My Lady's Guardian (12 page)

Margery arrived soon after, looking shocked to see him in the chapel. He wondered if she, too, had been thinking about their evening in the garden. He'd have to subtiy remind her about it all day. He himself needed no other reminder than the smell of her perfume as she neared him. What it did to his insides was best not dwelt on in church.

She gave him a strained smile as she knelt beside him. Her suitors stumbled in one at a time, and it was obvious from their bleary faces that they'd drunk and gambled the night away.

After Mass, they went into the great hall to break their fast. Gareth watched Margery's face when she noticed the rose beside her plate, saw the half smile that touched her lips as she raised her gaze to his.

Desmond was right, he grudgingly admitted again. Flowers helped.

He tried not to smile as she convinced all her young suitors that she'd keep busy while they spent the morning training at the tiltyard. He followed them outside, determined to show them all that if prowess mattered to Margery, then he had them beat. And maybe someone would think twice before trying to harm her.

But Gareth never had a chance that day to spar with any of her six suitors. He heard the words "Beaumont Curse" more than once, and felt many a disapproving eye on his back. He would be patient, because sooner or later one of them would want to test himself against his deadly reputation.

He had to admit that Humphrey Townsend had good reason to boast. His skills were exceptional, and even Desmond had a difficult time fighting him.

Before the noon meal, Margery and her ladies came outside, making themselves comfortable in the shade. Margeiy watched the men with a critical eye. Lord Seabrook held his shield too low. Sir Chester, never far from the influence of the Wharton brothers, rushed through his fight and almost was injured because of his carelessness.

She found fault with all six of her suitors, and told herself she was being too demanding. She could expect perfection from no man.

Her gaze occasionally sought Gareth. His back was to her, and he wore a plated brigantine to protect his chest. He wielded a blunt sword against one of her soldiers with a strength and skill that almost overwhelmed her, and made her feel glad to be a woman. He ducked a sword slash and whirled around, ready to fight—until he saw her. He stumbled to a halt and gave her the most devilish of grins.

My, he was good at courting her.

Though she kept trying to forget it, their evening in the garden rushed back to her. She remembered his hands gripping her arms, their bodies straining together but not quite touching. She had thankfully stopped herself from kissing him.

She told herself that her lapse in judgment was because he made her feel safe for the first time in months.

But of course she felt safe—she was paying him for that.

She wondered what would have happened if Gareth had not left Wellespring Casde all those years ago. The little girl inside her still remembered

feeling betrayed when she had finally realized her friend would never return.

But there was no going back in time, wondering how things could have been different. She couldn't wish away her recent mistakes, either.

Margeiy watched the lists as mounted men began to gallop at the quintain, wielding blunted lances. More than one suitor had the whirling arm swing around and knock him to the ground. She kept a tally in her head.

When it was Gareth's turn, she shifted on her bench. He glowed under the sun, and the muscles of his arm rippled as he jousted with the quintain and galloped away unscathed.

"I wonder who you could be watching," a voice whispered in her ear.

Margery gave a start, then glanced casually at Cicely. "All of the men are very talented, are they not?"

"I quite agree." The young woman smiled demurely as she held her headdress in place against the breeze.

With a nod to her steward, Margery signaled the beginnings of the outdoor meal she'd planned. Trestle tables and benches were brought outside, and courses of food were laid out for the hungry men and all of her people.

Gareth found a place at a table away from her, and she watched the maidservants take special care that he was pleased. The women didn't seem at all concerned with this curse the men whispered about.

Sir Humphrey set down his plate opposite her and took a seat, blocking her view of Gareth. She gave the knight a strained smile as he expounded on his various training methods. She wanted to tell him she'd grown up with three brothers, but she held her tongue and pretended he was just fascinating. He was already off her list of possible husbands.

The knight's condescension on the subject of archery proved to be his undoing at the end of the meal. She smiled her prettiest.

"Sir Humphrey, I well understand a bow. It was my weapon of choice when I hunted with my brothers. But alas, I've been at court recently, and have not had the chance to pracdce."

