Gayle Callen

by My Lady’s Guardian

  “Not that kind of food—freshly caught food.” She backed away and he stepped nearer. “I haven’t fished in ages. Do you still carry string and hooks?”

  “Always.” He let her keep her distance for the moment.

  Soon they were seated side by side, their backs against two tree trunks, their bare legs dangling over the embankment into the cool, gurgling water below. They each held a stick with string attached. They fished in silence, Margery obviously intent and competitive, Gareth because he watched her, wondering at her motives for this private trip.

  Soon enough, he began to think of ways he could accidentally touch her. He was just about to rub his foot along her leg when she spoke.

  “Gareth, can I ask you something personal?” she said in a low voice.

  He tensed. “I don’t promise an answer.”

  “Understood.” She tugged on her string, then turned to look at him. “What is the real Beaumont Curse? How did your grandmothers die?”

  Gareth’s heart gave a painful squeeze. No one ever asked for something as simple as the truth; they either wanted to jeer at him or to fear him. But not Margery. She wanted an honest answer from a man who never told the truth about his past unless forced into it.

  If he told part of the curse, she might trust that he was telling the truth—but she might also run in fear for her life.

  “Many years ago,” he began, surprised that his voice sounded hoarse, as if this foolish history still affected him, “after victory in a wild, vicious battle, my grandfather’s father raped a young woman. The girl’s mother was a famous healer, and some even called her a witch. She cursed the Beaumont men to despair and savagery.”

  Margery gazed intently at him, a frown of concentration on her forehead. “Despair and savagery?” she repeated.

  “I give you her words. In his guilt, my great-grandfather believed her, and slowly went mad. He killed my great-grandmother. Their own child, my grandfather, caused the death of his wife in a fall down the stairs. Though people saw the accident and claimed he was innocent, he blamed himself until the grief made him lose his mind.”

  She touched his arm and whispered, “Oh, Gareth.”

  He shook off her hand. “I’m not through. You wanted to hear this.” He held back the words that pushed for release, about the strange visions that haunted the men in his family, driving them all insane. For a wild moment he wanted to confide everything in her, no matter what she’d done, no matter the lies she was telling.

  But Gareth was not one of his ancestors. He let no emotion control him; refused even to worry about what the visions meant for his future.

  “Tell me the rest,” she murmured. This time her hand rested on his thigh. “It sounds like you’ve never told anyone.”

  “You know the rest. My parents died in a fire.”

  “It must be difficult when people know your history,” she began softly. “Does everyone react like my suitors?”

  “Most, but it matters not.” The unfairness of his life lashed through him, and he wanted to hurt her like she’d hurt him. “Now it is my turn to ask a question. Who is Peter Fitzwilliam?”

  Margery felt dizzy, as if the world suddenly had dropped from beneath her feet. When she tried to move her hand from Gareth’s thigh, he caught it and held it tight. He looked so deeply into her eyes that she had to turn away.

  “Look at me,” he said, cupping her cheek and turning her head back. “Who is he? Why do you look like this, like someone died?”

  She gave a bitter laugh and pushed his hands away. “He’s not dead.”

  “But you wish he was.”

  “No, never,” she said too quickly.

  She fisted her hands. She could tell Gareth some of her story, but not all—she owed him no more than that. She just had to make him believe her.

  “Peter courted me, and told me he wanted to marry me.” She spoke through a tight, aching throat. “Then he changed his mind.”

  She blinked back tears and watched Gareth’s face. His eyes were narrowed as he studied her. He wasn’t a fool; he could probably tell she was holding back something.

  “You loved him,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

  She shrugged, then looked away as a tear slid down her cheek. “Yes,” she whispered. “Once. But not anymore.”

  “He sent you a missive.”

  She glanced at him quickly. “How did you know that?”

  “The day Fitzwilliam’s servant came, your suitors recognized the color of his livery.”

  “They were talking about me?” she demanded, feeling anger take away her pain.

