Gayle Callen

by My Lady’s Guardian

  Never in her life had she been kissed like that, like she was the only food for a starving man. She had reveled in the power of feeling desirable. He was a solitary, dangerous, fierce knight, and she’d held him in her arms and made him shudder.

  For an insane moment, Margery wondered what it would be like to have a husband like Gareth, uncontrollable, mysterious. A man like him would do as he pleased, even if it meant breaking her heart.

  She had vowed never again to put herself under the spell of a man who could hurt her—but damned if she wasn’t going to be as wild as a man while she still could. She deserved it.

  Chapter 16

  The day of her birthday celebration, Margery was busy with the butler and cellarer, and overseeing the village maids who arrived to bake the pastries. She went to the tiltyard often, where extra pits had been dug to roast oxen. Once or twice she felt Gareth staring at her, but she didn’t look his way. She was afraid her face would reveal her excitement, the forbidden recklessness taking over her body. It all seemed new to her, and she didn’t want to scrutinize it just yet.

  That night, hundreds of candles illuminated the hall. The scents of heavy perfume and larks’ tongue pie floated through the air. The lords and ladies were dressed in embroidered brocades and velvets, colorful silken gowns sewn with shining pearls and beads.

  Margery caught her breath at how Gareth’s new blue doublet made his hair and eyes look even more golden. His new white shirt was pulled through the many slits in his sleeves, in the best court fashion.

  Though the noblemen ignored him, he didn’t want for company. The serving maids hovered nearby, offering food and drink just to see him smile. Margery couldn’t blame them, for whenever he turned that rare smile on her, it was like the sun coming out after a long season of storms.

  When the dancing started she joined hands with one suitor after another, circling the floor until her head spun. She brushed shoulders once with Gareth, and awareness tingled through her. But before their gazes could meet, he was already swept away by his partner. Though he didn’t know the dances, that didn’t stop every woman, from villager to lady, from asking him to dance.

  Later, she felt his gaze on her as she danced with yet another suitor. Gareth stood alone, watching her through the crowd. In her mind she relived the feeling of his mouth sliding down her neck, of his hands touching intimate places on her body. She felt warm and flustered and thrilled that he stared at her.

  Why couldn’t she spend a few minutes dancing in his arms before the entire castle? Everyone thought he was her suitor. She stopped dancing with Lord Seabrook, claiming thirst. He brought her a goblet of wine and tried to start a conversation, but his words faded away as Gareth approached her and bowed over her hand.

  She wasn’t prepared for the shock of putting her hand in his. A spark of excitement and longing shot between them. His smile vanished for a moment, and his gaze was greedy on her mouth.

  Then he changed back into her adoring suitor again. “Mistress Margery, please do me the great honor of dancing with me.” He sounded no different, as if he still worshipped her from afar.

  She followed him out into the center of the hall, where sweetened rushes were stirred by their feet. They bowed to each other and performed the simple steps of the dance, which other partners had obviously taught him that evening.

  When they held hands and swung in circles, Gareth leaned toward her. “You ran away last night,” he said in a low voice. “Are you angry with me?”

  She smiled. “Should I be?”

  “So you kiss men like that every day?”

  Though his expression was pleasant, his eyes studied her with a skepticism that angered her. Did even Gareth think only women had to be perfect?

  “No, I don’t,” she said sharply.

  “Margery—”

  “I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

  They were separated by the dance. As they were reunited, he softly said, “Should I ask for your forgiveness?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” she whispered, relenting. “It was…mutual.”

  They were parted again, and Gareth searched for Margery in the circle of dancers. He thought for certain she would feel guilty and ashamed of what they’d shared, that he’d have to woo her more. Instead, there was an unusual intensity about her that confused him.

  They came together, linking hands and following a line of dancers. At the end of the dance, he lifted her high and spun her before setting her back on her feet, leaving her flushed and wide-eyed. But she soon left him for her next suitor.

  Later in the evening, he watched her open her birthday gifts. She would be his wife; she deserved the only heirlooms of his family, so he gave her a simple chain that was his mother’s. She looked at it the same as she looked at all the others—with politeness. He knew she was only treating him as a pretend suitor, but a deep part of him longed for recognition. It was difficult to be patient and let other men ogle what he already considered his.

  A voice suddenly boomed out. “Is that plain thing from Beaumont?” Humphrey Townsend asked.

  Gareth had not seen Townsend for the entire day. He was amazed that the man had finally confronted him—in public, of course; Gareth had made an enemy of the knight.

  “He owes you more than a cheap trinket,” Townsend continued, “for exposing you to the curse of his family.”

  Gareth saw Margery’s eyes go cold. “Sir Humphrey, how could one dance expose me to such foolish superstition? I danced more with you, and my aching toes prove it.”

  Townsend’s face whitened. “One dance could lead to more with a Beaumont,” he said in a controlled, furious voice. “After all, I’m sure his mother and grandmother thought they knew better, too. But they ended up trapped in marriage and dead.”

