My Lady's Guardian (9 page)

"Do?" he said thickly. "I train."

"But 'tis the same as working. Have you no interests that don't include..." she hesitated, "hurting people?"

He glared at her. "That is how I survive, and that is what you hired me for. I do not have time for poetry or painting pictures. Without my sword- fighting skills, I would have been dead long ago. But I imagine a woman can't understand that."

She gripped the chair arms, and her eyes flashed angrily at him. "Some women can. My sister by marriage is an excellent swordswoman."

His eyes widened. "I do not believe you."

"So now I'm a liar, besides a silly fool?" she demanded.

Surely she couldn't expect him to trust her, and he knew she was already lying to him about something in her past. "All right then, which brother is she married to?"

"James."

"That pompous—"

"Gareth!"

"From what I remember of him, I thought his wife would be a meek noblewoman with no thoughts of her own."

For a brief moment, he saw amusement in her eyes. "He thought he wanted that, too. But King Henry gave him Isabel, who's almost as tall as James, and fights just as well."

He remembered the last time he'd seen her brother, barely an adult, looking down at Gareth with all the arrogance of an earl who thought his bloodlines made him a better man. Bolton had judged him unworthy of friendship or loyalty.

His bitterness, always so near the surface, flamed to life.

"And your other brothers?" He wanted to look in Margery's eyes and think revenge not sexual release.

She smiled sadly. "Edmund died a few years ago. He took sick after an injury."

"I am sorry for your loss." Edmund had been frail, and destined for the priesthood. They had little in common, but Edmund had taught him to read.

And since Edmund hadn't protested when they sent Gareth away, he must have known and approved.

"Reynold is married, too," she said, "though at first he took Edmund's place in the monasteiy."

"However did he meet a woman?"

"She was imprisoned there. He rescued her and they fell in love."

"So all of your brothers are at peace," he said. His voice was careful, as if the anger might erupt at any moment.

"It took a long time, but yes, they're happy."

She smiled at him, ignorant of the savagery that lurked in his soul, panting and straining like a leashed beast.

They were all so happy, the Bolton and Welles families. Her brothers had found women who loved them, women they trusted, and Margery would soon choose her own husband.

The last decent threads of his life had begun to unravel when her family had thrown him out. He turned slowly to look on her, his neck moving stiffly, as if it would shatter with the eruption of his rage.

As he gazed upon her lovely face, suddenly everything became clear. Margery was the answer to his retribution.

She owed him.

For payment, he would take her to wife.

Her dowry and lands could keep him from starving, and give him back the respectability his family had long since lost. She was looking for a husband—who better than he? She would be protected, and he would have the use of her body and her money. What else was marriage about—

except begetting heirs, something he would have no problem beginning immediately.

They were alone in her bedchamber, with the bed turned down. He could take her maidenhead right now, and they'd be married in the morning. There would be nothing her brothers could do when they returned.

But.. .if he took his time, made Margery care for him and choose him of her own free will, how much sweeter would be his revenge on her brothers.

For the first time, Gareth let himself truly admire her beauty. It would soon be only his. Perhaps he should begin his slow seduction tonight: just a touch of her cheek, a longing stare into her eyes. That was all he'd ever needed before.

Margery met his gaze, and her smile slowly died.

He rose to his full height, then stepped before her, letting his knees brush hers.

There was a sharp knock on the door, and they both flinched.

Chapter 8

As the knock sounded again, Margery jumped to her feet, wondering frantically where Gareth could hide. To be discovered like this, to ruin both their lives with her sins—she couldn't bear it.

"Just one moment!" she called, her hands on his lower back as she pushed him toward the window.

She motioned to the draperies and he stepped behind them. She glimpsed the dark amusement in his face as she arranged the folds of fabric to fall around him, making sure his feet were covered. After walking quickly to the door, she took a deep breath and opened it.

Anne stood in the dark corridor, her hair loose, a robe and blanket around her shoulders. She gave Margery a frown and looked toward the bed. "Were you asleep? I did not mean to awaken you."

