Page 6 of The Bodyguard Who Came in from the Cold (Secrets and Vows #4)

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M argery knew a falsehood when she heard it. His face had drained of color, the skin about his eyes was creased in the corners with sudden strain. And his gaze seemed remote, as if he no longer saw the ground—or her.

“Gareth, I have never met a man who would admit to gardening, let alone do so in full view of the entire castle.” For a long moment, she didn’t think he’d answer.

When he finally spoke, he sounded distant, preoccupied. “I’ve always preferred to be outdoors.”

She gave up. If he couldn’t be bothered to make conversation, then neither would she. She felt so alone in the world, so weighted down by her problems and her guilt that her head was spinning in circles. The sun was hot, her eyes ached, and his presence was suddenly too unsettling.

She stood up, and he rose to his feet beside her. She handed the basket of weeds to one of the kitchen maids. The girl bobbled the basket, she was so busy ogling Gareth. When he actually noticed the maid, she almost lost her hold on the basket completely.

Suppressing a groan of frustration, Margery marched out of the garden, not even bothering to ask if Anne and Cicely wanted to accompany her inside. She felt irrationally angry, miserable, defeated. She would leave the twins in Gareth’s capable hands.

But when she glanced over her shoulder, he was there behind her, taking one stride to her two, looking determined—and so handsome he outshone the day. She felt like she’d never know a moment of peace again. She picked up her pace, climbing the steps two at a time into the great hall.

She could tell by the interested expressions of the people they passed that he was still behind her. She entered a corridor, and after the first turn, the sounds of the great hall vanished. She was alone with Gareth, who followed her from one circle of torchlight to the next. He was so close she could hear his breathing.

Suddenly, Margery could take no more. Gareth was a stunning reminder of her problem every time she looked at him.

She whirled around and planted a hand on his chest. “You cannot follow me everywhere. My people will begin to talk—and not in a flattering manner.”

He pushed her hand away as if her touch repulsed him.

“I am your guard,” he insisted. “I swore an oath to you—and to your father long ago. I will follow you wherever I deem necessary.”

She was just an oath to him, a duty—not a real flesh and blood woman or long-ago friend. She didn’t understand what had happened to change him so. Did he not even want to be near her?

Then why was he standing so close, his breath the faintest breeze across her cheek? She was not a short woman, but he was above her, surrounding her. She couldn’t make out much of his face in the windowless hall, but his intense gaze held her captive. He was nothing like the men at court, who pranced for her favor.

Why couldn’t she look away from those searing eyes? A shot of heat through her middle made her gasp. What was wrong with her?

She stumbled back a step to break this sudden, unwanted connection between them.

“Margery,” he said, his voice low, husky, “if I allow you out of my sight, you must promise that you will not leave the castle without telling me.”

“Very well,” she murmured. “I shall be fine. These are all my people.”

“You’ve known them but a few short months. You cannot afford to trust them.”

~oOo~

After seeing Margery to the kitchens, Gareth returned to the great hall, where even summer could not touch the cool dampness. He sat in a chair before the hearth and absently accepted a tankard of ale from one blushing maidservant, then refused an offer of food from another. When they finally left him alone, he surveyed the room, seeing merely a few women cleaning.

He tried to tell himself that he was angry, but what he really felt was—stunned. He could no longer deny that since the moment he’d arrived, he’d felt an undercurrent of attraction to Margery. When she had put her hand on his chest, it was a fire he had to thrust away before he was burned.

There had been other unsuitable women he’d been attracted to. He’d always overcome such a dangerous weakness, and this time would be no exception. He only bedded experienced women who expected nothing from him, not maidens with marriage on their minds.

Another serving maid interrupted Gareth’s thoughts, holding a shaking pitcher in her hands.

“More ale, milord?” she asked timidly.

The awe in her eyes as she filled his tankard made him wary, and he told himself it was only his face which caused her reaction. He didn’t know how much longer his anonymity would last, especially when he was not hiding his name. He could only hope the story of Warfield’s Wizard had not spread from the southern coast of England. Then every girl here would flee from him, and men would fear him.

But why was he having visions at all? Before he’d found Margery, he’d often gone months feeling normal, with no clue of the future. Now in a span of weeks, he’d felt and seen too many things that made no sense.

He could tell she was in danger, but what could he make of the vision today? His frustration mounted.

As another maidservant began to make her approach, Gareth quickly left the hall. There was only one place to go when he felt his emotions ready to erupt.

The tiltyard took up half of one side of the inner ward. Dust rose in hazy clouds as the packed earth was trampled by horses and men. Troops of soldiers practiced archery and sword-fighting, or took turns riding low over their mounts, trying to jab the quintain with their lance. Overall, he thought they showed much promise, especially with someone as skilled as Wallace Desmond to guide them.

Wallace himself sauntered over a few minutes later. He was coated in sweat and dust, but looked quite pleased with himself. He waved at the dairymaids who’d gathered to gawk and giggle.

Gareth linked his hands behind his back, finding his frown hard to keep. “ ’Tis a good thing I don’t feel any guilt for making you take this position.”

“You should feel guilty,” Wallace said. “While you have a private chamber, I’m sleeping in the barracks.”

A young man wearing an overlarge plated brigantine ran toward them. “Excuse me, Sir Wallace, but we could use your help with the archers.”

“In a moment, lad.” Wallace watched the man bow and walk away. “ That was the captain of the guard just yesterday.”

“ ’Tis rather amazing their mistress hasn’t been hurt before now.”

