My Lady's Guardian (10 page)

He felt Desmond's amused regard.

"Now, Gareth, Mistress Margery is a wealthy young lady. Of course any marriageable man—"

"Boy."

"—man would want to woo her. You're here to protect her from the unscrupulous ones. She is paying you for that."

The young noblemen galloped by the henhouse, frightening the flock and sending a little serving girl running in terror.

Margery descended the steps from the great hall, her ladies behind her. She wore the vivid green of springtime, and she'd adorned her long, dark curls with flowers. He realized she'd used the daisies he'd left beside her plate that morning, which gave him some satisfaction. Desmond had been right about the flowers.

He walked toward her as the young men dismounted, handing off their reins to waiting servants. Soon a cluster of men gathered below Margery, who remained a few steps above them, smiling.

Gareth, sweaty and filthy, stood beside the elegantly clothed young men in their silks and velvets. They doffed hats and caps as they each presented Margery with a gift.

She smiled and laughed and blushed as she handed the gifts to her ladies, obviously basking in the adoration of all these wealthy men.

He would make sure none of them suited her.

Margery knew her face was going to betray her at any moment. Couldn't they all see how forced her smile was, how ill-at-ease she felt? She was a fraud, a sinner, not an innocent maid. She wanted to shout her faults to the world, to send these men away so she could weep in lonely peace.

Their eager faces blended together before her stinging eyes. They handed her gifts and sang her praises, until their reaching hands and garbled voices threatened to overwhelm her.

Just as Margery thought she would run screaming from them all, she saw Gareth standing alone at the back of the crowd.

He was an island of maturity amid a sea of boyish faces. Surrounded by men garbed in clothing more ostentatious than her own, Gareth wore only a sleeveless leather jerkin and carried a sword as if it were a part of his powerful arm. The sweat of hard work glistened on his body, and his stunning face was stubbled in golden whiskers. She wanted to gape in awe at him, not pretend to smile at the rising tide of suitors. She wanted to touch the flowers in her hair, knowing he'd given them to her.

She was such a fool. She didn't know Acwshe wanted to be treated. Shallow noblemen worshipped and fought over her for her money, while Gareth treated her as distantly as if he were only a servant.

Margery had had enough. She'd done nothing but agonize over being unable to offer her virginity to a man, but did they deserve her worry? These men treated her as a piece of property, as a font of wealth for the lucky man who won her. None of them cared for her personally.

Suddenly the answer to her problem seemed clear, and Margery's heart lifted. Why should she worry that she wasn't a virgin? She highly doubted that her husband would come to their marriage bed untouched by a woman. Why should she behave any differently?

The first time she had lain with Peter Fitzwilliam, there had been some discomfort. She could pretend that she felt the same thing on her wedding night. And if there had to be blood on the sheets, she would find a way to deal with that, too.

Her conscience gave a faint twinge, but she ignored it. It was true she had not conceived a child with Peter, but it was God's will if she ever did. Surely every married couple took such a chance. Why should she make herself an outcast, when none of her suitors were even worthy of her respect?

For the first time in months, Margery felt as if she could take a deep breath. The great weight of despair that had compressed her lungs was gone. She still had to find the perfect man to marry, but at least she had a plan.

Of course, love would not be a consideration. She had fallen in love once, and it had brought her nothing but heartache. No man deserved to have that much control over her. She would pick a man for the attributes she could most use, but love would not be one of them.

If that made her a cold woman, so be it.

Chapter 9

Finally the greetings were done, and Margery announced that dinner would soon be served. Her suitors followed each other into the great hall of Hawksbury Castle, laughing and gesturing as they kissed her hands. Five had gone past her, leaving the last man, Lord George Wharton, still beside his horse.

He looked about and saw Gareth nearby. In a clipped, superior tone, he said, "You, man, take my horse to the stables. Heaven knows where my squire has disappeared to."

She held her breath as Gareth's eyes darkened to the yellow of the skies before the fiercest storm. He rammed his sword into the scabbard at his waist.

