“How?” she repeated, wishing he didn’t make her feel so uncomfortable.
“If we see you, do we win?”
“That seems a bit too easy.” She opened her purse, then pulled forth a lace scarf and tucked it into her belt. “The one who has this, wins.”
Margery saw Gareth frown as all the men roared their approval. Did even a game of chase seem too dangerous to him?
“But I cannot promise which lady will have the token,” she said quickly.
That did not appease Gareth. “Mistress Margery, perhaps your servants could roam the outer trees of the glen, to alert us to any strangers.”
She gave her approval, but when her guests returned to court, they would most likely talk. What would King Henry think if his noblemen reported that Margery lived in fear of an attack? All choices would be taken from her, and she’d be brought back to court.
She rose to her feet, motioned the servants to scatter, then led Anne and Cicely toward the edge of the clearing.
She turned back to the men, who were already waiting to follow. “Give us some moments alone, my lords,” she said, smiling sweetly as she lifted the scarf from her belt. “I wonder which of us will have this?”
With a final wave, they walked deeper into the woods, until the sun only crossed the path in dappled shades. When they were no longer in sight of the men, they picked up their skirts and began to run.
Margery laughed with a sudden breathless excitement. “Ladies, which of you would like the scarf?”
“You keep it!” Anne said, already veering away on her own. “They’ll expect you to pass it off.”
“Very well!” Margery called, climbing up an embankment and into a dense growth of trees. “Enjoy yourselves!”
Soon she was alone but for the sounds of her own breathing and the chattering of squirrels. She ran faster, determined to be the last one caught.
Soon enough she heard the men laughing and calling to one another. Heedless of her gown, she crouched on her knees in the densest copse of trees and felt a rush of excitement when she was passed by. Moments later she finally felt safe enough to stand.
As she leaned around a tree to spy on her opponents, she felt a presence at her back. Before she could even take a breath, she was caught about the waist, and a hand covered her mouth.
“’Tis me,” the voice whispered.
Margery recognized Gareth and sagged in his grip. He removed his hand from her mouth, but didn’t let her go.
“Gareth—”
“Shh! Sir Humphrey stalks you,” he whispered.
She listened to the occasional crack of a twig and the rustle of long grass. But her sense of hearing was soon overwhelmed by her sense of touch. She tried mightily not to feel his hips against her backside, not to notice that his arm rested just beneath her breasts—but her heart began a mad thump. She couldn’t allow this to happen again.
“Is he gone?” she whispered.
Gareth removed his arm from around her waist. “I think we have successfully eluded him,” he murmured, and his breath stirred her hair.
She turned in the closeness of the trees and looked up at him. He gave her a slow smile as his gaze dropped below her face.
Margery stiffened. “And what are you looking at, Sir Gareth?”
“The token in your belt,” he answered, then glanced back to her face. “Should I be looking at something else?”
She felt a blush sweep her cheeks, and she couldn’t find words to answer. She was being a foolish girl.
“Does this mean I won?” He leaned against a tree and crossed his arms over his chest.
She glowered at him as she handed over the scarf.
His voice softened. “Do you remember when last we played this game of chase?”
“I remember chasing you about the courtyard many times. I even won a few.”
He gave her a lazy grin, the one that always shocked her with its rarity.
“Oh, I imagine you think you let me win,” Margery said.
He arched a golden eyebrow. “I was a few years older.”
“But I had intelligence.”
He chuckled and she quickly covered his mouth with her hand.
“Sir Humphrey could still be about!” she whispered.
They froze, listening. She had leaned one arm against his chest, and her hand on his lips felt so warm, bathed in his breath. She looked up into his face. His humor had fled, leaving that spark of intoxicating danger in his eyes. What was it about him that called to her, that drew her toward emotions she’d vowed to deny?
She yanked her hand away and stumbled back a step. She looked about and saw no one but the two of them in the dense greenery of trees.
Gareth moved beside her as they began to walk. “The last time we played chase was in the forest outside Wellespring Castle.”
She sighed. “I remember being terribly frightened, but feeling safe, too. It has not been easy for me to think on those moments with you, because I still feel guilty that my father was dying at the same time.”
He hesitated before he said, “I understand.”
They came upon a brook meandering between rocks, glittering wherever the sun touched it through the shadow of trees. There were pools and rippling shallows, and the sounds of water falling. It was so very soothing to her frayed nerves.
She smiled at Gareth, and saw a blur of pink moving on the edges of their little clearing. Keeping her expression as normal as possible, she said, “What other games did we play in the forest?”
Before he could answer, the pink blur became shy Cicely, running with all her might. She snatched the token out of Gareth’s hand, and as he reached for her, Margery mischievously pushed him into the brook. But at the last second he gripped Margery’s wrist, and with a shriek she fell on top of him.
Chapter 13
Gareth’s backside hit the stone bed of the brook, and Margery came down on top of him. The water splashed over them on its way down to the Severn River. He held her there, letting her feel the way their legs entwined and their hips met—letting his own arousal awaken his senses.
Margery’s hair slapped across his face in a sodden mass, getting into his mouth and tickling his nose. Grinning, he heaved her to one side, and she rolled facefirst into the water. She came up on her hands and knees, gasping and spitting.