  Gareth’s rationality fled as he looked into Townsend’s smirking face. The man had slandered his ancestors—and tried to compromise Margery. A cold rage settled in his mind. They would meet again, and this time the swords would be sharp. Gareth didn’t need a vision to tell him that.

  A violent headache suddenly stabbed between his eyes. As if called forth by the thought, a vision swirled across his sight, and he did his best to keep his expression normal. He vaguely saw Margery step between him and Townsend, heard her voice as if from far away. Not now, not now, he chanted silently—but trying to force away a vision only made his headache worse.

  He thought Margery was trying to talk to him. He shook his head and frowned, hoping that she would understand. Of Townsend’s words, he heard nothing. The mist before his eyes had taken on color and shape, sharpening again into the image of Margery before a shadowed man on a horse. This time, the vision was clearer. Beneath a cloudy night sky, he could see the Severn Valley stretching out behind the riders, the Cotswolds in the distance. He sensed urgency, but nothing else.

  Gareth suddenly felt hands on his arms, shaking him; the vision dissolved in a swirl of mist. He blinked and shook his head, only to see Desmond’s worried face before him.

  “Gareth?”

  He could hear again. People nearby were staring at him, Desmond and Margery with concern, Townsend with triumph.

  He gave them all a strained smile. “Forgive me, Mistress Margery. I am not feeling well. I must have eaten something that did not agree with me.”

  She studied him. “Are you sure I do not need to send for the physician?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Perhaps you should retire for the evening.”

  And let a hall full of servants and guests and strangers have easy access to Margery? “I shall sit until I feel better. Go enjoy yourself, mistress.”

  She was finally persuaded to continue dancing, but the last glance she gave him was more puzzled than worried. One more public display of his visions, and she would demand answers he couldn’t give.

  Never had Gareth felt more helpless and weak. His vision had hit him so strongly, he’d been unable to see or hear.

  What if the streng
th and increasing frequency of the visions was a warning? Perhaps whatever danger Margery faced was approaching. She would be safer married to him, when she would be at his side, night and day.

  Their shared kiss burned in his mind—and other parts of his body. Wiping his perspiring forehead, he kept his gaze locked on Margery, who whirled about the room with one man after another. Her green skirts swayed, revealing her ankles and feet. Men touched her slim waist or her hand.

  It should be him.

  Maybe it was time to step up his plans for seduction. She was certainly receptive, and there couldn’t be many more days before her brothers arrived.

  The celebration went on well into the early morning. Gareth made sure Margery saw him drinking often, so he could blame the ale for making him stumble into her bed.

  After everyone had gone to sleep, he waited a long, frustrating hour. His mind was haunted by memories of her breathless moans, of the way her body had shuddered against his. Finally he sneaked into her bedchamber.

  A low fire in the hearth lit the room with a soft, shadowy light. Margery lay in bed asleep, and didn’t stir as he approached. Her dark lashes rested on her cheeks, her full lips slightly parted with her breathing. Her curls spread out in a sensual disarray across her pillow.

  Desire thundered through his body, almost overpowering him, but he refused to bed her as if he were an overly eager boy. He unlaced his doublet, pulled it over his head, and threw it across a small table. As he hurriedly loosened his shirt, her neat handwriting on parchment caught his attention.

  It was an unfinished letter to her brothers, James and Reynold. Seeing their names was like immersing himself in a winter river.

  He stumbled back. He’d lost sight of his revenge, caring more for getting between Margery’s thighs than for what this family owed him. He could not allow his nearness to his goal to make him forget so many years of pain.

  He was letting the visions affect his life too much. Margery was in no immediate danger, as long as she obeyed him.

  He began to wonder if the vision had a different meaning. Perhaps it was not a warning, but a prediction of a good future.

  Could the man on the horse be—himself?

  He walked back to her bed and stood over her as he donned his doublet. Though she was covered to her waist by a thin blanket, her white nightclothes fell in shadowy folds across her breasts. With a little sigh, she turned her head away from him.

  Gareth smoothed his fingers through her curls. He had forgotten that the visions didn’t always foretell doom. Sometimes they told him useless information, like where his mother’s knitting needles had gone. Maybe this time his knowledge could be helpful. Perhaps he had let his natural suspicion cloud his judgment where the visions were concerned.

  For a moment, he felt an unfamiliar twinge of conscience, which he was determined to ignore. He might be using Margery for revenge, but the rewards to her would be sufficient. She would have his protection and his loyalty, which was more than she had ever given him.

  Silently, Gareth returned to his own chamber.

  By midday, the noblemen were on their way to London, followed by their baggage carts, their servants, and their squires. Margery returned to an almost empty great hall, and the relief of solitude was nearly overwhelming.

  Not that she was really alone. She smiled at the servants dismantling the trestle tables from the last meal. A maidservant hummed as she swept out the old rushes.

  For just a moment, Margery pretended that the last few months had not happened, that she was a carefree girl with the promise of the rest of her life to look forward to.

  Then she saw Gareth sitting in a chair before the fire, legs spread, a tankard of ale in his fist resting on one knee.

  In her mind, she saw again his pale face when he’d taken ill, the way his eyes had glazed over, frightening her. She didn’t believe a simple illness was the cause, especially not when he looked so…healthy.

