My Lady's Guardian (18 page)

The feel of his body completed her, made all her problems and worries disappear with the passion she finally released. She gripped his hair, holding him close.

"Margery," he whispered hoarsely, his mouth trailing across her jaw and down her neck.

"Gareth." His name was a groan of desire, of need. She parted her legs, wanting to feel all of him. He caught her knees up around his waist and rubbed

his erection against her. He held her hard against the wall, his face buried between her neck and shoulder.

Every movement of his body against hers made Margery shudder. She linked her legs around his hips, swept beyond the shock of his aggressive passion into a world where there was only their ragged breathing, their barely suppressed groans. She had known another man and thought there was nothing that could surprise her. But her stark need of Gareth made her feel primitive, alive, as if there were no constraints, no civilization.

His hands slid beneath her thighs, working slow erotic circles on her bare flesh with the tips of his fingers, ever closer to where they strained to be joined.

He kissed her again, and she groaned as his hands left her thighs and caressed her waist. He lifted his head and watched her. His thumbs suddenly brushed her nipples and she gave a shocked gasp, staring into his eyes, begging him without words to continue.

Margery's sanity returned when a horse neighed in a nearby stall—and regret swept through her. Anyone could find them. Her longing for danger and excitement didn't mean she wanted to be discovered. She brought her legs down and slid

along his body to stand shakily on the ground. Yet still she clutched his arms and held him close.

"Gareth." She breathed his name.

He leaned down to kiss her.

She turned her head away. "Not here, not now." She felt his lips nibbling her ear, and she moaned.

"Then let us go somewhere more private," he whispered.

"No, I—"

This was nothing she had planned, nothing she'd meant to happen. She wasn't sure what should happen between them.

Her feelings suddenly overwhelmed and frightened her. She broke from his embrace and ran.

Gareth stood on the battlements overlooking the dark countryside. It was deep night, and except for the sounds of the patrols, everything was still. He had run the circle of the battiements until exhaustion cramped his legs and threatened to send him falling into the ward below. Yet nothing helped. What was wrong with him? Margery was just another woman. Because of her, he'd been forced to squire in a casde where their idea of protection against his "wizardry" was to lock him up each night, and release him to labor by day.

But when his eyes closed, Gareth didn't remember the dark, bare rooms of his youth. Instead he saw her face, head tilted back, lips parted in passion. Her response had been more than he'd ever imagined. With her in his arms, nothing else had existed but his need for her. He forgot everything she'd done, everything she was. He'd almost lost control—surely he hadn't been himself.

But he had endangered his own plans. Though he longed to seduce Margery, he didn't want the entire world to know and think her shameless. He didn't want a marriage begun in anger.

She had more passion than he'd ever seen in a woman—but it only made him more suspicious. What had happened with Peter Fitzwilliam, and why did it haunt her so?

Margery couldn't sleep. As she sat in a chair before the hearth, she clutched the crystal stone Gareth had given her.

It was long past midnight. The only sounds she heard were the hourly marching of the guards past her door: the shuffle of their boots, the murmur of their voices.

She opened her palm and looked at the stone. It glittered like Gareth's eyes, she thought, shivering.

She'd squeezed it so hard she'd left indentadons in her flesh. They would eventually go away, but her memories of him never would. Their lives were linked in so many ways. She felt bound to him, to this fascination and passion she felt for him.

Never in her life had she been kissed like that, like she was the only food for a starving man. She had reveled in the power of feeling desirable. He was a solitary, dangerous, fierce knight, and she'd held him in her arms and made him shudder.

For an insane moment, Margery wondered what it would be like to have a husband like Gareth, uncontrollable, mysterious. A man like him would do as he pleased, even if it meant breaking her heart.

She had vowed never again to put herself under the spell of a man who could hurt her—but damned if she wasn't going to be as wild as a man while she still could. She deserved it.

