Page 10 of The Bodyguard Who Came in from the Cold (Secrets and Vows #4)

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F inally 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. She heard him say in a clipped, superior tone, “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 said. 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?”

“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.

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. “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 time 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 time—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 fire?” 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.”

Laughter traveled through the room.

“We came to celebrate your twentieth birthday,” Lord George said. “The queen regretted that you would not be with her, and she wanted to make sure we gave you a party befitting her close friend. She is even sending her own minstrels.”

A birthday party in her honor, where she and her household would be doing much of the work. She didn’t know who was more ignorant at times—the queen or men as a whole.

Margery called her ladies together to retire briefly before supper. She could feel Gareth watching her leave, as if he actually touched her, but she refused to look at him. He would only want to accompany her, and she didn’t want a man just now.

Once in her solar, she stood at the large glass window and looked out over the flatlands of the Severn Valley. Anne and Cicely stood beside her.

“Margery?” Anne finally said.

“Hmm?”

“What is wrong? Surely it must be wonderful to have so many men seeking your hand.”

“It would seem so,” she said, turning to smile at her friend. “But I must keep in mind that these men are looking for a suitable match to bring prestige and wealth to their families—which does not necessarily have much to do with me. Sometimes I feel like I am just an additional benefit—me and any child I would bear.”

“Oh, no,” Cicely said, touching Margery’s arm. “You must not think that way.”

“I’m trying not to.” Margery smiled briskly. “That is why I brought you two with me. I need to plan my strategy.”

“Strategy?” Anne echoed. “It sounds like you’re marching off to war.”

“I am, and ’tis time for a battle plan. I need to know exactly what kind of man I am looking for.”

“Oh, that should be easy,” Anne said, clapping her hands together. “Handsome and kind, well-spoken, strong?—”

Margery interrupted. “I only agree with two of those. Of course I want a man who will be kind, and strong enough to take care of our family. But appearance and manner of speaking are not so important.”

Cicely looked crestfallen.

“Ladies, we will each be married to one man for all of our lives. Handsomeness won’t last forever. I’ve been thinking of what I would like in a man. First, he shall be a nobleman.”

“Oh, of course,” Anne agreed.

Cicely nodded.

“But only because I wish him to stay at court for much of the year.”

Anne seemed puzzled for a moment before she smiled. “Ah, the prestige.”

“No. I am simply used to running my own household and I do not want any interference. Besides, a husband needs to keep busy. I will tolerate no gambling or excessive drinking.”

Cicely looked bewildered as she took a seat in a cushioned chair.

Margery pushed on. “He must be intelligent, but not too strong-willed. A husband should be content with a good life and a happy family, not roaming the countryside looking to battle.”

“But Margery,” Anne said tentatively, “what about love?”

She stared at their innocent faces, then turned her back to look out the window. She hated to disillusion them. “I made that mistake once before,” she said softly. “From now on, it will not be my first consideration.”

She would never fall in love again. With Peter Fitzwilliam, she had lost all control of herself and lived only to be with him. He’d had all the power in their relationship, and it had almost destroyed her.

She would have remained a lonely spinster—until she had finally come to her senses and realized that most men were no better than Peter. So now she would negotiate her own marriage. She would be a good wife, and never give her husband cause to regret his choice. But it would really be her choice.

~oOo~

During supper, Gareth watched Margery pick at her food. As she spoke with the suitors arrayed across from her, her face was as animated as always, but there was a tension in her eyes.

His anger was still so strong that he wanted to demand to know why she hadn’t told him about the group of visiting suitors, or the king’s insistence that she choose a husband a certain date. How could she expect him to be an effective guard if he didn’t know everything that was happening to her? He’d overheard some of her conversation in the solar with her ladies, where she’d elaborated on her plans for choosing a husband she could control. Her entire life had taught her that she could have anything she wanted—but not this time.

The servants began to clear away the last course. During the confusion of people leaving the table, Margery slipped away from her guests and down a side corridor. Gareth followed her.

She led him outside into the fading sunlight of early evening, and disappeared into the chapel. He stepped behind a mound of hay near the stables to wait. No one else entered; what could she be doing?

The sun had set behind the curtain wall before she emerged again. She walked slowly, her head down, her hands clasped loosely before her. He stepped into view.

Margery stopped in obvious surprise, her lips parted, her eyes wary. “Gareth, is something wrong? What are you doing here?”

“Following you.”

She sighed and looked away. “I do not need your protection this night. I was just feeling overwhelmed by having so many guests.”

“And you go to a chapel instead of the peace of your own bedchamber?”

She shrugged and began to walk again. He kept pace beside her, as the hard earth gave way to the gravel paths of the garden. They entered the gate to the lady’s garden, and overhead apple and pear trees closed out the pale pink sky.

“Believe me, Gareth, I am grateful that these boys show an interest in me.”

“Boys?” he repeated.

She smiled and shook her head. “Men. Forgive me. ’Tis just that they seem like boys fighting over a new toy.”

“An accurate description.” He took a deep breath and tried to sound relaxed. “I did not know of the king’s request that you choose a husband soon.”

Since a shrug was her only answer, he wanted to shake out whatever truths she was still holding back. From her behavior, there had to be more.

Margery turned away from him and sat down on a small bench in the middle of tall stalks of columbines. She started to move her skirts aside, but he’d never fit there. Feeling awkward and annoyed, he lowered himself to sit at her feet.

“Gareth, I can make room for you. ’Tis too damp on the ground.”

He ignored her words as he rested one elbow on the bench, his hand dangling close to her silk skirt. She bent toward him, which gave him a view of the deep shadow between her breasts. His anger subsided; he couldn’t even remember what they were talking about. Margery’s perfume surrounded him, and he wanted nothing more than to taste her, to lose himself in the feel of her.