My Lady's Guardian (27 page)

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.

As the man descended the stairs at the king's side, Gareth told himself it was for the best, even as the pain in his chest felt like it was constricting his breathing. Margery deserved a normal man, one who could move with her from court to country, at home anywhere. A man without visions or curses, a man who wouldn't use her for his own selfish purposes.

The nobleman approached Margery, and brought both her hands to his lips.

Did she already know him, or would this be the first meeting that swept her away with wonder and the beginnings of passion? Gareth found himself walking numbly forward, as if he had to see it all for himself. He deserved every last bit of torture.

Then he saw Margery's face. She had gone chalk white, her mouth sagging open.

He stepped closer, pushing aside squires and pages.

When the nobleman lifted his head to smile at her, bathed in the approving gaze of the king, Gareth saw her tremble.

"Who is that?" he asked one of Margery's knights.

"Viscount Fitzwilliam," the man answered, his dour face transformed with speculation. "Seems like his interest in our mistress has rekindled, eh?"

Margery's first lover—who had taken her virginity and cast her away without regard to her feelings.

Gareth shouldered aside anyone who stood between him and Margery. The anguish she so desperately tried to hide made him burn with a fury he had never felt before. He wanted to bury his sword in Fitzwilliam's body and watch his guts spill.

Instead Gareth took Margery's arm. She stared wide-eyed at Fitzwilliam as if Gareth wasn't there.

"Mistress Margery," Gareth said near her ear, "let me see you to your chamber."

She didn't react.

"I am sure you would like to settle in, perhaps rest before the evening's festivities."

Fitzwilliam gave them a jovial smile. "Margery, we haven't even had time to talk. Come sit by the hearth with me and tell me all you've been doing."

Gareth eyed him coldly. "It has been a strenuous trip. I will see her to her room."

Margery suddenly seemed to will herself into awareness. She lifted her chin, and some of her color returned. She gave Fitzwilliam a perfunctory smile, even as she grasped Gareth's arm with abnormal strength.

"Lord Fitzwilliam, it is good to see you again," she said coolly. "I look forward to speaking with you later this evening. Sir Gareth, how kind of you to escort me to my chamber."

But they could not pass the king without a bow and a curtsy. Gareth prayed that their sovereign did not ask his name, because he could very well be ordered from the tournament, leaving Margery defenseless. But King Henry's gaze remained speculatively on her.

"Mistress Margery." The king's voice was soft, as if he knew he had no need to raise it. "We have missed you at court."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," she said. "Is the queen with you?"

"Alas, she had to remain at Greenwich, but she has been anxious to hear of your decision. Have you

met the fine young man who is to be your husband?"

Gareth saw her blush. For someone who just a moment before seemed paralyzed with fright, she had recovered with amazing poise. "I am still considering, Your Majesty."

He laughed, but he was already looking beyond her to the noblemen who waited for his attention. "We shall talk, mistress. I have been spending much time with young Fitzwilliam. You could do worse than consider him."

"Yes, Your Majesty," she murmured as he and his entourage swept past.

Gareth watched her with concern, but she never looked at him, nor did she push his arm away. Together they entered the Cabots' home and were escorted to the chamber set aside for her. The maidservant left them alone in the corridor.

Margery released his arm. Her gaze never rose higher than his chin. "Thank you, Gareth. Have a good evening."

"Margery, if you need to talk—"

"Talk?" she repeated in a brittle voice. "I knew I would have to see Peter eventually, and now it has happened. What is there to talk about? After all, he is just another man I have given myself to."

She closed the door in his face, and Gareth stood frozen, anguished, his hand flat against the wood that separated them. Was the vision of Peter and Margery kissing meant to warn him of their past, or predict the future? He was sick of always feeling helpless—useless.

And who was he to judge Fitzwilliam, when he had used Margeiy just as poorly?

Margery stood at the window and stared blankly at the tournament pavilions below.

She had finally seen Peter, but the pain of caring for him had fled, leaving her only sad and bewildered.

Yet there was always the constant wony that he would tell someone of their secret indiscredon. She had to talk to him, find out what he wanted.

And find out why the king had recommended him as a husband.

During supper, Margeiy knew Gareth lingered near, watching over her. She had never doubted that he worried about her safety—after all, he said he'd sworn an oath to her father. Fine comfort that was.

Still, she'd made sure his bedchamber was near hers, for even now she did not want to be surprised by a greedy man.

Peter sought her out after the meal and drew her aside to a window seat, which overlooked the darkening sky and the multicolored patches of pavilions. She felt safe enough, with hundreds of people in the hall, and Gareth standing sentinel nearby.

She just wanted to have this conversation over with. The suspense had to be worse than knowing.

For a moment she stared into her lap, where Peter's hand held hers. She removed her fingers from his, then shivered when he let his hand rest on her knee for a moment too long.

Enough with cowardice, she told herself, and raised her gaze to his. She expected to feel the anguish of love lost. Instead she felt.. .tired.

His smile, once full of promise, was now only patronizing. "My dear girl, it is so good to see you."

She nodded once and said nothing.

"Did you receive my letter?"

"What do you want, Peter?"

"Want?" He lowered his voice, then looked about to see if anyone was near. "Margery, you already gave me everything I could want."

Her worst fears were about to become reality. He would tell everyone what she had done. She braced herself to feel terror and anxiety, but she could barely work up the strength to be nervous.

Gareth was watching them, his beautiful face inscrutable as he waved away one eager serving maid after another. He didn't want her himself, yet was he making sure no one else could have her?