Chapter 16

The day of her birthday celebration, Margery was busy with the butler and cellarer, and overseeing the village maids who arrived to bake the pastries. She went to the tiltyard often, where extra pits had been dug to roast oxen. Once or twice she felt Gareth staring at her, but she didn't look his way. She was afraid her face would reveal her excitement, the forbidden recklessness taking over her body. It all seemed new to her, and she didn't want to scrutinize it just yet.

That night, hundreds of candles illuminated the hall. The scents of heavy perfume and larks' tongue pie floated through the air. The lords and ladies were dressed in embroidered brocades and velvets, colorful silken gowns sewn with shining pearls and beads.

Margery caught her breath at how Gareth's new blue doublet made his hair and eyes look even more golden. His new white shirt was pulled through the many slits in his sleeves, in the best court fashion.

Though the noblemen ignored him, he didn't want for company. The serving maids hovered nearby, offering food and drink just to see him smile. Margery couldn't blame them, for whenever he turned that rare smile on her, it was like the sun coming out after a long season of storms.

When the dancing started she joined hands with one suitor after another, circling the floor until her head spun. She brushed shoulders once with Gareth, and awareness tingled through her. But before their gazes could meet, he was already swept away by his partner. Though he didn't know the dances, that didn't stop every woman, from villager to lady, from asking him to dance.

Later, she felt his gaze on her as she danced with yet another suitor. Gareth stood alone, watching her through the crowd. In her mind she relived the feeling of his mouth sliding down her neck, of his hands touching intimate places on her body. She felt warm and flustered and thrilled that he stared at her.

Why couldn't she spend a few minutes dancing in his arms before the entire casde? Everyone thought he was her suitor. She stopped dancing with

Lord Seabrook, claiming thirst. He brought her a goblet of wine and tried to start a conversation, but his words faded away as Gareth approached her and bowed over her hand.

She wasn't prepared for the shock of putting her hand in his. A spark of excitement and longing shot between them. His smile vanished for a moment, and his gaze was greedy on her mouth.

Then he changed back into her adoring suitor again. "Mistress Margery, please do me the great honor of dancing with me." He sounded no different, as if he still worshipped her from afar.

She followed him out into the center of the hall, where sweetened rushes were stirred by their feet. They bowed to each other and performed the simple steps of the dance, which other partners had obviously taught him that evening.

When they held hands and swung in circles, Gareth leaned toward her. "You ran away last night," he said in a low voice. "Are you angry with me?"

She smiled. "Should I be?"

"So you kiss men like that every day?"

Though his expression was pleasant, his eyes studied her with a skepticism that angered her. Did even Gareth think only women had to be perfect?

"No, I don't," she said sharply.

"Margery—"

"I'm not ready to talk about it yet."

They were separated by the dance. As they were reunited, he softly said, "Should I ask for your forgiveness?"

"There's nothing to forgive," she whispered, relenting. "It was...mutual."

They were parted again, and Gareth searched for Margery in the circle of dancers. He thought for certain she would feel guilty and ashamed of what they'd shared, that he'd have to woo her more. Instead, there was an unusual intensity about her that confused him.

They came together, linking hands and following a line of dancers. At the end of the dance, he lifted her high and spun her before setting her back on her feet, leaving her flushed and wide-eyed. But she soon left him for her next suitor.

Later in the evening, he watched her open her birthday gifts. She would be his wife; she deserved the only heirlooms of his family, so he gave her a simple chain that was his mother's. She looked at it the same as she looked at all the others—with politeness. He knew she was only treating him as a pretend suitor, but a deep part of him longed for recognition. It was difficult to be patient and let other men ogle what he already considered his.

A voice suddenly boomed out. "Is that plain thing from Beaumont?" Humphrey Townsend asked.

Gareth had not seen Townsend for the entire day. He was amazed that the man had finally confronted him—in public, of course; Gareth had made an enemy of the knight.

"He owes you more than a cheap trinket," Townsend continued, "for exposing you to the curse of his family."

Gareth saw Margery's eyes go cold. "Sir Humphrey, how could one dance expose me to such foolish superstition? I danced more with you, and my aching toes prove it."

