“My great-grandfather killed my great-grandmother,” Gareth said flatly. “My grandfather blamed himself for my grandmother’s death. None of it touches me. If you wish to make more of it, I can meet you at the tiltyard.”
Sir Humphrey surged to his feet, but two of his friends grabbed his arms. Gareth waited, wearing a curve to his lips that wasn’t really a smile.
Sir Humphrey’s voice was furious as he strained against his friends’ restraints. “You have no control over your fate, Beaumont. We’re destined for good marriages”—he shot a triumphant glance at Margery—“wealth and honor. You are destined only for madness.”
There was a collective hiss, as if just that word made Gareth a man to be shunned.
Gareth inclined his head. “If I am destined only for madness, it is truly amazing how many of your friends and family I have defeated at tournaments. Would you like to join their ranks? I will test my destiny against yours any date you choose.”
Sir Humphrey guffawed, as if the challenge were worthless. But Margery saw the wariness he tried to conceal.
Gareth seemed ruthless, cold, a man who feared no one. But before it all he had been a child, and he’d been hurting, while she’d been spoiled and unthinking. She didn’t remember even asking about his family, or how he felt about it. She hadn’t a clue to anyone’s problems but her own, and that selfishness now haunted her.
Gareth sat down and opened the book. Margery picked up her embroidery, but she couldn’t stop herself from studying him, and wondering.
“Mistress Margery?” Lord George Wharton said.
She looked up into his aristocratic face, with its thin nose and arrogant eyes. She was unable to forget how frightened he’d been of Gareth. “Yes, Lord George?”
“My father the duke tells me that you have but two months left to announce your choice in husband. Is this so?”
At Lord George’s pointed reference to his noble father, the room erupted in snickers and laughter. Even his younger brother, Lord Shaw, rolled his eyes.
Margery no longer dreaded making the announcement of her husband. Now that she had a plan, surely she could find the perfect man—she just hadn’t decided yet exactly what kind of man she would need.
She glanced at Gareth, who watched her with narrowed eyes. Hadn’t she told him that the king wouldn’t wait forever for her to choose a husband? Had she been so embarrassed as she revealed all her problems to him, that this final humiliation had been forgotten?
“I have until the first day in October to name my husband,” she answered Lord George, smiling as graciously as possible.
“And do you have a man in mind as of yet?”
Every pair of male eyes inspected her body as if they planned to buy her. She sat up straighter. Let them look—she would do the purchasing. “No, my lord. Do not tell me that is why you gracious gentlemen came to visit me.”
Laughter traveled through the room.
“We came to celebrate your twentieth birthday,” Lord George said. “The queen regretted that you would not be with her, and she wanted to make sure we gave you a party befitting her close friend. She is even sending her own minstrels.”
A birthday party in her honor, where she would be doing much of the work. She didn’t know who was more ignorant at times—the queen or men as a whole.
Margery couldn’t stand to be with her suitors for another moment—and they’d only just arrived. She called her ladies together to retire briefly before supper. She could feel Gareth watching her leave, as if he actually touched her, but she refused to look at him. He would only want to accompany her, and she didn’t want a man just now.
Once in her solar, Margery stood at the large glass window and looked out over the flat-lands of the Severn Valley. Anne and Cicely stood beside her.
“Margery?” Anne finally said.
“Hmm?”
“What is wrong? Surely it must be wonderful to have so many men seeking your hand.”
“It would seem so,” she said, turning to smile at her friend. “But I must keep in mind that these men are looking for a suitable match to bring prestige and wealth to their families—which does not necessarily have much to do with me. Sometimes I feel like I am just an additional benefit—me and any child I would bear.”
“Oh, no,” Cicely said, touching Margery’s arm. “You must not think that way.”
“I’m trying not to.” Margery smiled briskly. “That is why I brought you two with me. I need to plan my strategy.”
“Strategy?” Anne echoed. “It sounds like you’re marching off to war.”
“I am, and ’tis time for a battle plan. I need to know exactly what kind of man I am looking for.”
“Oh, that should be easy,” Anne said, clapping her hands together. “Handsome and kind, well-spoken, strong—”
Margery interrupted. “I only agree with two of those. Of course I want a man who will be kind, and strong enough to take care of our family. But appearance and manner of speaking are not so important.”
Cicely looked crestfallen.
“Ladies, we will be married to one man for all of our lives. Handsomeness won’t last forever. I’ve been thinking of what I would like in a man. First, he shall be a nobleman.”
“Oh, of course,” Anne agreed.
Cicely nodded.
“But only because I wish him to stay at court for much of the year.”
Anne seemed puzzled for a moment before she smiled. “Ah, the prestige.”
“No. I am simply used to running my own household and I do not want any interference. Besides, a husband needs to keep busy. I will tolerate no gambling or excessive drinking.”
Cicely looked bewildered as she took a seat in a cushioned chair.
Margery pushed on. “He must be intelligent, but not too strong-willed. A husband should be content with a good life and a happy family, not roaming the countryside looking to battle.”