She knew such thoughts were unfair. He was her personal guard, trying to see his task to completion. He had not asked her to throw herself at him. He had given her exactiy what she wanted.

It was not his fault that sexual indmacy was no longer enough for her.

"Margery!" Peter sounded annoyed. His brown eyes, which had once seemed so warm, now regarded her with calculating intent.

She gave him a weary smile. "Yes?"

"I have been thinking of our last parting."

She tensed, but refused to look away.

"Perhaps it was a bit.. .abrupt."

"What do you mean?"

"That I have changed my mind." He took her hand and this time squeezed enough so that she couldn't pull away. "Margery, I cannot imagine my life without you."

Once she had lived to hear those words from him. Now all she could think was—liar.

"Peter, do you need money?" she asked. "Does my enlarged dowry draw you more than before?"

His eyes glittered and his smile faded just a bit. "So we are being blunt, are we?"

"I prefer it that way."

He reached up and caressed her cheek. "Money does increase your desirability—and it makes up for your barrenness. Who knows, you might even yet have children. Or maybe I will give you children we can raise together."

Margery felt ill. It was as she suspected: he only told her she was barren to be rid of her. And like every other man, it seemed he would have his dalliances outside their marriage, and she would be the one to live with the results. She would have slapped him if he hadn't chosen their meeting place so well.

She said, "I no longer want to marry you."

He grinned. "We are already married before God. Should I tell your brothers that?"

She could stand up and walk away; she could argue—if only he didn't make sense.

She had no illusions that a marriage between Peter and her would ever be a love match. Maybe

he'd even spend most of his time in London, and leave her in peace.

Margery glanced at Gareth. He looked as fierce as his Viking ancestors, as if he had a personal stake in his duty as her guard.

But he didn't.

She glanced once more at Peter.

He was looking at Gareth speculatively. "And who is that, my dear?"

"Just another of my suitors," she answered with careful indifference.

"He seems.. .protective of you."

"'Jealous' would be a better word."

Peter glanced back at her, but before he could speak, she said, "I shall give your proposal consideration, Peter."

His smile brightened. "I can be patient."

"You will have to wait until I present my decision to the king."

He took her hand again and she allowed it, with a sad resignation that she knew would forever be part of her life.

As Gareth watched Margery and Fitzwilliam, he knew only too well that he had no right to feel angiy, frustrated, and worried. Whom she married was none of his concern.

Yet it hurt to think she might go back to a man who had used her so cruelly. Could Fitzwilliam have changed? Not much, by her sad expression.

She rose and left Fitzwilliam, and Gareth fell into place beside her. He wanted her to confide in him, to trust him with her secrets, to seek his advice as she had once done. He so badly wanted her happiness. But she said nothing, and he no longer had the right to ask.

For the rest of the week, Gareth watched Margeiy from afar. She kept to her large circle of friends wherever she went, but her face looked strained as one man after another took turns approaching her.

She was remote and polite to Gareth. The sparkle of laughter that used to linger in her eyes when they were together had gone out.

In a lifetime of disappointments, never had he felt this lost, this discouraged. For Margery, he had destroyed all the walls he'd used to keep people away. Now his heart felt battered, unprotected—and it was his own fault. He tried to remember what it was like to despise her and her family, but all he felt was a profound loneliness. He didn't understand his own confusion. He ached as if everything worth living for had gone when he'd lost Margery.

Fitzwilliam never strayed far from her side, and after a few days, she ceased to look miserable. She

was not happy either, but Gareth hoped that would come with time. His vision had shown him that Margery and Fitzwilliam would be together.

What made it worse was that she continued to look out for Gareth. When he entered the tournament there were grumbles of anger from his opponents, but she smoothed things over with King Henry.

She had been proclaimed the tournament's captive princess, and the final champion would win her release and perhaps her favor. King Henry made great sport of this playacting. Margeiy went along with the game amiably, but Gareth knew she only concealed her suffering.

Soon he was competing in archery, horse racing, and especially the joust. He won good sums of money at everything he did, but there was no satisfaction or joy in victory. It was only money to survive on after he'd left Margeiy. He couldn't imagine that day. It was as if his true life had begun with her, and when he left, it would all be over.

The final joust for Margery's favor was between Gareth and Fitzwilliam. Gareth had continued to play the suitor, and he knew Fitzwilliam considered him his main rival.

At his end of the lists, Gareth sat on his stallion, fully armored and carrying his lance, waiting as

Fitzwilliam rode past the crowd for their adulation. The king had seated Margery beside him, and then obviously urged her to tie her scarf to Fitzwilliam's lance.

It should have been a terrible moment for Gareth. But as he looked across the tournament field, past the crowds cheering for Fitzwilliam and booing him, an incredible calm descended over him.

He loved Margery.

She made the best of every situation with a courage he could never begin to imitate. She had intelligence, and a gift for enjoying life to its fullest. She cared for other people more than herself. And he finally understood and accepted that he would do anything for her happiness.

Fitzwilliam was obviously the king's favorite, and Margery would have a better life with a man such as he, of her own class. Gareth and his problems would only make her miserable.

The rest was easy. As his horse thundered down the lists, Gareth let Fitzwilliam's lance hit his shield. He let go of the reins and tumbled backward onto the ground. The impact stunned him for a moment; then he rolled over and sat up. He'd have new bruises, but nothing was broken. After removing his helmet, he got to his feet.