Gayle Callen

by My Lady’s Guardian

  He had sought her out, claiming he wanted to help her. There was no one in her household she could confide in. Always, there was the worry that something would get back to the king.

  But after all these years, could she trust Gareth to help her?

  “Where are your brothers?” he asked.

  “They are with the king’s army in the north.”

  “Do they know of your problems?”

  “How could I tell them? They would not be free to come to my aid, and that would only make them feel worse.” Taking a deep breath, she blurted, “Gareth, you say you’ve come to help me. Would you stay and be my personal guard, at least until I’ve given the king my decision?”

  This was just a temporary situation. She couldn’t allow herself to depend on any man. For the rest of her life, she would have only herself.

  The silence stretched out, and still he said nothing. He wouldn’t refuse—would he?

  “I know I am being forward, but Gareth, I am desperate. I promise that you would enjoy a stay at Hawksbury Castle.”

  “And how would you make this task easier?” he asked in a low voice. “There isn’t much about you or your family that I have ever found enjoyable.”

  She was stunned by the bitterness in his voice, and the shock of pain that squeezed her chest. What had happened to him? And how could he blame her?

  But she would deal with his problems later, if only he’d stay.

  “Gareth, will you help me?”

  He frowned. “A personal guard? ’Tis an interesting idea. I’ve done more than my share of such work.”

  “Then is your answer yes?”

  “Where would a personal guard sleep?”

  “You don’t wish to sleep in the barracks?” she asked, attempting to smile. Surely he was trying to lighten the tension of their discussion.

  He didn’t smile back. “No.”

  She wanted to wilt at his seriousness. “Very well. I shall give you a bedchamber just down the hall from mine. I assume you are not going to sleep in front of my door; that would be a bit obvious.”

  “If I’m not to be obvious, then what do you expect of me? Why do you not want anyone to know that you have hired protection?”

  “It is…complicated,” she said, looking down at her clenched fingers. “The king must not know his gift is causing me problems.”

  “Are you afraid he’ll take the gifts back?” He didn’t even look at her as he said such cold words.

  “No, I’m afraid he’ll make me come to court, where he could watch over me personally. All of my freedom would be gone then.”

  Margery forced herself to look into his penetrating eyes. “Will you do it, Gareth? It will only be for a few months’ time. I can begin your payment now.”

  “No, at the end you can pay me what you think I’ve earned.” He hesitated. “Or maybe your husband can pay me.”

  “Fine,” she said crisply, holding out her hand. “Then we have an agreement?”

  He looked down at her hand, but didn’t touch it. “Not yet. As a guard, I would be with you at all times. Yet you complicate matters by insisting this be kept private between us. What reason will you give your servants and guests for my presence at your side?”

  Gareth couldn’t miss the panic in Margery’s eyes. She was a desperate woman, and hadn’t thought through this new plan. He had a hard time believing that all she was frightened of were suitors pressing their courtship a bit too far. Glancing down her body, he reluctantly thought that he couldn’t blame the men.

  She sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Can you come up with a reason, Gareth? Let me know what you feel would be best.”

  “Very well. I have another suggestion to protect you. Wallace Desmond will become your new captain of the guard.”

  She stiffened. “I already have a captain.”

  “A youngster, is he not?” he asked.

  “Well—”

  “I’m sure he will be honored to train under Desmond.”

  She hesitated, and he could almost read her thoughts. He could tell she agreed with his assessment, but she didn’t like being told what to do. That would have to change.

  “Very well, Gareth. I accept the offer—if you’re certain Sir Wallace doesn’t mind.”

  “He doesn’t mind.”

  “But please allow me to introduce him to the soldiers tomorrow. Then he and I can discuss his payment with my steward.”

  “Very well.”

  She got to her feet and Gareth leaned back on his hands to look up at her. He kept his pose relaxed, casual, though he felt anything but. He told himself this was just another task he was being paid to do. So why did some deep part of him relish looking up at her in the sunlight? He flustered her, perturbed her, and the feeling was not unpleasant.

