Page 5 of The Bodyguard Who Came in from the Cold (Secrets and Vows #4)

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A fter her argument with Gareth, Margery was too upset to return to the great hall. Her bedchamber usually soothed her; it was decorated with colorful tapestries, cushions and draperies, things she brought with her wherever she traveled. And though she’d resigned herself to sleeping alone for the rest of her life, tonight she felt especially sad and uncertain. The king’s bequest had changed her entire life—and not for the better, as he’d hoped.

But then again, King Henry thought she was a normal young woman, with dreams of the perfect husband to fall in love with. He didn’t know that she would never marry.

How could she tell him without exposing all her sins? How could she tell him that she and Peter Fitzwilliam had?—

She burst into tears, unable to ease the ache that never went away.

How could she have been so foolish? She had been the envy of every woman because of her wonderful family and her wealth. She could have chosen any man who’d pleased her. But she’d chosen Peter Fitzwilliam, who’d revealed himself to be nothing more than a scoundrel, a slave to his family.

She’d let herself be charmed by his handsome looks, his easy manner. And then she’d let herself be seduced.

She had a sudden memory of lying naked in a garden, and Peter looking at her body.

Margery trembled with humiliation. Oh, they’d exchanged heartfelt vows of love—or so she’d thought. They spent every spare moment together, whispering of betrothal and marriage and children. She had thought her perfect life was just getting better and better.

She’d been a gullible fool. After Peter’s talk of a quick betrothal the moment his father was back in London, she’d agreed to meet him in the garden late one night. They were so in love, she’d thought, they didn’t need to wait for the formality of a contract. Margery let him take her virginity.

And the shame of it was—she’d enjoyed it! She sank into a chair and rubbed her arms, feeling like she could never get warm again. Tears continued to fall down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with both hands.

Peter had been considerate and gentle, and she’d felt no embarrassment whatsoever. When he’d suggested they meet again, she had gladly sneaked away a week later. After that they couldn’t manage to be alone, but she’d thought about Peter every moment of every day, thrilled to be in love with the man she was marrying, when so many of her friends were being forced into loveless marriages. When she realized she wasn’t with child, she’d thought her unending luck had continued.

My lord, she’d been so naive. When Peter asked her if she carried his child, she’d been happy to ease his mind by saying no. And then her whole world had tilted, spilling her into the abyss. Peter had told her he couldn’t marry a barren woman, that he needed an heir to carry on as earl.

She remembered staring at him, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks at the enormity of what she’d done. Could it be true? She had no mother to ask, no true friends she could confide her sins to.

So she’d let Peter go. A man who’d say such a thing obviously didn’t love her, and his betrayal hurt as much as if he’d stabbed her. She’d given him her love, her respect, her trust—her body. And he hadn’t wanted any of it, if it meant disappointing his family.

She’d thought briefly of telling her brothers, of making Peter marry her after he’d taken her maidenhead. But they’d want to kill him, and her terrible shame would become public knowledge. Everyone would know what a sinful woman she was, and she and Peter would despise each other for the rest of their lives.

So she had picked herself up out of her sorrow, and resolved never to marry. She was luckier than most, with a few manors and a small inheritance at her disposal. She would live well, alone.

But then the king had decided to gift her with more land and wealth, and her own choice of husband. How could she refuse it? She certainly couldn’t tell him the truth. So here she was, trying to figure a way out of marriage, something she’d wanted all her life, but now could never have. No man would want another man’s leavings. If she lied and married some poor man, she would be found out eventually, and her husband could annul the marriage and reveal her shame to all. And if it were true that she was barren, she couldn’t let a man think he could have heirs.

No matter how hard she prayed at Mass or did penance, nothing helped the endless guilt that tore apart her soul. She also had to live with the constant worry that Peter would tell someone what she’d done.

And now she’d hired Gareth, another man she had to circumvent. And she only had two months left to do it, for the king had given her until the beginning of October to choose—or he would choose for her.

~oOo~

Margery awoke before dawn and lay still in bed, prepared to face another dreaded day—one day less for her to solve her problems.

And now she had Gareth to deal with.

With a groan, she pushed aside the blankets and coverlet, and rose to her feet. She couldn’t deny that it was good to know that he was alive and unharmed. After what he’d done for her when they were children, he was the one man she thought she could trust to help her. Yet he had changed; the wary watchfulness that had always been a part of him in childhood had grown.

She didn’t relish the coming days of outwitting him, as she’d been forced to do with so many of her friends and family. Here in this castle, she’d become numb, existing day to day during the brief respite she’d allowed herself. Sometimes she could almost forget the king’s decree looming over her.

Why did she feel that Gareth’s presence could change all that?

After she’d washed and dressed, Margery left the keep to attend Mass at the peaceful stone chapel tucked in a corner of the inner ward. She walked across the packed earth, absorbing yesterday’s warmth beneath her feet, listening to the early morning sounds of roosters crowing and the welcoming bark of a dog.

