Page 8 of The Bodyguard Who Came in from the Cold (Secrets and Vows #4)

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M argery felt sluggish, weary, as she changed into her nightclothes. She lit candles on the bed tables and mantel, hoping the cheery light would help. The fire crackled its warmth as she sank down amidst the cushions scattered on the carpet.

Her head ached in dull waves. Tomorrow all her noble young visitors would arrive. Only six months ago, before her infatuation with Peter, she would have been thrilled to be the object of so much attention, to have her choice of husband. Now all she felt was discouraged. She would have to be polite yet keep her distance, wondering which of the men would be desperate enough to try to force her hand in marriage. She felt as if she had long since lost any control over her own fate. She had to come up with a solution.

The door was suddenly flung open, and Margery came up on her knees in shock to see Gareth Beaumont wielding a dagger, an angry scowl distorting his face. He slammed the door shut and gazed about the chamber. With a gasp, she scrambled to her feet, pulling her dressing gown tighter.

“Gareth, what?—”

“I heard something in the hall,” he said, moving farther into the room. “Did someone come in here?”

“No.”

He checked behind the draperies and under the bed. He obviously didn’t think her word was enough. When he approached her near the fireplace, she folded her arms below her chest and glared at him.

“Did you think I was hiding someone?” she demanded.

He slid the dagger back into his belt. “I could not be certain you were answering of your own free will.”

She relented with a sigh, but continued to eye him warily. “I suppose I can understand that. Thank you for your diligence.”

She waited for him to leave, but instead he studied the room, especially the cushions heaped before the fire.

“Your bedchamber is…frilly,” he finally said.

She didn’t take it as a compliment. “And you’ve never been in a woman’s chamber before?”

He arched a brow. “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, of course not.” She raised both hands. “How dare I encroach upon your manliness.”

Gareth scowled. “By the saints, what are you talking about?”

“Nothing understandable, obviously.” She slumped into a chair before the fire. “Never mind. A good evening to you.”

He didn’t leave. They were alone in her bedchamber, in the silence of the night. She should force him out the door—but she didn’t. She had behaved like this before, and it had brought her nothing but trouble, yet once again she couldn’t stop herself. She sat with her eyes half-closed and let herself feel the dangerous thrill of not knowing what he would do next.

He sat down in the chair beside her, and Margery held her breath. She noticed the width of his legs, the muscles that sloped and curved. As he stared into the fire, she studied his lips and the curve of his cheek. His blond hair fell forward, and she felt the urge to tuck it back.

Gareth felt like a fool. There had been no intruder, no reason for him to burst in on Margery. There was nothing he wanted to say to her. So why had he sat down?

It could only be his physical attraction to her. Yes, she was beautiful, with long dark hair that tumbled about her shoulders. She looked smaller, frailer in her thin nightclothes.

But all this blossoming femininity hid a spoiled heart. She and her family expected the world to bow to their demands. They used people for their own ends, just like Margery now used her beauty to keep his attention. She must know what she looked like sitting there in the firelit shadows, soft and sleepy.

He heard her sigh. She pulled her legs up beneath her and propped her chin on her hand. It had been a long time since he’d been alone with a woman. And she wore so little. The bed suddenly seemed large and conspicuous, and it was a struggle not to glance at it.

These thoughts had to stop. He tried to remember his first night away from Wellespring Castle, the cold rain that had soaked his garments and ruined his food, how desolate he’d felt. But it was all so long ago. He was a man now, and thoughts of Margery called to him.

“So…” she said in too bright a voice. “When you’re not working, what do you do with yourself?”

“Do?” he said thickly. “I train.”

“But ’tis the same as working. Have you no interests that don’t include”—she hesitated—“hurting people?”

He frowned at her. “That is how I survive, and that is what you hired me for. I do not have time for poetry or painting pictures. Without my sword-fighting skills, I would have been dead long ago. But I imagine a woman can’t understand that.”

She gripped the chair arms, and her eyes flashed at him. “Some women can. My sister by marriage is an excellent swordswoman.”

“I do not believe you.”

“So now I’m a liar, besides a silly fool?” she demanded.

Surely she couldn’t expect him to trust her, and he knew she was already lying to him about something in her past. “All right then, which brother is she married to?”

“James.”

“That pompous?—”

“Gareth!”

“From what I remember of Bolton, I thought his wife would be a meek noblewoman with no thoughts of her own.”

For a brief moment, he saw amusement in her eyes. “He thought he wanted that, too. But King Henry gave him Isabel, who’s almost as tall as James, and fights just as well.”

He remembered the last time he’d seen her brother, barely an adult, looking down at Gareth with all the arrogance of an earl who thought his bloodlines made him a better man. Bolton had judged him unworthy of friendship or loyalty.

“And your other brothers?” He wanted to look in Margery’s eyes and think revenge, not sexual release.

She smiled sadly. “Edmund died a few years ago. He took sick after an injury.”

“I am sorry for your loss.” Edmund had been frail, and destined for the priesthood. They had had little in common, but Edmund had taught him to read.

“Reynold is married, too,” she said, “though at first he took Edmund’s place in the monastery.”

“However did he meet a woman?”

“She was imprisoned there. He rescued her and they fell in love.”

“So all of your brothers are at peace,” he said.

“It took a long time, but yes, they’re happy.”

She smiled at him, ignorant of the ugliness that lurked in his soul. They were all so happy, the Bolton and Welles families. Her brothers had found women who loved them, women they trusted, and Margery would soon choose her own husband.

The last decent threads of his life had begun to unravel when her family had thrown him out. As he gazed upon her lovely face, suddenly everything became clear. Margery was the answer to his retribution. Her family owed him.

For payment, he would take her to wife.

Her dowry and lands would keep him from starving, and give him back the respectability his family had long since lost. She was looking for a husband—who better than he? She would be protected, and he would have the use of her body and her money. What else was marriage about—except begetting heirs, something he would have no problem beginning immediately.

They were alone in her bedchamber, with the bed turned down. He could take her maidenhead right now, and they’d be married quickly. There would be nothing her brothers could do when they returned.

But…if he took his time, made Margery care for him and choose him of her own free will, how much sweeter would be his revenge on her brothers.

Gareth let himself admire her beauty, knowing it would soon be only his. Perhaps he should begin his slow seduction tonight: just a touch of her cheek, a longing stare into her eyes. That was all he’d ever needed before.

Margery met his gaze, and her smile slowly died.

He rose to his full height, then stepped before her, letting his knees brush hers.

There was a sharp knock on the door, and they both flinched.