Gayle Callen

by My Lady’s Guardian

  Why did he care? She had hired him to guard her, and he’d kept her safe. He would never be the kind of man she wanted, but he was the kind of man she desired. That was all that mattered. His plans were succeeding—she depended on him more each day.

  As Gareth worked with the bow, he knew Humphrey Townsend watched him constantly, even tried to intimidate him by beating up on poor Lord Chadwick, whose skills as an earl were better than his skills on the field.

  Gareth ignored Townsend. Now that a time was set, he didn’t care what the man did. But he still felt distracted, uneasy, and he wasn’t sure why.

  He had performed his duty well; Margery had been unhurt. So why did he wonder what she was thinking and feeling? She must have been frightened by Townsend’s attack, yet she’d gone on with her day’s business as if it hadn’t happened. Even now, she was meeting with one of the village bailiffs about the coming harvest. She was a woman who did what was necessary. At least that was something to admire.

  That night, Margery was determined to retire early to her bedchamber. Throughout supper she had avoided looking at Sir Humphrey, because just the sight of his sly, knowing gaze made her shudder. It was as if he knew something of her secrets. Was it so easy to tell what kind of a woman she was?

  Sir Humphrey and Gareth would meet in the morning, perhaps injure each other grievously. It was all she could think about. She told herself that she was worried about her guard being injured, but deep inside, she knew it was more than that. She had begun to count on Gareth, which she knew was ridiculous. When she chose her husband, Gareth would go back to his own life.

  It would be better that way. He made her feel reckless, needy, whenever he touched her, and she had promised herself she would never experience those emotions again. She would live a sedate, proper life.

  But the danger in his golden eyes called to her. He would gladly pit his strength against an enemy, even if he died in the attempt. Or maybe his arrogance was so great, he didn’t think anyone was capable of defeating him. He was too confident, too self-assured—all the qualities that made her wary.

  She said good night to Anne and Cicely, who both gave her concerned looks. She glanced toward the hearth and saw Gareth pacing, his hands clasped behind his back. His big body moved with the usual easy assurance, but he wore an intent frown. He took a step toward her, but she shook her head. If they talked about his duel with Sir Humphrey, Gareth would know that she was concerned for him. She wouldn’t give him that kind of power over her.

  The great double doors to the inner ward were suddenly thrown open. “Mistress Margery!” cried a soldier as he skidded to a stop. “The queen’s minstrels have come. I can hear them singin’ outside the gates. Should I let ’em in?”

  Margery forced a smile as Anne and Cicely led her outside. The night was still warm; the stars glistened in the dark sky high above the torchlit battlements. A hush settled over the ward, and she could suddenly hear many voices raised in song.

  As the gates were opened for the minstrels, the others rushed forward to greet their visitors while she remained in the darker shadows near the keep.

  A man stepped near her, and the torchlight glittered in his blond hair. Gareth.

  “Are you all right?” he asked impassively.

  “I’m fine,” she said with a strained smile. What else was there to say? She struggled not to feel thrilled at being alone with him in the shadows, where a person could stumble on them any time. Yet she didn’t move away.

  “I assume you heard about my challenge to Sir Humphrey.”

  “I wish you had not put yourself in danger on my account,” she said softly.

  “Danger?”

  The arrogance in his voice made her smile.

  “He is no danger to me. I’ve studied his methods: he is hotheaded and overconfident. It will defeat him in the end.”

  She hugged her arms against the chill and leaned back against the wall to look up at him. “And you are not overconfident?”

  His teeth flashed in a smile. “Not overly. Just certain I will defeat him.”

  Chapter 14

  Well past midnight, Gareth lay awake in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. He had been feeling restless, closed in by too many people, full of the tension of pretending to be something he wasn’t.

  He was so eager for tomorrow’s contest that he couldn’t sleep. He wished he were fighting one of Margery’s brothers, so he could let his fury and bitterness guide his sword. When Margery chose him over them, they would know that all their manipulations had been futile.