  “Of course,” Gareth said. “You are the prize they all seek.”

  “Then you had heard something about Peter already,” she said warily.

  “Not much; only that he was once your suitor.” He reached up and rubbed the back of his hand against her wet cheek. “But I saw your face as you read the letter. I was concerned.”

  “Do not be. Peter was only sending greetings from my brothers, and mentioning that he might come with them when they visit.”

  His hand slid down to her neck, and he cupped it gently. “How do you feel about that?”

  Margery was very aware of their privacy, of his large hand rubbing her neck. The sunlight through the trees flickered light and dark across his face. “Let him come. He will see that my feelings for him are gone.”

  She came up on her knees, the fishing pole tumbling from her lap, water dripping from her legs. She didn’t want to talk about Peter anymore. She put her hands on Gareth’s face, and heard his quick intake of breath just before she gave him a swift kiss. “Your lips have haunted me,” she whispered.

  He caught her arms and pulled her across his lap, her head near his shoulder. Their open mouths came together with an urgency that consumed her, as his tongue explored her lips.

  “Sweet Margery,” he murmured, nuzzling her throat.

  She stroked her hands through his hair, silently urging him on, letting the wildness in her soul take flight. Nothing mattered when Gareth held her. Their past and their mistrust vanished with the need they shared.

  His hand slid up from her rib cage to cup her breast. She moaned against his mouth as he stroked her through her gown. She felt afire, restless, aching for more. He smelled wonderful, like the outdoors, not like a court dandy.

  He lifted his head and watched her face as he continued to caress her breasts. She gazed at him through half-closed eyes, waiting, wanting. He reached beneath her and loosened the laces at her back. When she made no protest, but sighed and arched her back, his hands stilled.

  “You would let me do this,” he began, his voice husky, “here, on your lands?”

  She pulled his head down and kissed him, sliding her tongue inside his mouth to taste him. He took her shoulders and held her away.

  “Is this about anger?” he asked seriously. “I know something about that: you’d do anything to forget. I understand, but don’t use me to forget.”

  Margery sat up in his lap. “Are you not using me? You don’t love me, I don’t love you. We’re two people doing what we have to do in life, and neither of us is happy about it. If I want to snatch a moment’s pleasure with you”—she ran her thumb gently over his lips—“what is to stop me?”

  Gareth searched her face, lingering on her mouth. She was willful and impulsive, still certain of her ability to do what she wanted. But she ignited a fierce excitement inside him that he’d never imagined. She came up on her knees and straddled his hips, kissing him hard. The way she rubbed against him, he could have easily taken her right now.

  He imagined the release of being inside her body…then decided against it. He was trying to woo her into marriage, not make her feel guilty over a quick toss in the grass. She was so angry at Fitzwilliam’s betrayal that she would do anything to forget—even bed a man she didn’t love.

  She loosened the laces of his shirt, spreading it wide and placing the palms of her hands on his chest. Gareth held his b
reath as she pressed a kiss against his hot skin. With a groan, he lifted her head and covered her mouth one last time with his, all the while remembering the look on her face as she’d told him about Fitzwilliam. She still wasn’t telling the entire truth.

  He held her shoulders to push her away. “We must stop.”

  She sat back on his thighs and stared at him angrily. “I do not understand you. I can feel that you want me.”

  She rubbed her hips against his and he groaned.

  “Margery,” he whispered, “sometimes I can think of nothing but wanting you. And then I remember the husband that you search for.”

  She stiffened.

  “I imagine he wouldn’t approve of this.”

  She scrambled off his lap and stared at him with fury darkening her blue eyes. “Why do you think I care? How can I respect a man who is only after my fortune?”

  Gareth sat up straighter. He told himself he felt no remorse for his own motivations where Margery was concerned.

  “Such is always the way among the nobility,” he said softly. “Did not you learn such lessons in your childhood? A woman of privilege is seldom given the freedom to marry at will, as you have.”

