A man knelt on the ground between them. He pushed himself to his feet and staggered. He turned toward her, and the sun suddenly shone across his blond hair.
It was Gareth—and he was injured.
Chapter 23
Margery didn’t think of the fright or the danger; she just did what her brothers had drilled into her from childhood. She stood up in the stirrups and rode toward the boar, lifting her crossbow to aim. She heard Gareth shout her name, but it was as if he were far away.
With a hoarse squeal, the boar charged toward her. At the last second, she veered to the side and released the crossbow’s trigger. The boar crashed to the ground, her bolt firmly in its chest. It twitched once, twice, then lay still.
Breathing rapidly, she slid off the horse’s back and raced for Gareth, who limped toward her, his face pale and angry. She saw no blood on his tunic, and relief brought tears to her eyes. She would have thrown herself against him, but he grabbed her arms and held her away.
“What were you thinking?” he demanded, giving her a shake. “You could have been killed!”
“It was charging you! I couldn’t let you die. Oh, Gareth!” She flung her arms around his neck. He staggered and went down on one knee.
Off balance, she dropped down beside him. “You are hurt!”
Blood dripped from a wound in his thigh, seeping through his hose.
“It barely touched me,” he said gruffly. “It startled my horse and I fell. As the boar charged, the horse fled, and left me with the consequences.”
“Be still.” She tore his ripped hose open, and saw that the blood had already slowed. “You are fortunate. You’ll live.”
“Are you happy about that?” he asked softly.
She unsheathed her dagger.
“I guess not.”
“Be quiet.” She cut strips of her linen smock into bandages, and began to wrap his leg. “Do you want to bleed to death?”
After she finished, Margery sat back on her heels to inspect her work. If the boar had gouged him any deeper, he could have lost his leg—or his life. She began to shake.
“Margery?”
She put up her hands. “I’m fine. But you were almost killed.”
They stared at each other, and suddenly there was more at stake than his wounded leg. She realized she would never have this connection to another man. With the husband she envisioned, she’d be safe, but never alive. She could make all the decisions, but none would be shared.
She had a sudden moment of clarity as she looked at Gareth. She thought of his strength, his kindness, his passion. A tentative, fragile thread of hope wound through her chest. Could he be the answer to all her problems—the husband she so desperately needed?
He didn’t care about her relationship with Peter; only that she’d been treated badly. He had no family to manipulate him; no one would use him to get to her money. Because of the Beaumont Curse, maybe he wouldn’t mind if she couldn’t bear him children.
Most importantly, he would not have to worry that she expected undying love from him. She refused to think about love, because it left her too vulnerable. She would think about trust and friendship, and helping each other in a time of need.
She told herself that she wasn’t being selfish. He could use her aid as much as she could use his. He would never know poverty again. Together, they could manage all her lands.
Oh, why hadn’t she thought of this before?
Gareth continued to watch her, his gaze wary. She wanted to spill out her proposal, to see his face alight with joy. But now was not the time. She needed to care for his wounds, and deal with her brothers.
She smiled and leaned to kiss him. “Let us rejoin the hunting party. You can ride with me.”
He didn’t return her kiss, and she attributed that to the strain of being wounded, and the nearness of her brothers. There could be no other reason, she told herself.
Gareth got to his feet without Margery’s help and mounted the horse behind her, trying to stay as far away as possible. Her fleeting, happy kiss haunted him, left a pain in his gut that wouldn’t go away. He wished she would hate him, and be ashamed of the sin they’d committed. It would make leaving her more bearable.
But she looked over her shoulder, giving him a sultry smile rife with sensual promise.
He had to see her married to someone else—quickly. He was too much the coward to tell her of his betrayal.
There wasn’t a cowardly bone in Margery’s body. He still felt the horror that had invaded his heart when she’d charged the boar alone, armed with only the lightest crossbow. She had been determined and skillful and brave, and his admiration only made him feel lower than any scoundrel. She had risked her life—for him.
They reached the clearing, with its bright pavilions and streamers and colorful blankets scattered with food. Margery sent a few grooms back for the boar, then tried to help Gareth dismount. He brushed her aside, but before everyone, she slid beneath his arm to help him walk. He couldn’t pull away without embarrassing her, so he used her capable shoulders for support just as he’d used her body for revenge.
He wished she would stop looking so concerned, so vulnerable. It would be apparent to everyone that they had been intimate.
And then she’d be stuck with him, when she could have had a good life with a man who deserved her.
Her brothers stared hard, their faces closed, emotionless. They had spent their whole lives concerned about their sister, trying to do what was best for her. At least they’d had a decent motivation for the mistakes they’d made.
Gareth had only selfishness and greed for his.
Margery knelt beside him while Anne and Cicely stood behind her looking concerned. As she checked the bleeding in his leg, her brothers sat down on either side of him, like armed guards.
“So what happened?” Bolton asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
Before he could answer, Margery said, “A boar attacked him.”
Welles peered at the wound. “’Tis not bad. Since you are here, I assume you killed it?” he asked Gareth.