Townsend's face whitened. "One dance could lead to more with a Beaumont," he said in a controlled, furious voice. "After all, I'm sure his mother and grandmother thought they knew better, too. But they ended up trapped in marriage and dead."

Gareth's rationality fled as he looked into Townsend's smirking face. The man had slandered his ancestors—and tried to compromise Margery. A cold rage setded in his mind. They would meet again, and this time the swords would be sharp. Gareth didn't need a vision to tell him that.

A violent headache suddenly stabbed between his eyes. As if called forth by the thought, a vision

swirled across his sight, and he did his best to keep his expression normal. He vaguely saw Margery step between him and Townsend, heard her voice as if from far away. Not now, not now, he chanted silently—but trying to force away a vision only made his headache worse.

He thought Margery was trying to talk to him. He shook his head and frowned, hoping that she would understand. Of Townsend's words, he heard nothing. The mist before his eyes had taken on color and shape, sharpening again into the image of Margery before a shadowed man on a horse. This time, the vision was clearer. Beneath a cloudy night sky, he could see the Severn Valley stretching out behind the riders, the Cotswolds in the distance. He sensed urgency, but nothing else.

Gareth suddenly felt hands on his arms, shaking him; the vision dissolved in a swirl of mist. He blinked and shook his head, only to see Desmond's worried face before him.

"Gareth?"

He could hear again. People nearby were staring at him, Desmond and Margery with concern, Townsend with triumph.

He gave them all a strained smile. "Forgive me, Mistress Margery. I am not feeling well. I must have eaten something that did not agree with me."

She studied him. "Are you sure I do not need to send for the physician?"

"I'm fine."

"Perhaps you should retire for the evening."

And let a hall full of servants and guests and strangers have easy access to Margery? "I shall sit undl I feel better. Go enjoy yourself, mistress."

She was finally persuaded to continue dancing, but the last glance she gave him was more puzzled than worried. One more public display of his visions, and she would demand answers he couldn't give.

Never had Gareth felt more helpless and weak. His vision had hit him so strongly, he'd been unable to see or hear.

What if the strength and increasing frequency of the visions was a warning? Perhaps whatever danger Margery faced was approaching. She would be safer married to him, when she would be at his side, night and day.

Their shared kiss burned in his mind—and other parts of his body. Wiping his perspiring forehead, he kept his gaze locked on Margery, who whirled about the room with one man after another. Her green skirts swayed, revealing her ankles and feet. Men touched her slim waist or her hand.

It should be him.

Maybe it was time to step up his plans for seduction. She was certainly receptive, and there couldn't be many more days before her brothers arrived.

The celebration went on well into the early morning. Gareth made sure Margery saw him drinking often, so he could blame the ale for making him stumble into her bed.

After everyone had gone to sleep, he waited a long, frustrating hour. His mind was haunted by memories of her breathless moans, of the way her body had shuddered against his. Finally he sneaked into her bedchamber.

A low fire in the hearth lit the room with a soft, shadowy light. Margery lay in bed asleep, and didn't stir as he approached. Her dark lashes rested on her cheeks, her full lips slightly parted with her breathing. Her curls spread out in a sensual disarray across her pillow.

Desire thundered through his body, almost overpowering him, but he refused to bed her as if he were an overly eager boy. He unlaced his doublet, pulled it over his head, and threw it across a small table. As he hurriedly loosened his shirt, her neat handwriting on parchment caught his attention.

It was an unfinished letter to her brothers, James and Reynold. Seeing their names was like immersing himself in a winter river.

He stumbled back. He'd lost sight of his revenge, caring more for getting between Margery's thighs than for what this family owed him. He could not allow his nearness to his goal to make him forget so many years of pain.

He was letting the visions affect his life too much. Margery was in no immediate danger, as long as she obeyed him.

He began to wonder if the vision had a different meaning. Perhaps it was not a warning, but a prediction of a good future.