiting, sword drawn, when Gareth returned from the armory carrying a blunt sword. Gareth immediately attacked. With a grunt, Desmond parried the weapon aside and stepped back.

"You're not one to waste words," Desmond said. He thrust forward.

Gareth stepped aside. "Not when my meaning is clear. You, on the other hand, talk too much."

Gareth let himself merge with the fury of emotions he never showed the world. Anger, frustration, bitterness, all poured down his arm to power his sword. He drove Desmond back across the tiltyard.

It took almost all his concentration to keep from wounding his opponent, yet he still noticed the soldiers and knights stepping back, wary looks on their faces. No one would bother him at Hawksbury now, for fear of igniting this consuming wrath that threatened the edge of his control.

Sweat ran in rivulets down his face and chest. He jumped to avoid Desmond's swipe at his knees, then turned—and saw Margery.

She stood at the top of a flight of stairs near a side entrance to the casde, frozen as if she'd been watching them for quite some time.

She must be horrified. Good, let her fear him; let her never risk touching him again. He straightened and faced her, proud of his sweat and his skill and the fear he inspired.

But she didn't run. She stared at him for a moment longer, her face unreadable. Then she walked down the stairs, carrying something in her apron. She came out from the shadow of the castle and lifted her face to the sun, which shimmered around her in a golden haze. Her skirt swayed with the movement of her feet, raising small clouds of dust that sparkled about the ground. She made clucking sounds with her tongue, and soon dozens of squawking hens clustered around her. She scattered handfuls of grain as she walked, and the chickens pecked in her wake.

Gareth had seen countless noblewomen in their finest garments, giving parties and hunts for others of their kind. He had no wish to be a part of such a world. But watching Margery do a servant's humblest task shook everything he had known women to be. He couldn't begin to understand her.

"Gareth!"

He turned to Desmond.

"I've called your name three times. No matter what she is doing, you cannot keep your gaze off Mistress Margery."

"My duty is to protect her," he said stiffly.

Desmond groaned. "Saints above, save me from foolish men. I think you feel something for her."

"In case you forgot, I'm also supposed to be her suitor," Gareth said with a scowl. "A suitor would stare."

"A suitor would also give her flowers."

"What?" Gareth asked defensively.

"A suitor would give her flowers, unless he had more money than he knew what to do with. Then he'd buy her jewelry." Desmond wiggled his eyebrows. "Women like jewelry—and flowers."

Gareth opened his mouth to tell him what he thought of his unwanted advice, but.. .it was a good suggestion. "I'll keep that in mind."

He lifted his sword and resumed the attack.

Though her back was turned, Margery felt the clash of their weapons reverberate through her spine. She scattered more grain and told herself to ignore the masculine contest being waged behind her. Women never felt a need to discover who was strongest, who was quickest.

But men were different.

She peeked over her shoulder and saw Gareth and Sir Wallace straining against each other, their swords meeting above their heads. Sir Wallace finally stumbled backward, laughing at his own failure.

Gareth didn't laugh, but raised his sword for more. Any other man she knew would have been happy for the victory, would have waited for his opponent to recover.

But in Gareth, she sensed an elemental need to win, to prove something. He was the focus of all eyes, as in command of the dltyard as if he were the captain of the guard, not Sir Wallace.

She forgot her chores, forgot that her people were watching her, and simply stood holding an apron full of grain and staring at Gareth Beaumont.

Chapter 6

That afternoon, Margery received a missive announcing the arrival the next morning of her London suitors. A dark cloud enveloped her as she supervised the household preparations for her guests. She felt as if she was still a little girl, alone and defenseless because her brothers had to foster elsewhere. Then, as well as now, she was well guarded, but that did not stop her from feeling vulnerable.

During the evening meal, she surrounded herself with her ladies and seated Gareth as far from herself as she could. She talked incessantly to the twins, but whenever there was a lull in the conversation, her mind returned to the scene in the dark corridor that morning. She relived that moment when they hadn't spoken, when their breath had mingled, when she'd

touched him. Had she imagined the look in his eyes, the shared awareness of each other?