“Your sister did.” He saw her blush. “She came riding into the clearing like an avenging angel.” For me, a man who doesn’t deserve her concern.
Bolton scowled. “I don’t think I appreciate your—”
Margery knocked her brother’s foot aside, and he closed his mouth.
During their dinner Margery did her best to ignore her worry for Gareth, and her excitement about asking him to marry her. The suitors who surrounded her blurred into faceless men whom she no longer had to consider. She had found her solution, and she still couldn’t believe her future showed promise!
She knew her brothers watched every move she made. Let them. They had no say in her decision; why should they care if she married a man who had nothing? She had more than enough wealth—she only needed to satisfy herself and the king.
They spent the rest of the day outdoors, eating and drinking, dancing and laughing, except for Gareth, whose wound seemed to be bothering him. She wanted to sit at his side, but that would only attract suspicion.
She joined in the frivolity, nervous with anticipation. The celebration continued when they returned to Hawksbury. In each dance, she was passed from man to man. She took extra time with her brothers, knowing that they would be leaving in the morning.
Gareth sat with his leg up, his face unreadable. She didn’t know what he was thinking; she only knew that she would make him happy. They would solve each other’s problems.
That night Margery tried to stay awake until Gareth arrived, though she had barely slept the night before. When she heard the latch raise, she opened her eyes to smile sleepily at him as he came through the door. He didn’t meet her gaze.
“Gareth?” She sat up and patted the bed beside her. “Come sit with me. I need to talk with you.”
He hesitated. “My leg has grown stiff this day. I’d rather stand.”
She felt an inkling of worry, but dismissed it. She rose to he
r feet and watched his gaze drop down to the sheer nightdress she wore. When he looked away, expressionless, she almost faltered. What was wrong?
“Gareth, you know I’ve been searching for a husband.” She walked slowly toward him, then stopped and rested her palms against his chest. He was warm, solid, capable. She wanted to lean against him, to absorb his strength.
He didn’t embrace her, and the room suddenly seemed too hot. Something was dreadfully wrong. She talked faster and faster, like a fool, as if by sheer volume of words she could make everything work out.
“I have more than enough wealth,” she said, “so I do not need to choose for that reason. I was looking for a man whom I could get along with, whom I enjoyed. I thought of—you. Would you marry me?”
His face remained blank, like a stranger’s—like he’d been when he first arrived at Hawksbury Castle. Margery’s hands started to tremble. She wanted to clutch his doublet and shake him, demanding that he act like her Gareth. Why didn’t he speak?
He finally sighed and closed his eyes for a brief moment. His voice sounded strained. “Margery, you knew I could not stay here. I must return to France. I’ve never wanted the responsibilities of a wife. I am sorry if you thought otherwise.”
Margery’s throat seemed to close up, and no other words would escape. He didn’t want a wife; he didn’t want her. She had never expected rejection—not after the intimate things they’d shared in her bed, not after the easy way they’d had with each other.
What had she expected? She had pursued him, not asking for promises or love. She had wanted one last reckless, passionate evening to remember forever.
And that was all she got.
Her last chance at a decent marriage withered and died, taking with it the scattered remnants of her girlhood dreams.
Though the strain almost broke her, she smiled. “I understand.”
Frowning, he reached a hand to her, then stopped. “Margery—”
“No, ’tis all right. I knew we didn’t love each other. I knew you were not a man to marry.” She backed away, wearing her ridiculous grimace of a smile. “There are still plenty of men to choose from. I’ve even begun a list, you know.” She suddenly could take no more, and turned back toward her lonely bed. “Good night, Gareth.”
She would have sobbed if he attempted to touch her. He didn’t, and that was worse. He simply made a pallet of blankets before the hearth and turned his back on her.
Margery lay down in bed, fighting tears, then fighting to keep them silent. What was wrong with her, that every man she thought she loved, rejected her?
Gareth could hear her crying. The sound was like broken glass being raked through his heart.
He told himself it was better this way. She wouldn’t know how he’d used her for revenge, for his own gain.
Even forgetting all his sins, how could he make her the wife of Warfield’s Wizard, a man scorned for visions he couldn’t control? Sooner or later she would know he wasn’t like everyone else, and she’d hate and fear him.
At least she’d already begun to hate him. Maybe that would help her in the end. He closed his eyes and tried not to hear the pain he’d caused.
Before Mass the next morning, Margery stood in the inner ward with James and Reynold, who were mounted and ready to leave with their company of men. She understood their urgency. They had wives and children they hadn’t seen in months; they had people who loved them.
She felt so alone, drained of the emotions she’d cried her way through. For her husband, she would have to choose a man she’d barely known, and share the intimacies of marriage. Her chance at the happiness her brothers had was gone.
She heard a sudden clash of steel coming from the tiltyard. Through the mist of an early fog, she saw Gareth and Sir Wallace practicing. She steeled herself against the ache of pain, but it came anyway. Gareth worked his partner hard, driving him back slowly and steadily. His limp from the boar’s wound was barely noticeable. Even when Sir Wallace stumbled, Gareth didn’t let up.