"I wasn't asleep yet," she said, then gave a wide yawn. "Can I help you with something?"

Nodding, Anne walked in. Margery's shoulders slumped as she closed the door in resignation and watched the girl curl up in the chair Gareth had recently vacated.

"Anne, I am actually quite tired. Could this wait until morning?" Margery was certain she could hear Gareth breathing. Did the draperies rise and fall with his chest?

"I promise this will take but a moment."

Anne proceeded to talk about one of the young men who'd be arriving on the morrow. Margery painted a smile on her face and worriedly watched the draperies over Anne's shoulder.

It suddenly occurred to her that Gareth could take advantage of this situation. He was a poor knight; just by stepping into the room again, he would have the most eligible heiress in England, and all the reward that went with it. She found herself holding her breath with anxiety, her gaze darting constantly to the windows.

Gareth's face was covered in fabric, and he inhaled his own warm breath, trying not to feel light-headed. He longed to turn his head, but didn't dare move. Perspiration dripped down his temples.

All he had to do was step out from the draperies —or better yet, pretend to sneeze. It would seem an accident, and Margery would never have to know that it had really been deliberate.

But she would be humiliated, and might never forgive him for taking away her choice. And it wouldn't allow him the ultimate revenge against her brothers.

No, there was still time. He would be her choice for husband.

"Margery!" Lady Anne said. "You are so tired your eyes are glazed."

"Forgive me." Margery didn't sound nervous so much as distracted. "What was the last thing you said?"

"If Lord George should not take your fancy, could you guide him my way? And make sure 'tis I, not Cicely."

"Anne, you are the daughter of an earl, and could have any young man in England. I am sure Lord George will be quite taken with you."

"You are a dear, Margery. I must say, that new man following you about is interesting."

"Sir Gareth?"

Margery's voice sounded a bit faint, and Gareth's interest intensified.

"He is blindingly handsome, wouldn't you say?"

"I'm not sure 'blindingly' is the right—"

"Oh, you know what I mean," Lady Anne interrupted. "'Tis a shame he is only a knight. My father expects at least an earl from me. But you have your choice—what freedom."

"Sometimes I wish I had let my brothers choose for me long ago," Margery said.

Gareth heard the sad wistfulness in her voice, and wondered again what secrets were hidden in her past.

"I'll let you sleep," Lady Anne said. "Perhaps Sir Gareth's pursuit is tiring you."

"I think not."

Once he heard them move toward the door, he slowly turned his head to take a deep breath.

"Have a good night, Margeiy," Lady Anne said.

Gareth waited a few moments after he heard the door close, then stepped from behind the draperies. Margery was slumped with her back against the door, her face pensive. She looked up, and they stared at each other across the room.

"My coming to your room put you in needless danger," he said.

"Danger?"

"If she had discovered me—"

Margery raised a hand. "But she did not. And you were only trying to keep me safe."

He knew he should find something light to say, some way to endear himself to her. But nothing in his experience had prepared him for trying to make a woman like him. Usually women just wanted something from him; he wanted something from them. It was simple.

He cleared his throat. "So I'm not blindingly handsome?"

Her eyes widened and she laughed, covering her mouth quickly. "Anne is young. I could not encourage her in such pursuit."

"Then I am blindingly handsome?"

"Just go," she said, pointing to the door behind her, her lips twitching with a smile.

He leaned against the door to listen for footsteps, but instead noticed how close she stood beside him. She had translucent skin draped in thin fabric, hinting at curves he knew he would soon explore. Now that he'd decided to marry her, he could hardly keep his gaze on her face.

"Gareth, you must leave," she whispered.

"Not until the guards pass by."

"How do you know they will?"

"Because I planned the route myself."

She said nothing else, and he forced his attention to the corridor. The guards should pass Margery's bedchamber every hour. For a few minutes he remained still, listening through the wood, trying not to feel her gaze on his back. She finally moved away from him.

