Page 11 of The Bodyguard Who Came in from the Cold (Secrets and Vows #4)

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M argery sat up straighter, her head above his, her face shadowed. “Forgive me for not telling you about the rest of the king’s proclamation.”

Gareth took a deep breath and looked down at his hand, grazed by her skirts. “ ’Tis a strange thing King Henry has done.”

“He only wanted to help,” she said, sighing. “He thought it would make me happy. I’m sure the king believed that making me choose by October would give me a husband sooner. But also,” she added with a touch of sadness, “he could not afford to allow my lands to languish too long unsettled.”

Gareth let his fingertips brush the cool silk of her dress. By the saints, even her skirt aroused him. “But instead, the king made you a target.”

She nodded, biting her lip and looking down into her lap. He almost felt sorry for her.

“Then it is my duty to protect you.”

“I do not like being your duty.”

Margery said the words so softly that Gareth almost missed them.

He said, “I do not mean to sound as if my time here is a chore I must get through. It is a chance to renew our friendship, to remember some of the better moments in my life.”

“You seem to have had few.”

He heard sympathy in her voice, and it made his gut clench. Though her family had harmed him, own family curse threaded through every decision he’d ever made.

“Gareth, Sir Humphrey’s cruelty cannot be borne. I’ll make him leave, I’ll?—”

“You cannot punish a man for speaking the truth. There are things you don’t know about me. Yes, my grandfathers killed their wives, one way or another. And my father—I do not know how that fire started. But I should never have left them. I knew he was drinking too much.”

He was shocked as the words spilled out of him like a slow blood loss. He usually held his emotions in such tight restraint, buried deep inside him. He hated her pity.

Margery felt sorrow wash through her, overwhelming her caution. “Gareth, you were but eight years old! You were burdened with knowledge no child should have, and could have done nothing for your parents but be a good son to them. And you saved my life, which your parents would be proud of.”

The garden was almost dark now. Gareth was a study in shadows before her, his hair still gleaming. Slowly he looked up into her face. He seemed to examine her every feature. She shivered when his gaze dropped to her lips.

This wasn’t right. She felt again that shot of languid heat surge through her. She felt wild, unrestrained, something she’d vowed to never let happen again.

This was Gareth, her personal guard. If he had been one of her suitors, she would have made him leave. He fit none of her requirements of the proper husband.

But still, she felt an intense, almost painful pleasure at having him so near to her. She wanted to lean into him. She had felt excitement and anticipation with Peter, but nothing compared to this overwhelming need to touch Gareth, to comfort him.

The proper side of her shouted no …but the wickedness that had stolen into her these last few months slyly urged her on.

She let her trembling fingers thread into the soft hair above his ear.

She heard Gareth take a quick breath as his gaze rose to hers. Deep in those cold eyes she saw an awakening, answering heat. He whispered her name in a hoarse voice. Unable to stop herself, Margery slid her fingers through his hair again.

He came up onto his knees and gripped her arms. “You don’t mean to do this.”

But she did. Her wicked body yearned to be held against him, to feel the pleasure of his lips on hers. Their chests were separated by mere inches, their mouths by but a breath. If she slid forward, she could feel his body against hers.

Gareth needed her.

But was comfort enough? Was she just inventing any excuse to lose herself in the arms of a dangerously attractive man, to forget the empty marriage she would soon choose?

Tears stung her eyes, and she pressed her hands against his chest. “Release me.”

With only the barest hesitation, he did as she requested, sitting back on his heels to look at her. He must wonder what kind of woman she was.

He suddenly grimaced and brought both hands up to his head.

“Gareth?” she whispered, reaching out, but not trusting herself to touch him.

He shook his head. “I’m fine. My head aches, ’tis all.”

After a moment, he put a hand on the bench beside her as if to steady himself. This couldn’t be just an aching head.

“Perhaps the healer—” Margery began, but he interrupted.

“Do not worry yourself. I had too much to drink.”

She knew that was a lie. Was he trying to pretend that what had almost happened between them was because of ale?

“Let us go in,” she said.

They walked back inside, then stood awkwardly in a torchlit corridor. She clasped her hands together and met his gaze. “I cannot leave my guests without bidding them good-night.”

He nodded. She thought his face looked pinched with strain.

“I shall not return to the great hall with you,” he said. “It would look…”

She gave a hasty nod. “Thank you.”

“A good night to you, Margery,” he murmured.

When his gaze dropped to her lips, she felt a blush sweep across her face. She took a step back. “Good night, Gareth.”

She knew he watched her until she reached the entrance to the hall. It made her feel safe and uncomfortable at the same time. After a few pleasantries with her suitors she escaped to her bedchamber, where she prayed for an end to this wildness inside her.

~oOo~

Gareth was the first person in the chapel before dawn. He’d searched his bags for that stone Margery had given him so long ago, but he still couldn’t find it. It would be the perfect sentimental gift to woo her.

Things had gone surprisingly well in the garden last night. She was not unaffected by his presence, regardless of the revelation of part of the Beaumont Curse. She’d stood up to Townsend with more courage than he’d seen in many a man. Soon he’d be the only man she’d think of when she considered marriage.

But then he’d had another vision in front of her, reminding him of how little he really controlled. If this kept up, his headache excuse would no longer suffice. The same image had appeared as before—Margery seated on a horse before a shadowed man. Why couldn’t he sense her emotions? Who was this man?

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 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. Wallace 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.

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

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.

~oOo~

Before the noon meal, Margery and her ladies came outside, making themselves comfortable in the shade. Margery 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 Castle 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.

Margery 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 practice.”

Sir Humphrey 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.”

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 Wallace.