My Lady's Guardian (25 page)

He searched her face with a seriousness that began to worry her. "Margeiy, will you tell me more about Fitzwilliam?"

That name shattered their intimacy. She tried to sit up, but he held her down. She spent a long moment searching his face, feeling tense and miserable. How could Gareth spoil everything like this? Why—

And then it came to her. Feeling nauseous, she whispered, "How did you know?"

"I felt no maidenhead," he answered. He didn't look angry or disgusted, just concerned.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to cry. No man would cry over a foolish mistake. She remembered the pain of her first encounter with Peter; there had been none of that this time. With her wedding night, she would have to pretend. "Say your piece and be done with it," she said angrily.

"My piece?" He reached up to caress her cheek, but she stopped him. "Margery, what did he do to you?"

"He did not rape me, if that is what you're thinking."

"I am glad to hear it." She tensed as he kissed her between her breasts, then lay his head there, still looking into her face. "Do you want to tell me?"

"Do I have to?" She felt ridiculous, defensive, while he looked at her so calmly.

"No. But you might feel better."

She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. Gareth knew at least part of her secret, and he didn't seem to hate her.

But saints above, to relive such a terrible time in her life—she didn't know if she could. She opened her eyes and a foolish tear escaped.

"Margery." His whisper was almost a groan. He moved up, still lying against her, and kissed her cheek. "Tell me."

She couldn't look at him, so she rolled away. But he pressed up against her back, tucking his legs behind hers, hugging her waist with a strong arm. He had always made her feel safe in his embrace.

"Peter told me we would be married," she said softly. "I loved him, and I thought he loved me. So I let him...I let him..."

" 'Tis all right." He kissed her neck.

But it wasn't. She just couldn't bring herself to tell him the humiliation of Peter's rejection merely because she didn't conceive. "A few weeks later, he said he wouldn't marry me."

"That is all? He did not give you a reason?"

"It concerned his family." That wasn't a lie.

"All you had to do was tell your brothers. Fitzwilliam would have had no choice."

"Do you think I want a forced marriage, with no trust, no respect? That would hurt too much."

He was quiet for a moment, his breath soft across her hair. "Margery, now I've hurt you, too."

"No, you haven't!" she insisted, rolling on her back to look up at him. "This was my choice. I wanted this pleasure, just as you did. I don't want marriage from you, just a wonderful memory." At least she thought she did. She was confused and lonely and hurting, but Gareth made all of it go away.

She pulled his head down and kissed him, gently at first, then with increasing ardor. They were both breathing heavily when he lifted his head.

"I'm not sure this is the right thing to do," he said, but his gaze was on her mouth, then her breasts.

"I'm sure." She rolled until he was on his back, then rose above him. Up on her knees, she considered his long body. "Can I..." Her words trailed off, and she felt herself blush.

He gave her that devilish smile that melted her. "Can you what?"

"Can I touch you however I'd like?"

She literally saw the shudder move through his body. "I am yours, my lady."

She laughed. "I am no one's lady."

He caressed her knee as his smile faded and his gaze grew serious. "You are my lady."

"For tonight," she whispered, letting her hand rest on his hip.

He didn't answer, just watched her.

Margery stared at his wondrous body, at the many differences between them. Then she started to touch the sloping muscles of his stomach, his nipples, so much smaller than hers, the soft skin of his elbow, the hair leading down from his chest. It was empowering to know that she could make him tremble, that he trusted her enough to lie vulnerable to her. There was a strange, gratifying tenderness in the pit of her stomach when she looked on him.

But then it changed into something more demanding, more primitive. She straddled his hips, and heard his strangled groan as she settled herself against his penis.

"Does this hurt?" she asked.

"No; God no," he half-gasped.

Feeling wicked, she rubbed against him, and felt him grow even larger. She had never thought nudity could be so enjoyable. She kissed his chest, his stomach, his mouth, never letting him penetrate her body.

Knowing he couldn't take much more of her sensual exploration, Gareth grabbed her arms. "Come here."

"But I'm already—"

"No, up here." He raised himself up, and took her breast into his mouth. As she stiffened and moaned,

she brought his erection even closer to the depths of her body. She was hot and wet, as if she was made to be this way only for him. Never had he known such incredible, deeply felt pleasure as having Margery writhe in his arms.

He rolled on top of her, hushing her disappointed cry with his lips. He kissed his way down her body, nibbling between her breasts, trailing his tongue in a long line down her stomach. He spread her trembling thighs and felt her stiffen.

"Gareth—"

"Shh."

He kissed the most intimate part of her. She gave a hoarse cry, then shuddered in his arms. When his own body ached beyond all his restraint, he buried himself inside her, pillowed his chest against hers, and cupped her face in his hands. He looked into her eyes as he moved ever deeper. Memorizing the passion on her face, he closed his eyes and tumbled with her into the brilliant abyss they'd made together.

Margery remained awake as Gareth slept beside her. She nestled in the crook of his arm, her hand caressing his chest, her gaze lingering on his face.