A while later, Gareth glanced over and found her curled in one of the hearth chairs. She was asleep, her head cocked at an awkward angle, her arms hanging limply. He went to her bed and pulled aside the coverlet and blankets. The sheets seemed to beckon him with the promise of warmth and satisfacdon. Clenching his jaw, he went to stand above Margery, bracing himself for the feel of her body in his arms, for her head tucked beneath his chin. Now that he had given himself permission to think of her sexually, he had a difficult time doing anything else.

He slid one arm behind her back, and the other beneath her knees, lifting her against him. With a little sigh, she nuzzled her cheek against his chest, as if she trusted him. She was a fool. Someday she would learn to trust no one but herself.

He lowered her into the bed and pulled up the blankets. She rolled to her side, head pillowed in her hand, her forehead creased in the smallest of frowns. What worries followed her into sleep?

As Margery dressed at dawn, she thought about the previous night instead of her problems. She remembered sitting down, watching Gareth listen for the guards.

She had awakened in bed, alone. He must have carried her there, and she didn't remember it. She was surprised he hadn't just left her.

God, she was a fool thinking about him—a man who obviously trusted no one, not even a family he had spent years with. He was only here for the money. He would go back to his life, and she would be someone's sister or aunt. Never a wife, never a mother. The sooner she put aside her fantasies of a normal life, the sooner she could escape the king's sentence—his prison sentence. That's all marriage was for her.

And the would-be jailers arrived today.

Gareth held the sword high over his head, his muscles on fire, sweat streaming from his brow. He brought the weapon down hard and Desmond met it with his own sword, parrying it and staggering to one side.

Gareth stepped back, bringing the sword up in readiness.

Gasping for breath, Desmond bent over, hands braced on his knees. "No more!" he said, raising one hand. "What the hell.. .has gotten into you?"

Gareth slowly straightened, feeling his heart pound, welcoming the exhaustion that appeased his body and took his thoughts away from Margery. "We have not trained much recentiy. I felt the need for it."

"You mean you have not trained. I have done nothing but."

Desmond set down his sword and reached for a drinking horn hung from a nearby post. He swallowed some and offered it to Gareth, who took a sip, then lifted his eyebrows in surprise.

"Water?"

Desmond shrugged. "I need my wits about me today when Mistress Margery's next suitors arrive."

Gareth tensed. "Who is arriving today?"

"You have not heard?" Desmond said, his stare playfully disapproving. "Your talents are slipping, Sir Gareth."

"Just tell me."

"A whole contingent of young swains are due from London."

"How many?" Gareth asked, feeling his anger at Margery grow. How could she not tell him something so vitally important to her safety?

Desmond shrugged. "A half dozen, a dozen— who knows how many will take up the challenge of the wealthy Mistress Margery?"

Gareth turned to watch a baggage train emerge from the gatehouse. "Could they already be arriving?"

"Probably just the servants. I imagine their lordships are pillaging through the countryside about now."

"You're one of those 'lordships.'"

Desmond sighed. "A coincidence of birth. These youngsters are far above me at court, as they'll happily remind me." He picked up his sword. "We'd best get back to it, then. Mustn't let the pups show us up."

"They'll most likely remember me, even though I've been gone a few years," Gareth said, hoping they only remembered his fierceness in battle.

"Do not worry so. You defeated either them or their brothers or their fathers. I'm sure your reputation will scare at least a few of them away."

They spent another couple of hours exhausting each other and every knight and soldier on the tiltyard. Gareth kept a close watch on the gatehouse, and occasionally sent a page inside the castle to see how Margery was busying herself. She was

overseeing the cleaning and the cooking, and airing out bedchambers.

Just before the noon meal, the inner ward came alive with the shouts of young men on horseback racing through the gatehouse. In a pack they galloped about, yelling and raising clouds of dust, and in general making a nuisance of themselves.

Gareth stood beside Desmond and crossed his arms over his chest. "They're barely old enough for whiskers," he said with some satisfaction.