  “But a man of privilege—what am I saying? Any man has more freedom than a woman. I am doing nothing more than a man would. I have made no commitments to a husband, therefore I am not bound in any way.”

  He gathered up their fishing poles, removing the fishhooks and string. “You are bound to yourself, just as I am. And I know this isn’t what you truly want.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. He watched the anger die away until there was only vulnerability. She sighed and rose to her feet.

  “I won’t argue with you anymore, Gareth. You must be starving, and I did not catch you a meal.”

  He watched her spread a blanket on the ground, then cover it with meat pies and cheese and berries. She broke open a round loaf of bread, and he heard his stomach rumble.

  Margery glanced at him, but her smile was distracted. He was already regretting his words. At this very moment, he could have been inside her.

  But he had to think of his distant goals—not the immediate ones. His vision told him he would have Margery in time.

  In the middle of the night, Gareth woke out of a sound sleep and felt panicked. He sat up in bed, rubbing his face with both hands. Even his impending sword fight with Townsend had not made him feel like this. He was sweating, and his breathing felt labored, as the certainty of danger suddenly swept over him.

  Margery.

  He bounded out of bed and pulled on boots and his leather jerkin, grabbed his sword, and tore open the door. He ran down the corridor and opened Margery’s door.

  Her bedchamber was empty, her bed rumpled. On the edge of the sheets, he saw a spattering of blood.

  Chapter 18

  The shock that slammed through Gareth stole his breath. Someone had taken Margery. He was her personal guard, and he’d failed.

  And there was blood on the sheets.

  He could almost hear her father, Lord Welles, speak the words that had shaped the significant moments of Gareth’s life. You must protect her.

  What had he allowed to happen?

  He ran back to his room, pulled on more clothing and a plated brigandine, then strapped on his sword and a dagger. He ran down the corridor, from one circle of light to the next, then took the stairs two at a time.

  He already knew it was useless to search the castle. He had seen the truth in his visions, but he hadn’t believed, arrogant fool that he was. Margery would be on a man’s horse, heading down into the Severn Valley.

  Would they cross the Severn and head into Wales, or take ship in Gloucester?

  Outside, the night was moist with a misting rain that threatened fog. He didn’t bother trying the gatehouse first. He could not explain the reason that he needed the gates opened and the portcullis raised in the middle of the night—not without risking that the entire household would discover Margery’s abduction. Instead he quietly woke Desmond, who followed him down from the barracks and out into the ward, wearing only a long shirt.

  “I’m not even dressed, Gareth,” Desmond said with a grumble. “This had better be—”

  “Margery is missing,” Gareth said shortly as he entered the stables. “I need you to tell the gatehouse guards to let me out.”

  “Missing? Let me sound the alarm. We’ll muster—”

  “No!” He began to saddle his stallion. “What if her captor wishes to compromise and marry her? We can’t let them be found together. I will go alone.”

  “Alone? ’Tis a foolish plan.”

  “Perhaps, but I know which way they are going,” Gareth said, mounting his horse and trotting toward the gatehouse. “I can travel swiftly, and bring Margery back without anyone knowing.”

  Desmond ran alongside. “How do you know where they’re going?”

  “I just know.”

  At the gatehouse they found two soldiers unconscious, and the portcullis raised.

  “They’re alive,” Desmond said as he knelt beside them.

  “See to them, but don’t let them know what happened. Lie, if you must.” The horse was restless, and danced with Gareth’s tight hand on the reins. “But Wallace, keep watch on the battlements for my return. I’ll be back soon.”

  Desmond stood up as Gareth’s horse entered the tunnel of the gatehouse. He called, “But how can you—right, you just know.”

  Gareth rode out into the night. Soon he was damp to the skin, but the discomfort was only what he deserved. Somewhere, Margery was alone with a scoundrel. She must be frightened, maybe seriously wounded, but he had no way to know.