His beauty made her ache inside, but she could not let that sway her.

She had succeeded in this one quest. She had incredible memories of Gareth—and they would have to last her forever. She thought again of the list of husbands she was composing, but couldn't imagine lying beneath even one of them.

That didn't matter, though, she told herself. What mattered was living her life the way she wanted, and never, ever being hurt again.

She rose up on her elbow to caress Gareth's cheek. He slept on, undisturbed. Even with all her careful plans, the sorrow of leaving him would be hard to escape.

An hour before dawn Gareth was wide awake, with Margery sleeping against his side. He tried to tell himself that everything had gone according to plan, yet he still felt sick inside.

What had he done? He'd used her to assuage a life's worth of loneliness, just as he'd meant to use her against her brothers. He'd been manipulating her as her brothers had done to both of them.

He was no better than Peter Fitzwilliam.

She'd been so hurt. Gareth kissed the top of her head, caressed her bare shoulder. He would have

cruelly married her regardless of her feelings, regardless of the fact that he hadn't loved her.

When he looked on her wondrous, innocent face, he ached for what she'd suffered, for what he'd done to her. He'd seduced her for his own purposes, for money and revenge.

He couldn't hurt her anymore. She deserved a world of happiness, and that meant a good, honest husband. That would never be he.

A sudden sharp stab of pain in his skull made him shudder. Margery stirred, and he was able to slide his arm out from beneath her before another pain overtook him. He stood up, and the room whirled as the colors of a vision formed in his mind.

This time Margery appeared, looking happy and in love. She wound her arms around a man and kissed him.

But it wasn't Gareth. It was a stranger, someone who would make her happier than Gareth ever could. The vision faded, leaving him with a pounding head and battered spirits. Even God knew that he didn't deserve her. He dressed quickly, and allowed himself only one last look at her face, then left her chamber before the castle awoke.

When Margery opened her eyes, the pale light of dawn flooded her room. Gareth was gone. She hadn't expected anything else; he was always gone by morning to protect her reputation.

She dropped her head back on the pillow. She was tired of always being protected, like a fragile doll people set on a shelf and didn't play with. Last night she had determined her own destiny, and it felt.. .good.. .maybe.

Or did it only remind her of everything she'd never have?

As she dressed she told herself it would be easy to face her brothers; they never had to know that she had needs like any man.

Yet lying to them made her feel ill, even though they'd lied to her for years. Gareth had suffered because of them, so why should she feel guilty over her secrets?

At Mass, James and Reynold sat with Margery, and she noticed Gareth far back in the chapel. They all went into the great hall to break their fast, and again, her brothers were near her, and Gareth far away. She didn't know what to say to any of them. Her brothers seemed soft-spoken, abashed at their mistakes. And they had apologized. When she finally gave them a strained smile, they looked relieved.

Margery tried to meet Gareth's eyes, but he never lifted his head. What was he thinking? Surely he didn't regret their night together. Or was he worried that he'd reveal too much by simply gazing at her?

She felt uneasy sitting apart from him. She enjoyed his wit, the way she'd finally gotten him to laugh, how safe she felt near him.

She enjoyed him too much. Maybe it was better if they remained apart for a while.

An hour later, her guests and household met in the inner ward for the coming hunt. The houndsmen restrained the greyhounds, who barked and strained at their leashes. People were armed with bows and swords. A crossbow hung on her own saddle, and a dagger rested in its sheath on her belt.

The servants departed the castle early: the grooms to drive the boar and deer toward the hunting party, and the kitchen servants to set up pavilions and food for the meal. Soon the hunting party set off on horseback for the journey to Margery's forested land—the same woods where Gareth had rescued her from Humphrey Townsend.

Reynold and James rode on either side of her, talking about their children, their wives, the army, anything they could think of. They still seemed uncertain of her and themselves, but she didn't have the dme to worry about their feelings. She had to

coordinate the hunt and all the men who ogled her and talked to her—and still try to keep Gareth in her sights.

But he eluded her. Why was she allowing herself to feel hurt? She had gone into their relationship knowing it would be brief and only physical. But suddenly she didn't know if she wanted to behave like a man, if that meant pretending their night together was meaningless.

Horns sounded for the start of the hunt. The dogs were finally unleashed, and with a riotous barking they dashed into the forest. The hunting party spread out and entered the line of trees.

Margery left her brothers behind, following the same path Gareth took. She heard the barking of the hounds before her, inhaled the cool earthy smells of the forest, and rode as if no root or tree could trip her horse.

The forest grew darker, quieter, and somehow it seemed ominous. She pulled her horse to a halt and listened. The hunting party must have veered farther west than she had.

And then she heard the squeal of a boar. Her horse shied and danced. Margery grabbed her crossbow, which was already cocked, and swiftly urged the horse forward. When she dodged a last stand of trees, she came out into a clearing and saw

the boar, dark and tusked and angry, about to charge toward her.

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.