  “Come inside when you like,” Margery said. “A juggling troupe arrived today.”

  “Oh, I’ll be inside soon enough. You will no longer be alone much, remember?”

  He deliberately reminded her of the consequences of her request. Her face stiffened as she gave him a polite nod and walked away.

  Gareth told himself he was beyond the anger that had consumed him for years after Margery’s family had dispensed with him. He was at Hawksbury to do a task, then leave. Yet he took such grim pleasure in annoying her.

  He sat in the stillness of the early evening and came up with the perfect way to stay near her. She would not like it, but she would learn soon enough that he would rule this business between them.

  While the jugglers were performing, Margery bit her lip and stared into the distance. What had she done by inviting Gareth into her life? She could barely get him to speak to her, and now he would be following her about indefinitely, a large, unsettling shadow at her back.

  He entered the great hall, and though he was dressed as the plainest of knights, his good looks attracted every eye. But beneath that was a cold man, warped by whatever experiences he’d had.

  When he approached the head table she was sitting across from her two suitors, who were desperately trying to win her attention on this last night of their visit.

  Gareth sat down beside her, so close her skirts were caught beneath him. Before she could ask him to move, he suddenly slid his hand over hers. Margery gaped at their fingers, then looked up into his face. His hot eyes were rife with intimate promises. A more fainted-hearted woman would surely swoon from his beauty, but all she could do was let her mouth fall open, fishlike.

  “Mistress Margery,” he said, in a voice low and smooth as honey.

  He leaned forward, and she leaned away, wide-eyed.

  “I was thinking about your gift room. I hope you will never have cause to relegate my gifts to such a place. They are given in homage to your beauty.”

  Her two suitors crossed their arms over their chests and glared. At the same moment, they said, “Mistress Margery—”

  She held up her hand, never taking her gaze from Gareth, who raised her other hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. A shock of astonishment surged through her. What was he doing? Had he planned all along to court her, and be paid as a bodyguard at the same time?

  Her disappointment grew until she could no longer look into his face. Had she trusted the wrong man?

  Margery pulled her hand away, struggling to remember every rumor she’d ever heard. Her brother James had once tried to tell her about Gareth’s disgrace and his flight from the country. She hadn’t believed James, but now she wished she’d paid more attention.

  She looked into Gareth’s golden eyes. They were narrowed, and seemed to be studying her intently. Was he looking for weaknesses?

  He would find none. He was just one more man in a long parade of suitors she could never marry.

  Grief threatened to overwhelm her at the futility of her life. But in these last trying months, she had learned to be strong—or at least to pretend she was. She called on that strength now and met his intensity with a smile.

  “How sweet of you
to promise gifts, Sir Gareth. But it is most certainly not the way to my heart. You would only be one of many.”

  The twins glanced away, their smiles bolder. Her two suitors looked baffled, uneasy.

  Gareth said, “I promise you, mistress, that you shall not put aside my gifts. They will be humble, yet from my heart.”

  For the first time since childhood, Margery experienced the blinding power of his smile. But she saw it now for what it was: an imitation of an emotion he could not begin to grasp.

  When the jugglers were finished, she had Gareth shown to a bedchamber. A few moments later she said her own good-nights and went to her room, but Gareth’s behavior would not leave her mind. She waited for a brief time, pacing before the hearth, then peeked down the corridor. There were no servants in sight.

  She tiptoed past Anne’s and Cicely’s closed doors until she reached the chamber she had assigned Gareth. She put her ear against the wood, heard no sounds, then burst in and leaned back to close the door.

  Gareth already had his sword drawn. When he saw her, he slammed it back into the scabbard. “Margery, never do something so foolish again. You will need protection for the rest of your life if you continue to make such thoughtless mistakes.” He threw his saddle bag on the bed and leaned over to open it.