Gareth started to laugh. Seldom-used muscles in his throat and chest soon ached with the effort, but he couldn’t help himself. The normally pristine, regal, perfect Margery Welles was a muddy disaster.
He vaguely saw Lady Cicely waving the scarf in triumph, then the duke’s two sons emerged from the undergrowth to chase her into the trees.
Gareth struggled to his feet, his tunic streaming water. He turned to help Margery, but she pushed his hand away and crawled ashore, her dripping skirts clinging to her legs.
“I hope you realize,” she said, gasping as she flopped onto her back in the grass, “that a gentleman would not laugh.”
“I have never claimed to be a gentleman.” He tried to speak solemnly, but the corners of his lips kept twitching uncontrollably.
He sat down beside her and started wringing the water from his sleeves, seeing from her expression that she was trying hard not to laugh herself. He didn’t think it wise just yet to inform her that her face was smeared in mud, and that a fern leaf was caught in her hair.
Margery sniffed and wiped her arm across her face. “You could have pretended to be a gentleman and not pulled me in after you.” When she saw the mud on her sleeve, she moaned.
“You could have been a lady and not pushed me.”
She shrugged and closed her eyes, leaning back on her hands until the sun shone on her face. “I was simply shocked that Cicely—not Anne!—had thrown herself so completely into the game, and I wanted to help her.”
Gareth dropped back on his elbows, gazing at Margery’s wet, clinging gown. The pale yellow fabric molded to every curve, from her hardened nipples down to the indentation between her t
highs. The impulse to cover her body with his was suddenly overwhelming.
He came up on one hand and leaned over her. All he had to do was remove a piece of her clothing—almost any piece—and let themselves be discovered. The game would be over and she’d be his, married as soon as the banns could be read. She desired him; he knew it. What would she do if he licked the moisture from her skin?
She frowned. “Gareth, what are you doing?”
Yet he didn’t have her trust. He needed her to choose him as her husband, to stand against her brothers.
“Forgive me, mistress. I sometimes forget I am a paid servant.”
“Do not say that,” she murmured, looking up at him so earnestly. “We are also friends.”
“Even after what happened yesterday?”
She remained silent, and Gareth waited, searching her face.
“I was as much at fault as you,” she finally whispered. “You were only trying to comfort me. I was distraught and overwhelmed at having too many choices for husband.”
“I think it is more than that. What pain do you hide, Margery?”
He lightly brushed her hair from her cheek. She stared almost wildly at him as her eyes filled with tears.
“Tell me,” he whispered. He cupped her face in one hand, wiping a tear away with his thumb. She closed her eyes and bit her trembling lip, and more tears escaped. He looked down into her beautiful face, so full of sorrow, and something painful lurched inside his chest.
Then familiar anger bubbled back to life inside him, and he was relieved. He could trust nothing Margery said or did. Maybe this behavior was just her way to soften a man.
She rolled away from him and rose unsteadily to her feet. “We should return and see who won.” She plucked at her skirts. “My, this is heavy.”
Gareth got to his feet and caught up with her.
When they finally reached the clearing where everyone else had already gathered, Margery moved farther away from him. Conversations stopped and every gaze fastened on them.
“I’m all right,” she said. “I fell in the water, and Sir Gareth rescued me.”
She put on a good performance, marching across the clearing with abused dignity. Her suitors surrounded her, asking what they could do.
Lady Cicely finally approached him, her smile tentative, a blanket in her hands. “Sir Gareth, please accept my apologies. In my haste to win, I did not think of the consequences to you.”
He wrapped the blanket about his shoulders. “No lasting consequences, Lady Cicely. Did you win?”
“Lord Shaw caught me and the token,” she admitted, a faint blush staining her freckled cheeks.
His gaze returned to Margery, and he was distracted again, wondering how Peter Fitzwilliam was connected to her secrets.
At Mass the next morning, Margery immediately noticed that Gareth was missing. She was almost through eating her morning meal when he finally entered the great hall. He was again wearing that leather jerkin he trained in, but this time he had done without the shirt. His muscled arms were tan from the sun. Though his hands seemed best suited to holding weapons, now they held wildflowers of all colors. The blossoms dropped from his arms, trailing across the hall behind him.
Margery sat back in surprise as he strewed her table with flowers. They fell into her goblet, across her plate, and into her lap.
“Did I not see these near the clearing where we ate yesterday?” she asked, feeling flustered and touched, and trying not to show it.
“Yes, mistress,” Gareth said. “I had to have them for you. I must confess, I couldn’t quite remember where I had seen them, so I had to search. Forgive me for being late.”
She was well aware of the grumbling of her suitors, some in amusement, some in disdain. “Thank you for your gift,” she said softly.
He sat down at the end of the head table, and she watched as three giggling maidservants converged on him at once, offering food.
Before the meal was through, she managed to whisper a message to one of the servants, asking Gareth to join her in the sewing rooms. It was time to follow through on her promise.