  She should not meet his gaze, but she found herself caught in his penetrating stare, embarrassed, yet aware of the secret things they had done to each other. He made her feel self-conscious and sensual and endangered all at the same time. She walked toward him slowly.

  He looked up into her face. “So, the London suitors are gone.”

  “Yes. Your duties should prove lighter.”

  “I think not,” he said with a shake of his head. “Unless you are locked in a room alone with me, there is always a danger.”

  And there wasn’t danger when she was alone with him? ’Tis what attracted them to each other, she was certain. She must be blushing furiously.

  Gareth smiled, which only added to her discomfort. Did he know everything she was thinking? Did he know that even now she couldn’t forget the way his body had rubbed against hers, the wild thrill she’d felt with his tongue in her mouth? She wanted to experience it all again, for a secret memory to cherish long after he was gone and she was married.

  But there was still so much to do, to restock and resettle the household now that their guests had departed. Within the week her brothers would be arriving. Her brief respite from entertaining would be spent supervising the cleaning.

  Suddenly, it was all too much. Margery had been trapped in this castle for weeks now, and she needed to get away.

  But not alone.

  She looked down at Gareth, who sipped his ale and waited patiently for her to speak. She gave him a slow smile, and he raised one eyebrow.

  “Wait here,” she said, then walked quickly back toward the kitchens. Soon she returned, carrying a basket brimming with food. “Follow me.”

  She headed toward the double doors leading to the inner ward, and he caught up with her as they crossed the packed earth courtyard.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “The stables. Do you think you can fit all this food in a saddle pack?” She swung the basket toward him and he caught it against his chest.

  “Of course, but—”

  “Do not ask questions. I don’t know where we’re headed or what we’re going to do, but I have to get away from here.”

  Chapter 17

  Gareth rode beside Margery beneath the gatehouse, but the moment her horse left the tunnel, she kicked into a gallop and raced away, laughing. He should be annoyed, but he understood her need for freedom after a week of pretenses.

  He rode hard until he nearly caught up with her, then decided he preferred the view better from behind. Her blue skirts flared off the horse’s back like a cape. He could see her dark hair streaming in the wind, the ruffle of her white smock, her stockinged legs. She looked over her shoulder at him, then laughed with a carefreeness he had never seen in her.

  How did she put aside her problems and enjoy a simple ride in the countryside? Nothing was solved by running away, yet she seemed to exist only in the moment. This was a fantasy, but he suddenly wanted to join her in it, to pretend that there was no past or present, no secrets. Just the two of them.

  But that was foolishness. She was giving him the perfect opportunity to further his revenge. He had her alone for as long as he liked. If only it would rain, trapping them in an abandoned shelter, the two of them alone in the dripping darkness…

  “Gareth!”

  He realized she was outdistancing him as he daydreamed. She saluted him as her horse entered the dappled greenery of the glen where they’d first seen each other. He leaned over the horse’s neck and galloped harder, the wind ruffling his clothes and hair.

  He caught up to her just past the last trees, then surged ahead down the slowly winding hillside roads of the Cotswolds. The Severn Valley spread out before them, with the river sparkling in the sunlight as it twisted and turned upon itself. Sheep by the thousands grazed the green pastures, separated by low stone fences and the occasional cluster of trees.

  “Gareth!”

  He turned his head and saw that Margery had veered off the road, and was now following a narrow line of trees and piles of stones. With a pull on th
e reins, he brought his stallion up on its hind legs. He turned and headed back up the hillside.

  The path disappeared over the crest of a hill. When Gareth reached the top, he looked down into a small wooded valley with a stream running down to join the Severn. Margery was just entering a copse of trees.

  He followed and trotted up next to her on the bank of the stream, then slid to the ground. He reached up to help her dismount, but she fell in a breathless heap into his arms. It was as if she trusted him, and he felt stunned, even humbled, in a strange way.

  “I won!” she cried, throwing her arms wide and dropping her head back.

  He gripped her waist before she fell. “Only because you changed the rules.”

  Her head came up and she gave him a saucy smile. “They were my rules to change.” She lingered a moment, one hand resting on his chest. Though he didn’t quite understand it, this reckless, amusing side of Margery appealed to him. Anything she did appealed to him.

  He covered her hand with his and grinned at her. Somehow over the last few days, his smiles had become less forced. He could feel the beating of his own heart and thought it was pumping a bit too fast. It must be the exertion of their horse race.

  Her eyes narrowed with amusement. “You have changed since you arrived just over a sennight ago.”

  To distract her, he slid his fingers beneath a wayward curl on her forehead, and followed it with the tip of his finger down her cheek. He tucked it safely behind her ear. He studied her reaction: the soft parting of her lips, the lowering of her eyelids.

  “We spent a few days learning to know each other again,” he murmured, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her cheek.

  Margery broke from his embrace, not meeting his eyes. “Gareth, I’m hungry.”

  “You brought enough food for both the horses and us,” he said, but inside he wondered if this was another ploy, leading him on, then pulling back.