She saw the exact moment Lord George gave a start of recognition. He backed away and almost tripped. What did he know about Gareth?

"Sir Gareth!" Margery said quickly. "You will of course be joining us at dinner."

"Certainly, mistress," Gareth answered. She watched the storm recede from his eyes as he looked up at her. "But please do not wait for me. I have to wash and change."

"We will wait, Sir Gareth. I'll have hot water sent up to your bedchamber."

Lord George almost raced past her, not meeting her eyes. She told herself Gareth's reputation only made him an even better protector. But still, she could not hide her curiosity.

The meal itself was a disaster. Margery tried to keep six bickering men from elbowing one another aside to sit near her. Anne and Cicely were constantly whispering into her ears, telling her which man was a duke's younger son, and which was but a simple knight.

Margery was alone in a room full of people who seemed desperate to see her married, but none of their opinions mattered. She felt stronger, better, than she had in weeks. No longer would she trudge through each day, waiting passively for a fate

decreed by the king. She would find a husband on her own terms.

After the awkward meal was over, she spent the afternoon embroidering, introducing herself to some of the men, reacquainting herself with others. The men played cards and gambled at dice. They seemed to have every intention of uselessly whiling the day away. Her husband would definitely have to be busy—no idle amusement for him. That only encouraged a man to think he should be waited on.

Yet she had to think of Anne and Cicely, too, both of whom would soon be looking for husbands. They were basking in the attentions of so many men. Anne played cards, and even shy Cicely carried on an occasional gentle conversation.

Margery would use such afternoons to further study her suitors. She had to give thought to exactly what kind of man she was looking for.

She smiled absently at Sir Humphrey Townsend, the boldest of them all, who was recounting another of his deeds in service to King Henry. Her gaze often strayed to Gareth, who sat at his own table, a book opened before him. He didn't gamble with the other men; in fact, he ignored them. She had promised to have the seamstresses make him new clothing, but she had yet to do so. It made her feel ungrateful, considering all that he was doing for her.

Sir Humphrey suddenly said, "And who is that poor fellow, the one who's made such bold use of your library, mistress?"

Margery felt startled, uneasy. "Do you mean Sir Gareth? He is here for the same reasons you are, sir. I gave him permission to use my library."

Gareth lifted his head and looked at them, and it was as if his golden eyes had become ice.

Sir Humphrey's voice grew even louder. "Mistress Margery, what is his full name?"

Something was wrong. Some wariness that she didn't understand moved through the room. Everyone was looking at Gareth, who closed his book and sat back, arms folded across his chest. He gazed at Sir Humphrey calmly, yet danger simmered beneath the surface, like a pot about to boil. Sir Humphrey must be a fool not to see it.

"He is Sir Gareth Beaumont," she said.

Looks passed between the knight and his companions, and their frowns made her even more nervous. She didn't know what was happening, what knowledge had been loosed through her great hall.

"Gareth Beaumont," Sir Humphrey said in a loud voice. "Why, Mistress Margery, do you know what kind of man dares to court you?"

Gareth studied Sir Humphrey coldly. "I have nothing to hide. Say what you will."

Margery set down her embroidery frame and tried not to panic at the animosity between the two knights. "Any good man is welcome in my castle."

"Even ones who carry with them a curse?" Sir Humphrey said with a smirk.

Her various suitors looked either triumphant or uneasy. Her brother James had used that same word in connection with Gareth. Why had she put off asking Gareth what it meant?

"What superstition is this. Sir Humphrey?" she said coolly. "Do you enjoy judging another man so unfairly?"

Sir Humphrey shook his head. His long, lank hair swayed. "I am only concerned for your safety, mistress. You do not know—"

"For a man so concerned with my safety, you seem gleeful."

The knight paled for a moment before he smiled. "Did you not ask Sir Gareth about his family?"

"He and I are just renewing our acquaintance," she said, forcing herself not to look at Gareth. "Am I questioning you about your ancestors?"

"Mayhap you should, mistress. I thought for certain your brothers would have told you about the Beaumont Curse."