“Did you know a man tried to capture her and her ladies in the woods just a month ago?”

Gareth felt his stomach clench with anger—at Margery, he told himself. “She never told me.”

“Probably because before the man could do more than struggle with her, she kicked him between the legs and they escaped.”

Wallace grinned, but Gareth saw nothing amusing. “Are the defenses secure now?”

“Yes. The gatehouse is never unguarded. But has she told you her troubles yet?”

“Some, but not all.”

“And…” Wallace leaned forward.

“Her problems are her own, and not to be bandied about the tiltyard.”

The smile left Wallace’s face. “You think I would tell a woman’s secrets to the world?”

Gareth said nothing.

“I know I’m not your friend,” Wallace said tiredly. “But I’m the only man here you can trust. How can I help her if I don’t know what I’m looking for?”

Gareth stared hard into Wallace’s eyes. He hadn’t trusted a soul in so many years that he was unsure who was an enemy and who was not. But Wallace had no stake in Margery’s troubles, and had been faithful—so far.

Gareth leaned against a fence, and motioned Wallace nearer. “The king recently gifted her with wealth and the power to choose her own husband. Since then various men have been trying to compromise her. Her brothers are away with the king, and she’s been dealing with this all alone.”

“So are we here to play midwife to a marriage?” Wallace asked in disbelief.

“No. She’s hired me as her personal guard. But she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s become desperate. To stay near her, I’m pretending to be another of her suitors.”

Wallace grinned. “So when I saw you earlier in the garden on your hands and knees…”

“I was acting as a suitor,” Gareth said uncomfortably.

“Have you ever courted a woman?”

Why had he ever felt it was necessary to confide in Wallace? The man was a fool. “Is it so inconceivable?”

“Women usually crawl into your lap. I never quite understood why they would want to warm up that cold demeanor of yours, when they could have sunny, cheerful me.”

Gareth narrowed his eyes. “Wait here while I find a sword.”

Wallace shot him an amused glance. “You look…aggravated.”

“Only from lack of training.”

“I don’t think so.”

Wallace was waiting, sword drawn, when Gareth returned from the armory carrying a blunt sword. Gareth immediately attacked. With a grunt, Wallace parried the weapon aside and stepped back.

“You’re not one to waste words,” Wallace said. He thrust forward.

Gareth stepped aside. “Not when my meaning is clear. You, on the other hand, talk too much.”

Gareth let himself merge with the fury of emotions he never showed the world. Anger, frustration, bitterness, all poured down his arm to power his sword. He drove Wallace back across the tiltyard.

It took almost all his concentration to keep from wounding his opponent, yet he still noticed the soldiers and knights stepping back, wary looks on their faces. No one would bother him at Hawksbury now, for fear of igniting this consuming wrath that threatened the edge of his control.

Sweat ran in rivulets down his face and chest. He jumped to avoid Wallace’s swipe at his knees, then turned—and saw Margery.

She stood at the top of a flight of stairs near a side entrance to the castle, frozen as if she’d been watching them for quite some time.

She must be horrified. Good, let her fear him; let her never risk touching him again. He straightened and faced her, proud of his sweat and his skill and the fear he inspired.

But she didn’t run. She stared at him for a moment longer, her face unreadable. Then she walked down the stairs, carrying something in her apron. She came out from the shadow of the castle and lifted her face to the sun, which shimmered around her in a golden haze. Her skirt swayed with the movement of her feet, raising small clouds of dust that sparkled about the ground. She made clucking sounds with her tongue, and soon dozens of squawking hens clustered around her. She scattered handfuls of grain as she walked, and the chickens pecked in her wake.

Gareth had seen countless noblewomen in their finest garments, giving parties and hunts for others of their kind. He had no wish to be a part of such a world. But watching Margery do a servant’s humblest task shook everything he had known women to be. He couldn’t begin to understand her.

“Gareth!”

He turned to Wallace.

“I’ve called your name three times. No matter what she is doing, you cannot keep your gaze off Mistress Margery.”

“My duty is to protect her,” he said stiffly.

Wallace groaned. “Saints above, save me from foolish men. I think you feel something for her.”

“In case you forgot, I’m also supposed to be her suitor,” Gareth said with a scowl. “A suitor would stare.”

“A suitor would also give her flowers.”

“What?” he asked defensively.

“A suitor would give her flowers, unless he had more money than he knew what to do with. Then he’d buy her jewelry.” Wallace wiggled his eyebrows. “Women like jewelry—and flowers.”

Gareth opened his mouth to tell him what he thought of his unwanted advice, but…it was a good suggestion. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He lifted his sword and resumed the attack.

Though her back was turned, Margery felt the clash of their weapons reverberate through her spine. She scattered more grain and told herself to ignore the masculine contest being waged behind her. Women usually never felt a need to discover who was strongest, who was quickest.

But men were different.

She peeked over her shoulder and saw Gareth and Sir Wallace straining against each other, their swords meeting above their heads. Sir Wallace finally stumbled backward, laughing at his own failure.

Gareth didn’t laugh, but raised his sword for more. Any other man she knew would have been happy for the victory, would have waited for his opponent to recover.

But in Gareth, she sensed an elemental need to win, to prove something. He was the focus of all eyes, as in command of the tiltyard as if he were the captain of the guard, not Sir Wallace.

She forgot her chores, forgot that her people were watching her, and simply stood holding an apron full of grain and staring at Gareth Beaumont.