  He deliberately chose the road to Gloucester. A ship heading out to sea was the quickest way for a man and woman to escape. He prayed he’d made the right choice.

  He gave the animal its head, and tried to think of nothing beyond his mission. Yet his mind whirled with thoughts he couldn’t control.

  How could he have been so arrogant as to think the vision of Margery on a man’s horse was about him? He had paid more attention to seducing her than to keeping her safe.

  He concentrated hard, trying to force his mind to show him Margery—but all he got for his effort was a headache that pounded between his eyes so hard he had to squint. The Beaumont Curse had never been his to command, only to suffer through.

  An hour later, the road Gareth followed disappeared into a small forest where, beneath the trees, the darkness was almost complete. Owls hooted above him, and his horse slowed and became skittish. Not far away, he thought he heard a woman scream.

  Cold fury welled up inside him, at himself and this man who dared to take Margery for his own. He slid off the horse, tied him securely, then crept forward. The sound of a voice grew slowly louder.

  “Why did you make me do it?”

  It was Humphrey Townsend. Gareth had never suspected him capable of such desperation. Why hadn’t he killed Townsend when he had the chance?

  Gareth suddenly realized that Margery wasn’t answering. He held his breath, sweat making his clothes stick to his back.

  “I didn’t want to hit you,” Townsend continued, “but you must marry me.”

  “I will not,” Margery said coldly.

  Gareth lowered his head as relief eased through him. She sounded unharmed, thank God. He got down on his hands and knees and crept forward through the brush. The rain had turned the earth to mud, which oozed between his fingers and coated his skin.

  He peered through the undergrowth, wet ferns sticking to his face. He could see Margery, wearing just her nightclothes and dressing gown, sitting on a log before a small, sputtering fire. One soldier guarded her back.

  Townsend stood over her, then threw his hands up with impatience and stalked away. “I don’t really need your acceptance,” he said over his shoulder. “If we stay here long enough, you shall be forced to marry me.”

  “I’d rather live with the shame.” />
  Gareth grinned, enjoying the courage she displayed. He began to work his way around the edge of the clearing, until he was directly behind the soldier.

  “Your brothers won’t see it that way.” Townsend squatted down before her. “I’ll treat you well, I promise.”

  “Why do you need to force me into marriage?” Margery demanded. “Surely you earn enough to live decently. Any number of girls would—”

  “Any number of girls don’t have the dowry I need.”

  “Greedy, aren’t you?” she said with sarcasm.

  “No, I have sisters,” he said glumly. “Sisters with no dowries of their own.”

  Gareth gave a grim smile. He and Townsend were not so different; both of them wanted to marry Margery for their own reasons. But this was hardly an amusing situation, what with the blood on her sheets, and knowing Townsend had been cowardly enough to hit a woman.

  He waited until Townsend paced to the far side of the clearing. Then Gareth rose up and hit the soldier over the head, watching with satisfaction as he crumpled to the wet ground.

  Margery gasped and whirled around, certain that a boar was charging her from the depths of the forest. But Sir Humphrey’s henchman was unconscious, and Gareth stood there, muddy and wet and grinning at her. She would have thrown herself in his arms and sobbed her relief, but Sir Humphrey suddenly gave a yell and came running toward them.

  Gareth stepped in front of her, shielding her. He held his sword in one hand, a dagger in the other. Sir Humphrey skidded to a stop.

  “Beaumont,” the man said, trying unsuccessfully to cover his dismay.

  “Townsend,” Gareth answered. He threw down his weapons and rushed the other knight, who fell backward with Gareth atop him.

  As they rolled around in the mud, Margery stood up and peered side to side, trying to see Gareth. She winced at a particularly hard blow, then winced again as her bruised cheek began to ache. Soon Gareth was back on top, throwing punches into Sir Humphrey’s face and stomach.

  Margery began to feel sorry for her kidnapper when he covered his head with his arms. “Gareth!” she cried. “You can stop now!”