“But Margery,” Anne said tentatively, “what about love?”
She stared at their innocent faces, then turned her back to look out the window. She hated to disillusion them. “I made that mistake once before,” she said softly. “From now on, it will not be my first consideration.”
She would never fall in love again. With Peter Fitzwilliam, she had lost all control of herself and lived only to be with him. He’d had all the power in their relationship, and it had almost destroyed her.
She would have remained a lonely spinster—until she had finally come to her senses and realized that most men were no better than Peter. So now she would negotiate her own marriage. She would be a good wife, and never give her husband cause to regret his choice. But it would really be her choice.
Gareth stood outside the solar, his back against the wall, disgusted by Margery’s words. Her cold-blooded plan only proved to him that he had been right all along. She was a woman who thought she could control every aspect of her life—and his, too. She hadn’t even told him about this group of visiting suitors, or the king’s insistence that she choose a husband by a certain date.
And for a husband, she wanted a weak-willed eunuch, a man who would dance attendance on her every word. The few times a month she’d let a husband bed her, she’d probably insist on being on top.
Margery’s entire life had taught her that she could have anything she wanted—but not this time.
During supper, Gareth watched Margery pick at her food. As she spoke with the suitors arrayed across from her, her face was as animated as always, but there was a tension in her eyes.
His anger was still so strong that he wanted to drag her outside and demand to know why she had lied to him. How could she expect him to be an effective guard if he didn’t know everything that was happening to her?
She stared into the distance, a pensive look on her face, while Gareth struggled to ignore his body’s reaction to her. The servants began to clear away the last course. During the confusion of people leaving the table, Margery slipped away from her guests and dow
n a side corridor. Had she already agreed to meet the first of her suitors privately?
Gareth followed her.
She led him outside into the fading sunlight of early evening, and disappeared into the chapel. He stepped behind a mound of hay near the stables to wait. No one else entered; what could she be doing?
The sun had set behind the curtain wall before she emerged again. She walked slowly, her head down, her hands clasped loosely before her. He stepped into view.
Margery stopped in obvious surprise, her lips parted, her eyes wary. “Gareth, is something wrong? What are you doing here?”
“Following you.” He realized suddenly that he could say nothing to her about her behavior, no matter how she angered him. He had to win her favor.
She sighed and looked away. “I do not need your protection this night. I was just feeling overwhelmed by having so many guests.”
“And you go to a chapel instead of the peace of your own bedchamber?”
She shrugged and began to walk again. He kept pace beside her, as the hard earth gave way to the gravel paths of the garden. They entered the gate to the lady’s garden, and overhead apple and pear trees closed out the pale pink sky.
“Believe me, Gareth, I am grateful that these boys show an interest in me.”
“Boys?” he repeated.
She smiled and shook her head. “Men. Forgive me. ’Tis just that they seem like boys fighting over a new toy.”
“An accurate description.” He took a deep breath and tried to sound relaxed. “I did not know of the king’s request that you choose a husband soon.”
Since a shrug was her only answer, her lies and their discovery must mean little to her. He wanted to shake out whatever truths she was still holding back. From her behavior, there had to be more.
Margery turned away from him and sat down on a small bench in the middle of tall stalks of columbines. She started to move her skirts aside, but he’d never fit there. Feeling awkward and annoyed, he lowered himself to sit at her feet.
“Gareth, I can make room for you. ’Tis too damp on the ground.”
He ignored her words as he rested one elbow on the bench, his hand dangling close to her silk skirt. She bent toward him and he looked into the deep shadow between her breasts. His anger subsided into a distant grumble that was suddenly easier to ignore.
He couldn’t even remember what they were talking about. Margery’s perfume surrounded him, and he wanted nothing more than to taste her, to lose himself in the feel of her.
Chapter 10
Margery sat up straighter, her head above his, her face shadowed. “Forgive me for not telling you about the rest of the king’s proclamation.”
Gareth took a deep breath and looked down at his hand, grazed by her skirts. Then he lied, to further his plan for revenge. “There is nothing to forgive. It is a strange thing King Henry has done.”
“He only wanted to help,” she said, sighing. “He thought it would make me happy. I’m sure the king believed that making me choose by October would give me a husband sooner. But also,” she added with a touch of sadness, “he could not afford to allow my lands to languish too long unsettled.”
Gareth let his fingertips brush the cool silk of her dress. By the saints, even her skirt aroused him. “But instead, the king made you a target.”
She nodded, biting her lip and looking down into her lap. He almost felt sorry for her.
“Then it is my duty to protect you.”
“I do not like being your duty.”
Margery said the words so softly that Gareth almost missed them.
He said, “I do not mean to sound as if my time here is a chore I must get through. It is a chance to renew our friendship, to remember some of the better moments in my life.”
“You seem to have had few.”
He heard sympathy in her voice, and it made his gut clench. He wanted to tell her that all his pain was because of her family, but even that was not the full truth. His own family curse threaded through every decision he’d ever made.