Sir Humphrey's back straightened with ill- concealed self-importance. "I would be happy to assist you. I am quite skilled, you know."

"Really?" She dropped her napkin on the table as she stood. "Then let us practice now."

Sir Humphrey remained seated and gave her a patronizing smile. "Now, now, mistress, I'm sure you'd rather wait for a more private moment. I

wouldn't want you to feel inferior to me in any

way."

Margery barely controlled her temper. Inferior to him, indeed!

Gareth stood up. "I could use some practice with the bow."

She tried not to take pleasure at the thought of testing herself against him. "Why, Sir Gareth, I can't believe you are not proficient at every aspect of war."

"As a lad, I used to fish when I should have been using my bow."

She smiled as she remembered their afternoon fishing, so long ago. "I could give you some instruction at that, too."

Sir Humphrey scowled. "He is merely trying to win your attention, mistress."

"And aren't you?" she asked sweetly.

He gave a stiff bow and went back to his friends, who had already risen to come watch the competition.

Margery put her hands on her hips and glanced about, wondering if the bows were stored in the armory. Sure enough, Sir Wallace came out of that building, carrying two unstrung bows and a quiver of arrows, which he handed to Gareth.

Gareth stood beside her and strung the bows. He murmured, "Mistress, I hope you don't intend to abuse your poor guard."

"You'll only get what you deserve," she said, shivering at the husky tone of his voice. Her smile died as she gazed at him with narrowed eyes. He was behaving differently, no longer quite the cold, remote stranger he had been just a few days ago. He was almost...playful. It made her suspicious.

But perhaps she was too suspicious lately; perhaps the last few months of her life had made her cynical. Surely he was finally relaxing into the friendship they had once shared.

Gareth watched Margery stroll away from him, the bow dangling from her hand. She looked over her shoulder, and her blue eyes glinted with mischief. The summer breeze ruffled her hair, and the sun pinkened her cheeks.

"As the challenger, you may go first, Sir Gareth."

He nodded and positioned himself across the tiltyard from the wooden targets, which rested against mounds of straw. They were shaped crudely like men, with a circle drawn over the man's heart. Gareth drew his arrow back.

Before he could release it, Margery walked behind him. "Are you sure you don't need my help? Your right elbow is low."

He realized she meant to distract him. Just like the rest of her family, she always had to win. Well, she might be skilled at Tables, but he would not let her win at games of war.

Yet she was so close to his back, if she took a deep enough breath, he'd feel her breasts. Sweat broke out on his brow. He refused to let himself be affected by her nearness. He was the one controlling this seduction, not her. But damn if he wasn't grateful he was wearing a longer tunic this day.

He blocked her from his mind and let fly his arrow. It just missed the heart, and there was a smattering of applause—from the women, he was certain.

Gareth lowered his arms and deliberately brushed his elbow against Margery's chest. She stepped away quickly. He raised his eyebrows in innocence, and she gave him a frown.

Then she lifted her bow. Just as she pulled back the string, he dropped to one knee in her line of sight and gazed at her with worshipful eyes. Actually, he was admiring the way her gown molded to her breasts as she aimed.

She glanced at him, and a little frown line appeared between her eyes. As she pulled back the string he let out a loud, lovesick sigh, and she jerked as the arrow was released. Though she hit the target,

it was nowhere near the heart. With her back to the crowd, she glared at him.

"Mistress Margery," he said, "your form is just wondrous."

There was reluctant laughter from their audience.

"My arrow barely hit the target," she said dryly.

"I had not even noticed, mistress. Allow me to shoot again."

As he aimed, he felt her moving around behind him, and wondered more about what she was doing than where his arrow should go. Just as he concentrated and took serious aim, she appeared to his right, holding a strawberry tart to her lips. Her pink tongue licked at a stray crumb.

His arrow landed farther from the target heart, but not as far as hers.

She swallowed the last of the tart, then licked two of her fingers in a saucy manner before taking her bow from Desmond.