Margery took a deep breath, and this dme couldn't stop herself from glancing at Gareth. His face expressionless, he studied the other knight from under lowered brows.

"Sir Humphrey, I do not indulge in idle rumors," she said with winter frost in her voice.

"This is no rumor, mistress, but fact. Have you not heard how Sir Gareth's parents and grandparents died?"

Had Gareth lied about his parents dying in a fire? Well, she would not let cruel rumors be spoken in her presence. He could explain his past in his own dme—in private.

"Mistress Margery," Gareth said, raising those golden eyes to look at her.

She did not wish for him to play into the hands of this petty knight who took such pleasure in other people's sorrows. But she was as frozen as everyone else in the hall, waiting for the words Gareth would say.

" 'Tis no secret that my parents died in a fire when I was but a child," he said.

"Who started the lire?" Sir Humphrey asked.

"We never knew."

"A witness said your father drank heavily that day. Perhaps—"

"My father drank heavily every day," Gareth interrupted coldly. "As do many of you. Are you claiming someone saw him start the fire?"

In that emotionless voice, Margery imagined a world of suffering. So this was the curse—rumors about a sad death? She could barely swallow past the lump in her throat.

But Sir Humphrey seemed unaffected. "You do not think such a death is worthy of suspicion, considering the way your grandmothers died?"

Margery saw Gareth's knuckles whiten where they grasped his tankard, but his face betrayed little. She couldn't imagine being the focus of so much condemnation.

He rose to his feet, looking powerful, remote, as if his past had never touched him. The room was hushed, save for the crackling of the fire and the distant sounds of servants' laughing voices. Margery felt raised bumps along her arms.

"My great-grandfather killed my great- grandmother," Gareth said flatly. "My grandfather blamed himself for my grandmother's death. None of it touches me. If you wish to make more of it, I can meet you at the tiltyard."

Sir Humphrey surged to his feet, but two of his friends grabbed his arms. Gareth waited, wearing a curve to his lips that wasn't really a smile.

Sir Humphrey's voice was furious as he strained against his friends' restraints. "You have no control over your fate, Beaumont. We're destined for good marriages"—he shot a triumphant glance at Margery—"wealth and honor. You are destined only for madness."

There was a collective hiss, as if just that word made Gareth a man to be shunned.

Gareth inclined his head. "If I am destined only for madness, it is truly amazing how many of your friends and family I have defeated at tournaments. Would you like to join their ranks? I will test my destiny against yours any date you choose."

Sir Humphrey guffawed, as if the challenge were worthless. But Margery saw the wariness he tried to conceal.

Gareth seemed ruthless, cold, a man who feared no one. But before it all he had been a child, and he'd been hurting, while she'd been spoiled and unthinking. She didn't remember even asking about his family, or how he felt about it. She hadn't a clue to anyone's problems but her own, and that selfishness now haunted her.

Gareth sat down and opened the book. Margery picked up her embroidery, but she couldn't stop herself from studying him, and wondering.

"Mistress Margery?" Lord George Wharton said.

She looked up into his aristocratic face, with its thin nose and arrogant eyes. She was unable to forget how frightened he'd been of Gareth. "Yes, Lord George?"

"My father the duke tells me that you have but two months left to announce your choice in husband. Is this so?"

At Lord George's pointed reference to his noble father, the room erupted in snickers and laughter. Even his younger brother, Lord Shaw, rolled his eyes.

Margery no longer dreaded making the announcement of her husband. Now that she had a plan, surely she could find the perfect man—she just hadn't decided yet exactly what kind of man she would need.

She glanced at Gareth, who watched her with narrowed eyes. Hadn't she told him that the king wouldn't wait forever for her to choose a husband? Had she been so embarrassed as she revealed all her problems to him, that this final humiliation had been forgotten?

"I have until the first day in October to name my husband," she answered Lord George, smiling as graciously as possible.

"And do you have a man in mind as of yet?"

Every pair of male eyes inspected her body as if they planned to buy her. She sat up straighter. Let them look—she would do the purchasing. "No, my lord. Do not tell me that is why you gracious gentlemen came to visit me."