  The dark cloud of his visions nagged at Gareth. He still hadn’t discovered the meaning of Margery riding with a shadowy man. But it would come to him. He had no doubt he could keep her safe.

  Ladies Anne and Cicely walked on either side of Margery as she left the chapel. The day was depressingly gray and overcast; the clouds seemed as heavy as her heart. She hated having men fight over her. Her husband would be tactful, a man who could let slights go.

  “Margery,” Cicely said, “please change your mind. You do not need to watch these men fight.”

  “Hawksbury is my castle. I must be involved in everything that happens here.” She glanced sternly from one twin to the other. “And if I’m not at the tiltyard, one of them might kill the other.”

  “No, surely…” Cicely began.

  Margery felt a momentary stab of dread. How could she watch Gareth be attacked and not wince with every blow? What if he wasn’t as skilled as he thought?

  The tiltyard usually rang with the clash of metal, and the cheerful shouts of the soldiers and knights. But this morning it was eerily quiet, as if the gloom and the impending battle preyed on every mind. Men stood in small groups, talking in low voices. The wind picked up, raising swirls of dust. There was no sign of Gareth or Sir Humphrey.

  Sir Wallace strode toward them, a grim expression on his face. “Mistress Margery, you should not be here.”

  “I want to be here.” She kept her voice calm, reasonable.

  “This is like a squabble between two boys. I am sure they’ll just—”

  “Two boys with swords, who hate each other. Sir Wallace, ask some of the pages to fetch benches for my ladies and me. We are not leaving.”

  He clamped his mouth shut and turned away.

  As benches were being placed for them and more spectators gathered, Gareth finally entered the field. He didn’t wear full armor, just a plated brigantine to protect his chest and back. He wore a shield on his left arm.

  If he saw her, he gave no sign.

  Sir Humphrey arrived next wearing no armor at all, as if Gareth could not lay a sword on him. He boasted and he strutted and he laughed with his friends. Gareth waited alone in the center of the tiltyard, his face calm, watchful. His focus seemed totally on Sir Humphrey, and Margery shivered at his intensity.

  He wouldn’t kill Sir Humphrey—would he? Fighting over her was bad enough, but no matter what the romantic songs said, the thought of men dying for her repulsed Margery.

  Sir Wallace strode into the center of the tiltyard to stand near Gareth, and Sir Humphrey left his cheering friends. The three men talked together, but the wind carried their words away. Was Sir Wallace going over the rules? Were there rules? When he offered both combatants blunted swords, she relaxed the smallest bit.

  Sir Wallace put a hand on the shoulder of each man, smiled, and said loudly, “For our spectators, who might not be aware of the true nature of this contest, this is a training exercise only, not a fight to the death.”

  Margery heard some scattered boos and hisses, but when she frowned toward the crowd, they settled down.

  “Sir Humphrey, you will need protection,” Sir Wallace said.

  The knight grumbled, but allowed himself to be strapped into a brigantine.

  “When one man has had enough,” Sir Wallace continued, “he will raise his arm in signal that he is finished—unless he has passed out.”

  The crowd roared with laughter.

/>   “There will be no rest periods. Any questions?”

  Gareth and Sir Humphrey just stared at each other with equal confidence. When Sir Wallace stepped back, both men brought up their swords and crouched, circling each other. Gareth had the advantage of height, but Sir Humphrey had the massive chest of a bear.

  The sudden shouting of the crowd behind her almost made Margery flinch. She composed herself and studied the combatants. Both men held their swords with obvious experience. Sir Humphrey was the first to strike a blow, which Gareth parried aside easily.

  They fought evenly for a while, trying to tire each other out. Margery grew so relaxed that she began to study Gareth instead of the battle. He had well-muscled arms, which seemed powerful enough to stop any blow of Sir Humphrey’s.

