Page 12 of The Bodyguard Who Came in from the Cold (Secrets and Vows #4)

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M argery 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 letter. 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. The handwriting was familiar. She had once thought it seemed 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.

She should be happy that her brothers were safe, that they had sent her warm greetings through Peter. She wanted to look forward to their visit. But how could she, knowing that Peter might be there? What possible reason could he have to come, unless he meant to expose her?

Gareth sat at the table, watching Margery frown over the letter. At first he ignored the low conversation amongst her suitors, until he realized that they were discussing the delivery of the letter.

“I tell you,” said Townsend, “he wore Fitzwilliam’s livery.”

The Earl of Chadwick, who so far had proved himself a decent, quiet man—and a threat to Gareth’s courtship—shook his head. “It cannot be. He and Mistress Margery are no longer speaking.”

Gareth leaned forward for another bite of cake, trying not to be obvious as he strained to listen.

“It was rumored they would marry,” said Lord Seabrook tentatively.

The Wharton brothers exchanged glances. The eldest, Lord George, said, “Fitzwilliam himself told me he was no longer pursuing her—and he was damned mysterious about why.”

Gareth looked once more at Margery, who stared at the gatehouse, the letter crumpled in her hand. With all his plans, he had never considered that she had had a serious suitor, that she’d come close to marrying.

But what could have happened that made her look so forlorn on reading Fitzwilliam’s letter? And why, suddenly, did he care about Margery’s sorrow? Surely it was because Fitzwilliam was a threat to his own seduction of her. He didn’t need a rival who had the advantage of a prior relationship.

~oOo~

Margery spent the afternoon spinning thread with her ladies and maidservants in her solar. She put Peter’s letter from her mind as best she could. After all, she had been living with the threat of him for months now. She refused to let him affect her plans for marrying the perfect husband. Instead, she listened to the castle gossip about her suitors and how each treated his servants.

Twice, Gareth passed by the open doorway, but he never came in. He distracted her, made her wonder about this curse and his more relaxed behavior.

Just before supper, she sent a page to find out where Gareth had been keeping himself for the afternoon. The boy, without even the first fuzz of manhood on his chin, stammered as he told her that Gareth was in the library.

Margery nodded and dismissed him, looking speculatively down the corridor toward the room. Not very far away after all. She heard the sound of women’s voices, and found Anne and Cicely sitting across the table from Gareth. When they looked up and saw her, their gazes slid away with guilty haste.

The library was darkly paneled, hung with portraits and landscapes. One wall contained shelves of rare bound books. There was a table and comfortable chairs, even a desk where her steward sometimes worked on the castle ledgers.

Gareth seemed to make the room his own, books spread out before him, his manner confident. Margery hated the momentary doubts that gnawed at her, that made her wonder if he had another motive besides her protection. She’d never had thoughts like this before Peter had destroyed her trust.

“Mistress Margery,” Gareth said, leaning back in his chair. “I was just having an interesting conversation with your two ladies.”

“Pertaining to what?” she asked.

Both Anne and Cicely got to their feet.

“You can have my chair, Margery,” Cicely said, taking hold of her sister’s arm. “We have much to accomplish before supper.”

“And what could that be?” Margery asked.

They didn’t answer as they disappeared down the corridor.

She rested her hands on the table and leaned forward. “Sir Gareth, may I ask why you are working your wiles on my ladies?”

“My wiles?” he repeated. “I have no motives—other than information.”

“What kind of information would that be?” she asked, sitting down opposite him at the table.

“About you, of course.”

She kept a smile on her face as a shiver of apprehension worked its way up her back.

“Your ladies told me about how the three of you were attacked in the glen before I arrived.”

“It was nothing,” she said, lowering her gaze to hide her relief.

“Nothing? It was so ‘nothing’ that you had to struggle to escape. No, no, wait,” he said, lifting a hand. “I think Anne said it better. Her exact words were, ‘Margery kicked him there .’”

She was unable to decide if he was amused or angry. “It worked.”

“How did you learn to do that?”

“My brothers.”

“Did you tell them how well it had succeeded?”

She didn’t answer.

“Of course not. You did not even tell your brothers the kind of trouble you’re in, did you?”

“I could not,” she said. “You don’t know what it’s like to be a woman, Gareth, and to finally be given a taste of freedom. Do you think I wanted to be locked up in some remote castle for my protection? Besides, my brothers are with the army.”