When Gareth finally arrived, Margery looked up from the work table where she was cutting out garments. There were many tables, spread with the different fabrics needed for every kind of servant, from soldiers to serving maids to kitchen boys.
Her seamstresses stopped working to stare at Gareth, and Margery tried to pretend that it was not admiration but shock at having a knight invade their domain.
“Ethel,” Margery called to the woman in charge, “Sir Gareth lost his trunks on the crossing from France, and I offered to provide him with a few new items of clothing. Would you measure him to begin?”
Ethel was a woman of middle-age, graying, stoop-shouldered from cutting and sewing fabric all day. Her manner was brisk as she circled Gareth.
“Aye, mistress, we can help the lad. Go on about yer duties.”
“I’d like to help pick out the colors and—”
Ethel gave her a disapproving frown. “’Tisn’t right that a lady be with a man discussin’ such a subject. Go on with ye, now.”
Margery thought Gareth gave her a rather irritated look as two more women circled and studied him. She could only shrug and back out into the corridor. Since no one else was about, she lingered, peeking in as the women held up cut pieces of fabric for size. He would look handsome no matter what his garment.
A hand suddenly covered her mouth. Margery gave a muffled scream, but already the man was dragging her backward. She tried to dislodge his arm, even caught her heels in the floorboards. Panic overwhelmed her and she flailed helplessly.
They didn’t go far. He dragged her into the garderobe and shut the door. Only then was she turned around to face Sir Humphrey Townsend. He grinned at her.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, backing up against the wall.
The knight shrugged. “I don’t mean to hurt you, Mistress Margery. I never get a moment of your time, and Beaumont always does. How does he manage that, I wonder?”
“This isn’t an abduction?” she asked in shock.
“Of course not. I just needed some time to convince you that I am the perfect husband.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or hit him. “Do you think it is romantic to bring me into the garderobe? The smell alone—” She broke off, red-faced, trying to look anywhere but at the two holes near the far wall.
Sir Humphrey glanced around and had the decency to seem embarrassed. “I guess this was not the best location.”
“No, it most certainly was not. And the manner in which you brought me here—” She took a deep breath, controlling herself, knowing that she shouldn’t anger him.
Sir Humphrey stepped nearer. He wasn’t very tall, but he was broad and muscular. He gave her a cajoling smile. “Now, Margery, can you not see how much passion I feel for you?”
As he slid his hand along her arm, Margery pressed so close to the wall she could feel the indentations of the mortar. Her panic was returning. Was this his clumsy attempt to compromise her? Clumsy or not, it could actually work.
Just as the knight took another step closer, and she was thinking of making a dash for freedom, the door slammed open.
Gareth stood there, hands on his hips, looking as cold and dangerous as ever. Margery sagged with relief, then worried that there would be immediate bloodshed. She didn’t want anyone hurt.
“Townsend,” Gareth said, “did you wish to speak with me? I saw you lingering outside the sewing room.”
Sir Humphrey’s face was mottled with red and white splotches. “Beaumont, leave now while you can.”
“Leave? I cannot do that.” Gareth turned to Margery. “Mistress, Ethel would like to speak to you. It seems I am hopeless about the colors to choose for the garments. Remember to let me know the price.”
“Of course. I’ll go now,” she said quickly. She didn’t even look at Sir Humphrey as she escaped. She knew she should run as far away as sh
e could, but she was curious to see how Gareth handled the situation. She had never thought he would be the kind of man who could moderate his reaction, manipulate a situation to his own advantage. She was still impressed that he was able to play the suitor while being her guard. She hid in a doorway, out of their sight.
“Beaumont, you should not have interfered,” Sir Humphrey said in a sneering voice. “I was only doing what we all are trying to do—especially you, in your poverty.”
She expected Gareth to defend himself, but he simply laughed. “At least I am doing it more subtly, Townsend. In your ignorance, you frighten Margery and leave the way open for me.”
Margery was beginning to wish she hadn’t stayed. Gareth’s voice sounded so different, so amused and cold at the same time. She told herself it was all part of his act; if he’d wanted her money in truth, he could have compromised her a half dozen times by now. But he wouldn’t do such a thing.
“You will regret this, Beaumont,” Sir Humphrey said.
Gareth’s voice grew softer, deadlier. “Will I? You obviously still wish to test your skills on me. Are you asking to name a time?”
Without hesitating, the knight said, “I am. But I’d understand if you thought you weren’t up to the…challenge.”
Margery couldn’t believe what was happening. Gareth had been controlling the situation, but then a line had been crossed, one visible only to men. She held her breath, thinking how foolhardy men could be.
“I am quite ready for you,” Gareth said. “I shall be at the tiltyard, an hour past dawn tomorrow.”
Chills danced along Margery’s arms as she fled down the hall.
Gareth spent the rest of the morning training at the tiltyard. There were dozens of men in groups at the quintain, the archery targets, and the jousting lists. They perspired in the sun, groaned as they exerted themselves.
Everything made sense in a man’s world. But inside the castle, where women manipulated lives, Gareth was adrift. He had tried to handle Margery’s dilemma this morn in a civilized fashion, but he still ended up challenging Townsend. Deep inside him, he knew he’d disappointed her.
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