As she entered the building, she looked up at the cut-glass window high in the wall. In direct sunlight, one could stand beneath it and feel bathed in the magic of colors and the warmth of God’s love. But with the gray dawn, the window looked as lifeless as Margery felt. Some mornings, her guilt almost choked her.

At the completion of Mass, she introduced Sir Wallace, the new captain of the guard, to the company of soldiers and knights employed at Hawksbury Castle. Afterward she found Gareth waiting for her. She came to a halt and looked up into his eyes, where there was no emotion, only a perception that made her feel exposed, vulnerable. If he knew what kind of a woman she was, he’d think she deserved her fate.

When everyone had gone past them, he spoke in a low, controlled voice. “Apparently I need to make the rules clearer.”

“I did not know there were rules.” She raised her chin as she walked by him.

He moved to her side.

As people called good morning, Margery smiled at each. “I thought I had hired you to do a service for me,” she said quietly to Gareth.

“You hired me to protect you. If you want me to do my task successfully, I need to know where you are at all times. You cannot leave the castle without telling me.”

She risked a glance at him. He looked straight ahead, his eyes scanning the inner ward. At least he took his task seriously; she would be well cared for.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “You are right—I’m too used to controlling my own fate.”

“I thought that was your brothers’ task.”

Again she heard that edge of bitterness, but his face showed nothing.

“They trust me; they trust my judgment.” And they were wrong.

“So what are we doing today?” Gareth asked.

“We?”

“I go where you go.”

She sighed. “We are eating. I’m famished.”

He nodded and lifted his arm toward her. She stared at it for a moment in puzzlement.

“You’re supposed to take it,” he said gruffly. “I am your suitor, you know.”

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

After only the briefest hesitation, she slid her hand beneath his elbow and lightly touched his arm. He pulled his elbow in and she was firmly trapped against the heat of his body, intimately aware of his strength, of the power that lay dormant inside him, waiting. All at her command.

At the head table he insisted on sitting beside her. Her two suitors, short and dark to Gareth’s golden height, showed their displeasure with frowns and whispers to each other.

But Gareth seemed strangely oblivious to their jealousy. He ate only when she was eating. Otherwise he gazed solely at her, until Anne and Cicely dissolved into giggles, covering their mouths and pretending to cough. He finally bestowed his smile on them, and even Margery could see their eyes soften and their expressions grow dreamy. His smiles must be few, to be so potent.

When the meal was over, Margery waved good-bye to her two suitors, surprised at the frowns they directed at her as they rode away. Then she turned and saw Gareth standing just behind her, hands linked behind his back, his expression victorious.

She made a low sound of disgust and tried to stalk past him. He took her arm and pulled her to a halt.

“What is wrong?” he asked, his mouth close to her ear.

“I felt like a child’s toy between you and those men.” She shook off his hand and stepped away.

He lifted an eyebrow. “I was only playing my part.”

“Too well. What if they return to slit your throat?”

His smile didn’t touch his eyes. “They hardly seem to have that much bravery, even between them.”

“Do you want to make enemies of all the men who come to court me?” she demanded, fisting her hands on her hips, heedless of the fact that they stood in the center of the ward. “Then you’ll need your own guard.”

Gareth frowned. “You said you have your choice in husband. But those two?—”

“And are you the man who shall make my decisions for me? You are supposed to know my own heart better than I do?”

He didn’t reply.

“Just do as I ask,” she said, softening her voice as she realized how silent the ward had become, how they were being watched by people who didn’t bother to hide their amusement. “Let me choose the path of my life—I know what I’m doing.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded. “I will stay out of it, unless you put yourself in danger.”

“I am not in?—”

He narrowed his eyes, and she suddenly remembered being chased by Lord Fogge around the bench.

Gareth was a true reminder of the privacy she’d lost. Every time she looked at him, she thought of the men who would be coming, the men he’d promised to protect her from.

And they were coming sooner than she’d thought. She sent a silent prayer to the heavens that Peter Fitzwilliam would not be one of them.

Margery stifled a shiver of dread. She wanted to mount her horse and ride through the Severn Valley until her problems were far behind her. But her freedom, her choices, were gone, lost in the grass along with her virginity.

Why couldn’t she keep on pretending that she could solve all her problems and live her life as she wanted? Why couldn’t she be left alone?

But there was Gareth, looking too deeply, seeing things he had no right to see. Even Peter had never made her feel that she had no privacy.

Walking beside Margery, Gareth noticed how distracted and pensive she was. She wore her hair like a maiden, with long waves of curls falling forward over her shoulders and breasts, as she kept her head bowed. He looked away.

He didn’t understand her. Hawksbury was an impressive castle, and her people already seemed loyal to her. She should be content with such wealth—he certainly would be.