Chapter 11

Margery felt a wave of excitement which she could no longer ignore. How had an archery competition turned into something so...personal? Her heart was beating loudly in her ears, and her body seemed to vibrate with its own music whenever Gareth stepped near. Though she was suspicious of his motives, she couldn't deny that she felt more alive than she had in months.

As she took aim, she suddenly heard his voice close behind her.

"A little higher, Margery."

A shudder moved through her, centered low in her stomach. "Shh!"

"Such fire in your eyes."

Her arrow landed just outside the circle that represented the heart. She barely resisted the urge to

stomp her foot in frustration. Even his voice affected her!

She moved briskly behind him. "Your turn, Sir Gareth. Shall I help you align your shot?"

Again she stood at his back. She ran her hand down his right arm to lift his elbow higher, feeling pleasure in touching him. As if encouraging him, she rested her hand on his shoulder. She was close enough to see sweat trickle down his temple, and she took satisfaction from it.

Then he let fly the arrow, and it hit one side of the heart. Margery wanted to groan. It would all come down to her last shot.

She picked up her bow and stepped into position. She fitted the arrow in place, pulling the string back toward her cheek. There was nothing stopping her from making a perfect shot, of which she knew she was capable. But a sudden movement at her left made her glance that way.

Gareth was smiling at her. His eyes seemed to glow, as if he knew her every secret, and none of it mattered.

It was all feigned. She knew it was. She crushed the warmth that lit her from the inside. He was only a guard who remained merely because she would be paying him.

Margery's arrow hit straw.

By God, he'd won. With a glower she could barely hide, she watched him make his way back to her side, then stand close enough that their sleeves brushed.

He pointedly looked at the target. "I don't see your arrow," he said in an amused voice.

"A fly bit me."

He chuckled. "Is that your excuse?"

"No excuses."

As Gareth went to the table and took a slice of cake from the giggling twins, Margery saw Sir Humphrey giving Gareth a venomous stare.

A chill moved through her, darkening the day and her confidence. Gareth's presence was supposed to keep her safe, not endanger him.

She was distracted by a rider on horseback emerging from the gatehouse. Shielding her eyes from the sunlight, she felt her stomach clench when she recognized the colors the man was wearing. He was a servant of Viscount Peter Fitzwilliam: the one man who knew all her shameful secrets. With just a well-placed word, Peter could guarantee that she was never again accepted by her friends at court, that her brothers would be disappointed and dishonored by her. She didn't need this, just when she'd finally decided on a course for her life. Her

hands started trembling, and she clutched them together.

The servant dismounted before her and gave a little bow. He held out a folded piece of parchment, sealed with the wax symbol of the earldom of Kent.

"From Lord Fitzwilliam," the man said, his high- pitched voice a startling contrast to his wide, stocky body.

Unnerved, Margery let him put the letter into her hands. The man turned around and remounted his horse.

Her eyes widened. "Come, sir, surely you would like a meal for your effort. And does not the letter require a reply?"

"No time, mistress. Lord Fitzwilliam did not ask me to wait for your answer. Good day." He wheeled the horse about and trotted toward the gatehouse.

Feeling stunned, she looked down at the missive. She should retire to her bedchamber and read in private, but waiting even another moment would make her dread escalate sharply. She ripped open the wax seal. She had once thought the familiar handwriting boldly enthusiastic; now it just looked arrogant.

Peter was with the king in the north, and sent greetings from her brothers. Just knowing that Reynold and James were spending time with him

made her dinner sour in her stomach. Nowhere did he mention the things they'd done together, but she thought she could feel it behind every sentence. He didn't beg her forgiveness—not that she would have given it.

She continued reading in mounting disbelief as Peter inquired blandly about her health. He wrote as if they were casual acquaintances, not two people who had lain together, who had almost married.

Then her hands shook as she discovered the true purpose of the letter. Now that the pretender to the throne had been defeated at Stoke, Reynold and James were coming to visit her on their journey home, and Peter thought he might travel with them.