  She began to feel rather warm, though the day was overcast. She shouldn’t stare at Gareth—although he did move with considerable grace for a man. But when she watched how skilled he was with his body, she couldn’t help but wonder—

  She bit down hard on her lip to stop her wicked thoughts. Her face felt hot; her palms were damp. She had promised herself that she would forget her experience with a man. Then why was it constantly on her mind when she looked at Gareth? And it wasn’t Peter she was thinking of.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she checked to see if the twins noticed her odd behavior. Cicely was watching the contest with her eyes partially shielded by her hand, while Anne only stared, her face grim.

  With a grunt of triumph, Sir Humphrey whirled aside, then brought the flat of his sword down hard on Gareth’s left arm, just above his shield. Margery winced as if the sting were her own. She could only imagine the raised welt he would have. She wrapped her hand around the purse hung from her belt, and clutched the crystal stone hidden inside as if it could protect him.

  Gareth barely felt the blow. He ducked as Townsend’s sword whistled past his face, then whirled and hit Townsend’s back. Though the man gave a hiss of pain, he fought without slowing. Their swords met and caught at the hilt, bringing them close.

  Townsend grinned. “Even this blunt sword can cut your pretty face, Beaumont.”

  Gareth pushed him away, then began a flurry of blows that left the other knight faltering and gasping for breath. Their swords clashed and slid together, bringing them face to face again. When Gareth would have broken away, Townsend held him still.

  “Poor Beaumont,” Townsend hissed in a soft voice. “Win or lose, I’ll soon be lifting Margery’s skirts.”

  Gareth tried to tell himself that Townsend’s boast meant nothing, but it was as if his sanity fled at the thought of Margery with someone else. With a burst of power, he thrust Townsend away. Before the other man could recover, Gareth hit him across the head with his shield. Townsend fell hard and lay still.

  The tiltyard was utterly silent—even the birds didn’t sing. Feeling powerful and alone, more like himself, Gareth raised his head and looked at the silent crowd. If he had to fight them all to prove he belonged here, so be it. He gripped his sword tightly and awaited their condemnation.

  Margery rose to her feet. “Well done, Sir Gareth,” she said. “My dear guests, shall we break our fast?”

  She and her ladies turned and walked away. The men gave him angry looks, but began to exchange coins at a furious pace so that they could keep up with Margery. Gareth let his sword dangle as he stared down at Townsend’s slumbering body.

  Desmond came up beside him with a bucket of water, wearing a satisfied grin. “That was a good display of swordsmanship you put on.”

  Gareth shrugged. “I try to educate where I can.”

  “Was that an actual joke?” Desmond asked in feigned astonishment.

  “Just the truth.”

  “What did he say to you before the final blow?”

  “Something crude about his intentions toward Margery.”

  “Ahh.” Desmond nodded. “Maybe you’d better leave before I revive him.”

  “Why?” Gareth asked. “If he wishes to continue fighting, I shall gladly oblige him. And we won’t use these childish weapons.”

  “Mistress Margery doesn’t need you to kill each other. Go eat with her while I clean up your mess.”

  Inside the great hall, Margery tried not to watch the door as she waited for Gareth to come in. Some of her suitors refused to speak to each other, others debated the battle heatedly. They all but ignored her, and she was grateful.

  It gave her a chance to see which of her suitors was particularly strong-willed. Certainly that man would go to the bottom of her list—the list that was getting shorter every day. Lord Shaw Wharton, one of the duke’s sons, was particularly mild-mannered. Though he bickered with his brother, he didn’t force his own opinion on others. His height was not much more than her own, but his face was acceptable.

  She inwardly berated herself, remembering that she had told the twins that a man’s appearance was unimportant.

  Why was it so difficult to find a decent husband?

  Soon enough Gareth came in. He seated himself at the end of the head table, leaned over his trencher, and began to eat as if he’d been fasting in a monastery. If he noticed the noblemen giving him uneasy glances, he didn’t show it.

  Margery sighed, glad that he wasn’t hurt. She hoped Sir Humphrey recovered just as easily. Maybe the knight would leave, solving one of her problems.