But something else was bothering her, something buried so deeply she showed no one. As long as her secrets didn’t interfere with his duties, she was welcome to them. After all, what could be so terrible in her sheltered life?

They stopped before the massive double doors leading into the castle. She gave him a brisk, impersonal smile.

“I have duties to attend to, Sir Gareth,” she said.

“I will join you.”

“ ’Tis but women’s work. You would be bored.”

“Then I’ll have to be bored.”

She studied him for a moment, her blue eyes direct and assessing. He felt a surprising urge to squirm like a boy caught following a dairymaid. Though he told himself he was merely doing his duty, he was relieved when she finally led him toward the rear of the inner ward. An extensive series of gardens began as square beds of kitchen herbs and vegetables, and ended in an elaborate, tree-shaded lady’s garden, full of blooming flowers, graveled paths, and vine tunnels. Low fencing of entwined hazel branches separated the gardens.

She opened a small gate and entered, waving to her waiting ladies. Gareth stood still, caught by the overwhelming fragrance of roses. He was reminded sharply of women, of Margery.

He refused to think of her like that. She was just a problem he had to conquer before moving on, back to the solitary life he preferred.

“Sir Gareth?” Margery stared at him with a bemused expression.

Her two ladies, the twins he hadn’t bothered to notice much yet, were openly smiling at him as they flanked her.

“Sir Gareth,” she continued, “do you have an unusual fear of gardens?”

He bowed his head and gritted his teeth. “No, mistress, I was just enjoying the day.”

She turned away and started down a path. He opened the gate and found the twins waiting for him.

“You might need our guidance in such a maze,” said one of them.

The young women, both reddish blonds, took his arms to draw him forward.

“Are you wondering how to tell us apart?” the other one asked.

He wasn’t, but saw no point in telling her that.

The lady on his left slanted her green-eyed gaze up at him, showing the sparkle of wit and good humor. “I am Lady Anne, Sir Gareth, but I fear you will never be able to tell us apart. Many a good man has tried.”

The twin on his right gave a shocked gasp, clearly a more demure, responsible young woman.

“I am Lady Cicely,” she said, and gave her sister a scolding look. “Please excuse Anne for her lack of manners, Sir Gareth. I don’t think she quite knows how words can be misunderstood.”

Lady Anne stuck out her tongue at her sister.

“Ladies, you have given me all I need to know to tell you apart,” he said dryly.

A few rows away, Margery, now wearing an apron that covered her from bodice to toes, was kneeling in the dirt, plucking out weeds like any kitchen maid. Gareth guided the giggling twins to a bench in the shade of the lady’s garden, then returned to Margery. Damn, it would have to be weeding.

He stood over her, deliberately casting his shadow across her body.

She looked up and shaded her eyes. “Yes, Sir Gareth? Wouldn’t you rather keep Anne and Cicely amused?”

“You are the lesser of evils,” he said, sitting down beside her.

“Should I be flattered by that?” she asked sweetly.

For a moment he almost smiled, but caught himself in time.

She went back to her task.

He tried not to show his distaste as he braced himself with one hand and plucked a weed.

“That’s parsley,” Margery said, laughter in her voice.

“Oh.” He buried the roots, telling himself that the warmth in his face was from the sun.

“This is harder than it looks. You don’t weed much, do you?”

“I buy or am served the food I need. It is not my task to grow it.”

“Ah, then farming is beneath you.”

“Nothing is beneath me.” He gritted his teeth. “Why do you do such menial tasks? Surely your maidservants are competent.”

“I can already tell that, by the beautiful care they’ve taken with the gardens. But I am trying to meet all of the castle folk. I thought that if I joined them in their work, even if only for a few hours, they might grow to accept me sooner.”

He looked at her bent head. He wondered if there was a selfish reason behind all this.

For a time they worked in silence, Gareth following her lead as to which were weeds. The sun beat warmly down on their backs, and the gentle buzz of bees mixed with the murmuring of the twins’ voices. His mind drifted lazily, thinking of nothing in particular, and he almost forgot his purposes here.

Then a sour twist of nausea struck him without warning, and he barely resisted the urge to gasp. When he closed his eyes, he didn’t see blackness, but a swirling maelstrom of colors trying to form a picture. Not now; not with Margery so close. He put a hand to his head, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and tried as always to force the coming vision away.

His head began to ache, and suddenly the colors in his mind coalesced into Margery riding a horse, a man astride behind her. The vision vanished as fast as it came, leaving him with no clue to the man’s face, no knowledge of her emotions. He couldn’t even tell if she was in danger. Why was he sent such useless visions, he wondered, with a wave of self-loathing.

“Gareth?”

He heard Margery’s voice as if from far away. He forced himself to look at her, squinting as the sun pulsed through his eyes like his headache.

“Gareth, are you ill? You’ve become so pale.”

He focused on her worried face. “I am fine. I thought I’d beheaded another parsley plant.”