“Gareth, Sir Humphrey’s cruelty cannot be borne. I’ll make him leave, I’ll—”
“You cannot punish a man for speaking the truth. There are things you don’t know about me. Yes, my grandfathers killed their wives, one way or another. And my father—” His breath caught. He was too close to the truths in his life, and it was none of her business. “I do not know how that fire started. But I should never have left them. I knew he was drinking too much.”
He was appalled and angry, as the words he hadn’t meant to say spilled out of him. He usually held his emotions in such tight restraint, buried deep inside him. The weak words oozing from him like a slow blood loss, sickened him.
He hated her pity. He would rather have her afraid of him, even despise him.
Margery felt sorrow wash through her, overwhelming her caution. “Gareth, you were but eight years old! You were burdened with knowledge no child should have, and could have done nothing for your parents but be a good son to them. And you saved my life, which your parents would be proud of.”
The garden was almost dark now. Gareth was a study in shadows before her, his hair still gleaming. Slowly he looked up into her face. He seemed to examine her every feature. She shivered when his gaze dropped to her chest.
This wasn’t right. She felt again that shot of languid heat surge through her. Forbidden thoughts clawed at the edges of her mind. She felt wild, unrestrained, something she’d vowed to never let happen again.
This was Gareth, her personal guard. If he had been one of her suitors, she would have made him leave. He fit none of her requirements of the proper husband.
But still, she felt an intense, almost painful pleasure at having him so near to her. She wanted to lean into him. She had felt excitement and anticipation with Peter, but nothing compared to this overwhelming need to touch Gareth, to comfort him.
The proper side of her shouted no…but the wickedness that had stolen into her these last few months slyly urged her on.
She let her trembling fingers thread into the soft hair above his ear.
She heard Gareth take a quick breath as his gaze rose to hers. Deep in those cold eyes she saw an awakening, answering heat.
He whispered her name in a hoarse voice.
Unable to stop herself, Margery slid her fingers through his hair again.
He came up onto his knees and gripped her arms. “You don’t mean to do this.”
But she did. Her wicked body yearned to be held against him, to feel the pleasure of his lips on hers. Their chests were separated by mere inches, their mouths by but a breath. If she slid forward, she could feel his body against hers.
Gareth needed her.
But was comfort enough? Was she just inventing any excuse to lose herself in the arms of a dangerously attractive man, to forget the empty marriage she would soon choose?
Tears stung Margery’s eyes, and she pressed her hands against his chest. “Release me.”
With only the barest hesitation, he did as she requested, sitting back on his heels to look at her. He must wonder what kind of woman she was.
He suddenly grimaced and brought both hands up to his head.
“Gareth?” she whispered, reaching out, but not trusting herself to touch him.
He shook his head. “I’m fine.” His voice sounded weak. “My head aches, ’tis all.”
After a moment, he put a hand on the bench beside her as if to steady himself. This couldn’t be just an aching head.
“Perhaps the healer—” Margery began, but he interrupted.
“Do not worry yourself. I had too much to drink.”
She knew that was a lie. Was he trying to pretend that what had almost happened between them was because of ale?
“Let us go in,” she said.
They walked back inside, then stood awkwardly in a torchlit corridor. Margery clasped her hands together and met his gaze. “I cannot leave my guests without bidding them goodnight.”
>
Gareth nodded. She thought his face looked pinched with strain.
“I shall not return to the great hall with you,” he said. “It would look…”
She gave a hasty nod. “Thank you.”
“A good night to you, Margery,” he murmured.
When his gaze dropped to her lips, she felt a blush sweep across her face. She took a step back. “Good night, Gareth.”
She knew he watched her until she reached the entrance to the hall. It made her feel safe and uncomfortable at the same time. After a few pleasantries with her suitors she escaped to her bedchamber, where she prayed for an end to this wildness inside her.
Gareth was the first person in the chapel before dawn. He’d searched his bags for that stone Margery had given him so long ago, but he still couldn’t find it. It would be the perfect sentimental gift to woo her.
Things had gone surprisingly well in the garden last night. She was not unaffected by his presence, regardless of the revelation of part of the Beaumont Curse. She’d stood up to Townsend with more courage than he’d seen in many a man. Soon he’d be the only man she’d think of when she considered marriage. The prospect of bedding her certainly held no distaste for him.
But then he’d had another vision in front of her, reminding him of how little he really controlled. If this kept up, his headache excuse would no longer suffice. The same image had appeared as before—Margery seated on a horse before a shadowed man. Why couldn’t he sense her emotions? Who was this man?
Margery arrived soon after, looking shocked to see him in the chapel. He wondered if she, too, had been thinking about their evening in the garden. He’d have to subtly remind her about it all day. He himself needed no other reminder than the smell of her perfume as she neared him. What it did to his insides was best not dwelt on in church.
She gave him a strained smile as she knelt beside him. Her suitors stumbled in one at a time, and it was obvious from their bleary faces that they’d drunk and gambled the night away.
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