“But now you have me,” he said in a low voice. He remained silent for a moment, his stare skeptical. “Why do you sometimes go to the chapel twice a day?” he asked suddenly.

Her face heated. “I?—”

“I think ’tis all related. The attacks, and this thing you pray for.”

“I pray for the protection of my people, and for mercy from God.”

“Mercy for them—or for you?”

Gareth watched Margery’s face turn a sickly white. He remained silent, waiting for a grain of truth. He felt as if he uncovered another of her lies every day.

There was more going on in Hawksbury Castle than her decision about a husband. Peter Fitzwilliam’s letter had something to do with it, but it would be awkward to ask her about a man she’d almost married. He didn’t want her to think he could possibly be jealous.

“We are all sinners,” she said in a low voice. “Even you.”

The blueness of her accusing eyes pierced him like an arrow, but he felt no guilt in his attempt to marry Margery. His revenge was justified. Still, he was uncomfortable. Did she suspect something?

“I make no pretensions to sainthood,” he said. “I am farther from heaven than most. But my ability to protect you is hampered if you do not tell me the truth.”

She sighed. “Gareth, the only truth is that I didn’t want you to worry about me more than you already do. I feel smothered sometimes—by you, by Sir Wallace, and especially by these men who feel they have every right to come to my home to inspect me like a new purchase.”

“Let me help you make the decision. I know something of each of these men by now.”

She shoved back her chair and began to pace. “The choice of my husband was first my father’s, then my brothers’, then the king’s—and now you want it as well? Am I not intelligent enough to make my own decisions?”

“You know that is not what I mean,” he said. “But I can see these men in a way they won’t show you. On the tiltyard, they reveal themselves to anyone who pays attention to the signs. Humphrey Townsend?—”

“—is a greedy braggart,” she finished angrily. She stood above him, hands on her hips. “And my woman’s heart senses even more—that you put yourself in danger by crossing him.”

“Crossing him?” Gareth echoed, leaning back in his chair to study her. She was worried about him? This must be a good sign.

“Mayhap you were too busy trying to win with your bow this afternoon, but I saw Sir Humphrey’s face when you defeated me. Don’t you see that now you stand in his way?”

“That’s where I should be, between you and other men.” He came to his feet and caught hold of her upper arms. “I am your shield, Margery, not the other way around. I know what I am doing.”

Her head dropped back, and he saw that the anger had drained from her face. “But I don’t want you hurt in this mess,” she whispered.

He gave her a little shake. “What mess? Does it have something to do with the letter you received today?”

She pressed her lips together.

Gareth searched her face, thinking she was too stubborn. “I overheard the men say it was from Peter Fitzwilliam.”

“He was sending greetings from my brothers,” she said in an emotionless voice. “That is all.”

He wanted to ask what kind of a man Fitzwilliam was, why she’d almost married him. But a tear fell from her eye and ran down her cheek, and he suddenly felt an overwhelming need to protect her from whatever she feared. She would soon be his wife, he told himself. Nothing would harm her. He drew her against his chest and put his arms around her.

Her dark curls seemed to wrap themselves around his arms. The merest thought of another man near her made him primitive with anger. He alone would win her.

Her hands slid up his back, and in a heartbeat, his possessiveness blazed into passion. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, her breath fanned his neck, their thighs brushed together. She suddenly looked up at him, eyes wide, lips parted. He could see her moist tongue, could imagine the feel of it rasping against his skin. He pressed his lips to her temple. With a soft gasp, she arched against him. He wanted to grasp her hips and pull her even harder against him.

He waited an endless moment, his lips just above hers, both of them breathing raggedly. He needed to plunder her mouth, to lose himself in the mystery that was Margery.

But it was too soon. A hurried kiss was not in the careful plan he had created to win her to wife.

She broke from his arms, stumbling back until she bumped into the table. “Forgive me,” she whispered, tears etching her cheeks. “It is cruel of me to use you for my own comfort.”

“Margery, ’tis my fault.” He reached out a hand.

“No, no, Gareth, it isn’t you, never think that. ’Tis all me. Now do you see why I pray?”

She ran from the room. He felt satisfied that she turned to him for comfort, but frustrated that he still hadn’t discovered her secrets.

A shadow suddenly darkened the doorway, and he looked up. Wallace Desmond stood there, his expression serious and cold.