  “So now it is protection again?” She strode toward him, hands on her hips. “Make up your mind. After all, if you’re my suitor, I shall need protection from you!”

  He straightened, and she took a step backward. He seemed suddenly as tall and wild as the Viking ancestors he resembled. And she’d come in here alone?

  “Protection from me?” he said. “You have already hired me as your guard. Did you think—”

  He broke off and studied her for an uncomfortable moment, while she began to think she’d miscalculated.

  “I was worried my acting would not be skilled enough.” He looked down her body. “I’ve never had to make an effort to court a woman before.”

  Acting? A blush of mortification swept from her chest to her forehead. When he’d kissed her fingers, when he’d spoken of her beauty, he’d been acting?

  “You asked me to come up with something to hide my true purpose here,” Gareth said calmly. “I’m going to pretend to be another of your suitors. What better way can I be near you, keeping you from any danger?”

  Margery remembered the heat of his gaze, the touch of his lips on her hand. Of course it was all an act. She donned a grudging smile, and buried the tiny pain that touched her heart. “I did suggest we keep your position a secret, but I never thought of—of this.”

  “Then you approve?”

  She hesitated. “I can think of nothing better.” She slowly frowned as she watched him remove garments from his bag. “Gareth, are you planning to court me wearing those clothes?”

  He stilled, and the gaze he lifted to her was even colder. She’d made a mistake.

  “I work hard for everything I have.”

  “I know that!” she quickly said. “But you’re in disguise now. I could have my brother Reynold send along some clothes. They might be a bit large for you, but James would certainly never part with any garments.”

  Gareth shook his head. “Sounds like the James I remember.”

  “Be easy on him. He has changed for the better since his marriage. He just…likes his clothes.”

  He leaned against the bedpost, folding his arms across his chest. “You don’t think your brothers would be suspicious as to why you’re sending for good quality male garments?”

  She winced. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I shall just tell everyone I lost most of my clothes in a storm off the coast.”

  “You were never very good at telling stories.”

  “When I chose to, I could be.” His voice was suddenly low and gruff, not quite so cold. “The marshall once bribed me with gingerbread to keep you out of the stables so they could get some work done. How else do you think I amused you?”

  She didn’t remember that. Unexpected tears pricked her eyes. Life was so uncomplicated then. She had spent her days following Gareth around, trying to get his attention.

  But everything had changed. He would be following her—and he was angry about it.

  “Regardless of how you feel, you still need some new clothes,” she said awkwardly as she moved toward the door. “I’ll talk to my seamstresses.”

  “Hold!”

  Anger overwhelmed her sadness. “I am not one of your soldiers!”

  “One of my soldiers would make sure the corridor was empty if he didn’t want to be seen leaving a certain room.”

  She felt a momentary weakness at her stupidity. She had almost walked out of a man’s bedchamber, regardless of who might be watching. Gareth opened the door, looked outside, then closed it again.

  “’Tis clear.”

  Margery swallowed. “Thank you.”

  He leaned against the door, too close to her, studying her face with that coolness she hated. “Perhaps you need a keeper more than a guard.”

  She controlled the hurt that suffused her. “I’m not paying you for insults. Move away from the door.”

  After Margery had gone, Gareth told himself that she deserved every cruel remark he had made. She and her family had thrown him away when he was no longer useful, like an enfeebled dog. Even his clothing wasn’t fine enough for her.

  She was still a spoiled little girl, who had the “terrible” task of picking any man she wanted. If she thought this was such a dreadful problem, she didn’t know what life was really like.

  But he had sworn an oath to protect her, and he could not turn his back on that. At least now he would be getting paid for it.

  Chapter 4

  After 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—

  Margery burst into tears. She clutched her fists to her chest, trying 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 revealed himself to be nothing more than a scoundrel, a slave to his family.

  She’d let herself be charmed by his good 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 shook 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.

  With a sob, Margery covered her face and leaned over her lap. 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.