  Her other problems would not go away. She wished she could eagerly anticipate her brothers’ visit, but even that was denied her. Peter Fitzwilliam might be with them. How could she face her former lover in full view of her brothers, who would know immediately that something was wrong? Just the thought of the deceptions she would have to employ made her stomach twist with nausea.

  So, she must have a man in mind before she saw Peter and her brothers.

  When Gareth finally turned to look at her, Margery saw that a purplish bruise colored his face. She would see to that—later. First she would do what she had sworn she wouldn’t: use Gareth’s knowledge of her suitors. She needed a husband, soon. She walked toward him, then slid onto the bench beside him, noticing that they were at least a half a table length from anyone else.

  As she leaned near, Gareth paused with his spoon partway into his mouth, eyeing her. Slowly, he took a mouthful, then waited.

  Margery licked her lips nervously, gave him a smile, then looked over her shoulder once more. No one was paying them any attention.

  “Gareth, remember when I told you I did not need your help to find a husband?”

  He narrowed his eyes and nodded.

  “I admit I was wrong.”

  “Then this isn’t about my battle with Sir Humphrey?” he asked.

  “No—though, of course, you should never have let the situation deteriorate into a sword fight.”

  “I am certain your husband will never let such a thing happen.”

  “Never.” She heard his sarcasm, but she ignored it. “The husband I choose will not want to fight. There are better ways to handle disagreements.” She gave him a quick look. “You know I mean no offense to your methods.”

  He smiled the slow smile that made her insides weak. “I take no offense. I do what I must to keep you safe. Now tell me what else I can do for you.”

  Just looking into his face made all thoughts leave her head. She watched the movement of his jaw as he ate, the concentration in the depths of his eyes when he looked at her.

  “Margery?” he prompted.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, flustered. By the saints, what was wrong with her? “I need to ask you about Lord Shaw Wharton. He is the son of a duke, so I assume he would be at court often.”

  Gareth chewed the lumps in his porridge, his gaze thoughtful. “He lets his elder brothers handle the family business at court. He rarely goes at all.”

  “Oh.” Margery felt the first stirrings of dismay—and the length of his thigh against hers. She couldn’t move without being obvious, so she remained still. What was she thinking about? Oh, yes, Lord Sh
aw. “But I’ve seen him at court so often.”

  “He’s searching for a wife, someone who loves the country life as much as he does.”

  “He said that?” This was looking worse and worse.

  Gareth’s arm brushed against hers as he wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Yes. He also needs a woman to raise his son.”

  “Son? He’s been married already? But he seems so young.”

  “No, never married.” He folded his arms and rested his elbows on the table. He turned to look at her, and their shoulders touched.

  Margery stared into his eyes, so unusual in color, so intense. It took a moment before his words sank in. “Never married? That means the boy is—”

  “The boy cannot help his father’s mistake.”

  “Of course not! But Lord Shaw certainly had no problem creating his own mistakes.”

  She felt a sudden rise of anger within her. No one thought anything of Lord Shaw having a bastard. They probably patted him on the back for “doing right” by the child. But what about the mother? Was anyone patting her back?

  No, the poor girl would probably live in disgrace for the rest of her life, while Lord Shaw was toasted for his way with women. The same thing would have happened if Margery had conceived a child. Even now, if she married Lord Shaw, she’d be expected to raise any illegitimate child he brought home.

  She shook with fury at life’s unfairness, where women were scorned for what men did openly. Probably every man in the hall had bedded a woman. She had bedded a man—and what did it get her? Despair, self-loathing, guilt. She would wager that Lord Shaw experienced none of these emotions, nor did her brothers, who had not always been the family men they were now.

  Margery was finished with guilt.

  She suddenly pushed to her feet. The bench tipped back, and Gareth caught the table to keep from falling. Startled, she looked down into his battered face.

  “Gareth, you must have other bruises and injuries.”