She felt a shiver of astonishment move through her, and knew she was being ridiculous. He had pushed her away, and rightiy so. She was a woman no man would ever want, let alone marry.

Shame crept up on her unannounced. Was she such a wanton that she imagined feelings for a man who openly despised her and her family?

Though she shouldn't, she looked down the table at Gareth, and found him watching her. His eyes glittered above his serious mouth. Then he slowly smiled, and it was amused and devilish. Her whole body heated with a furious blush.

He was acting—oh, of course, he was acdng. He was here only to complete a task, and be paid for it. She raised her chin, giving him a cool smile, then turned away as if his regard was worth nothing to her.

Instead of retreating to her solar after supper, Margery and the twins sat before the fire in the hall. She was enjoying the relative quiet of the household with only one guest—Gareth—in attendance. She kept Anne and Cicely on either side of her, and if they noticed her awkwardness, they did not mendon it. One strummed a lute while the other sang in a soft, pretty voice.

Margery's embroidery rested in her lap, untouched, as she drifted through memories of her brother James singing to her. She wanted to think about earlier times, when life had seemed so full of promise. But four years of her childhood involved Gareth, his reluctant friendship, his rescue of her.

This evening, she had thought she'd managed to keep him away by surrounding herself with her friends, but he was in her mind—unsettling her feelings, making her remember hoop games and archery and trying to make a serious boy smile.

Gareth pulled up a chair directly opposite her, startling her. With the twins, they were almost a cozy foursome. Every time she looked from one twin to the other, there he was in the center, watching her, his long legs stretched out, booted feet almost touching hers. His hose were threadbare, his plain blue tunic tattered at the hem. His white shirt had seen too many days. She had never in her life been wooed by a man so obviously lacking in money.

And she wasn't now, she reminded herself. Gareth was a soldier she had hired, nothing more. She moved her feet away. He shifted his feet near again, like a childish game—or a suitor trying to get her attention.

She didn't know why she was so tense; she knew his actions meant nothing. She should practice controlling her anger, for she knew tomorrow would begin a real courtship, when those wild young men came from London. Then she would be thankful for Gareth and his protection.

Cicely continued to strum the lute, but Anne stopped singing.

She gave Margery a conspiratorial smile, then said, "Sir Gareth, have you come to Hawksbury Castle to better acquaint yourself with Mistress Margery?"

He linked his hands across his stomach. "Yes, my lady," he said, his deep voice deferential.

Margery's heart sped up with unexpected worry. She and Gareth had never discussed what story they would tell the world. He could create any wild, oudandish tale, and she could not say him wrong.

"So you have met before?" Anne continued.

"We knew one another as children, when I fostered at Wellespring Castle."

"As children," Anne repeated, glancing from Margery to Cicely, her eyes gleaming with wicked amusement.

He nodded. "I was a few years older, and in my youthful foolishness, thought myself quite beyond the childish games she wanted to play with me."

The twins giggled, while Margery's gaze was frozen on him. She had never thought he would be capable of banter.

"She followed me everywhere," he said, glancing at her. "I confess that I often made certain she could not find me."

Margery wanted to jump to her feet and defend herself, to swear that he was making up lies. But a deep part of her wondered if it was true. Had she been so annoying? Surely that couldn't be the only reason he was bitter toward her and her family.

Then Gareth leaned forward and took her hands in his. Though she tried to pull away, he gripped them harder, uncomfortably so. Was this just another contest he needed to win?

"Mistress Margery, I have learned the error of my ways."

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. His skin was warm, rough, and callused from hard work. It heated her palms, and the warmth spread up her arms to tingle through her breasts. When those golden eyes captured hers, she had a hard time disbelieving anything he said.

Cicely stopped strumming the lute to openly watch this new entertainment.

Anne said, "Sir Gareth, if you fostered with Margery's family, why have you not visited her before? Did you think she was still a child?"