“What a fine display,” James said dryly.
Margery glanced up at him. He leaned on the pommel of his saddle and watched the battle with narrowed blue eyes.
“Only by practicing does one get better,” Reynold offered, but James paid him no heed.
“Are you watching him, Margery?” James asked softly.
She bit her lip, but turned toward the combatants. She heard the grunts of labor as Gareth sliced and thrust until he drove Sir Wallace against the wall.
“Look how Beaumont treats a training partner.”
She had seen Gareth practice with Sir Wallace many a time. He had always been fair and honorable; today he looked like a man possessed. Was he angry that she had turned their affaire into something more serious? Was he even now desperate to get away, but unable to, out of a sense of honor to his oath?
“James,” Reynold scolded softly. “You know nothing of the man’s mood.”
She turned her back on the tiltyard and smiled resolutely up at her brothers. She didn’t want to discuss Gareth again. They each leaned down to give her a kiss.
“Say hello to Katherine and Isabel for me,” she said. “You will both come to Greenwich to hear my decision, won’t you?”
“Of course.” James’s gaze lifted to the tiltyard again and he frowned. “But as for husbands—”
“Godspeed, James,” Margery interrupted.
He gave her a reluctant grin. “Very well. Make a good choice.”
They lifted their hands in farewell, then guided their horses toward the gatehouse.
As they rode slowly away, she heard James say, “That man Beaumont was training with—did he look familiar to you?”
Reynold shrugged. If he spoke, Margery heard none of it. She watched her brothers until they entered the gatehouse, then she looked blankly at the ground and hugged her cloak tighter against the chill.
She went to the chapel for Mass, and prayed to God for help. But with all the sins she’d committed, she didn’t believe she deserved any.
During the fortnight until the Cabots’ tournament, Margery barely spoke to Gareth. But she felt his presence in everything she did, watching over her, protecting her. She was miserable.
Every night she pretended to be asleep when he entered her room. She heard each movement as he made his pallet and lay down, as far away from her as he could get. Every night she wondered if he’d come to her bed, and if he did, what she would do.
She could never again welcome him for mere pleasure’s sake. The recklessness that had invaded her soul had burned to ashes. No longer was she shaking her fist at the heavens, determined to behave like a man. She was only a tired, lonely woman, with a decision to make that seemed to have no more consequence for her.
What did her choice matter, if it couldn’t be Gareth?
She even wrote that list of all the men she had to consider, and tried to find the one with the most promising traits. But they each had some flaw, and soon all their faces blurred together.
She found herself writing Gareth’s name, over and over. When she realized what she’d done, she scratched it out so hard she put a hole in the paper. Then she buried her face in her hands and wept.
Five days later, they traveled in a small caravan for two rainy days to reach the Cabots’ tournament. The Cabots’ home was more a sprawling, welcoming manor house than a fortress, and Margery usually felt at peace there. But now she kissed Sarah’s delicate cheek, and congratulated her on her coming child, all the while feeling so remote and distant it was as if she watched another person acting as her.
Across rolling meadows, as far as the eye could see, tents and pavilions flew the pennants of their owners, and grassy stretches of fields had been roped off for various competitions. Peddlers and villagers sold their wares from booths. Ladies and their servants cheered as their men trained for the tournament.
By twos and threes, men started to surround Margery before she’d even had a chance to escape inside. There
were men she knew, men on her list, men she’d never even met. They enclosed her, suffocated her, and she wondered frantically where Gareth was. Would even Sir Humphrey be in attendance, ready to kidnap her again?
Then the noise of the crowd hushed to a murmur, and as they parted, she could see the manor house. King Henry descended the stairs, resplendent in his royal blue silks, his long, pale face slightly smiling. While all her suitors bowed, Margery sank into a deep curtsy.
She had not known the king was coming. Her stomach roiled at the thought of his questions.
She lifted her head, and then felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. For standing at the king’s side was Peter Fitzwilliam.
Chapter 24
Gareth dismounted and watched Margery become swallowed up in a sea of eager men. He flung his cloak back and kept his hand on his sword hilt, almost wishing one of them would try to take her away.
Yet he could not be so spiteful. He wanted her happiness above all else, and if one of these men could bring the sparkle back to her eyes, so much the better.
When the king stepped out into the sunshine, Gareth bowed like everyone else, but he couldn’t keep his head down for long. He had seen the man at the king’s side before. He was of middling height, obviously appealing enough to women, with curling brown hair that shined as if he took extra care with it. The vanity of noblemen never ceased to amaze Gareth.
It took Gareth a moment to remember why the man was familiar. He was overcome by a vague feeling of sickness, and he realized it was the memory of his most recent vision. This was the man he had seen kissing Margery. Through the mists of Gareth’s mind, they had looked into each other’s eyes, destined for a lifetime of happiness.
Gayle Callen Page 21