He turned to Wallace.
“I’ve called your name three times. No matter what she is doing, you cannot keep your gaze off Mistress Margery.”
“My duty is to protect her,” he said stiffly.
Wallace groaned. “Saints above, save me from foolish men. I think you feel something for her.”
“In case you forgot, I’m also supposed to be her suitor,” Gareth said with a scowl. “A suitor would stare.”
“A suitor would also give her flowers.”
“What?” he asked defensively.
“A suitor would give her flowers, unless he had more money than he knew what to do with. Then he’d buy her jewelry.” Wallace wiggled his eyebrows. “Women like jewelry—and flowers.”
Gareth opened his mouth to tell him what he thought of his unwanted advice, but…it was a good suggestion. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He lifted his sword and resumed the attack.
Though her back was turned, Margery felt the clash of their weapons reverberate through her spine. She scattered more grain and told herself to ignore the masculine contest being waged behind her. Women usually never felt a need to discover who was strongest, who was quickest.
But men were different.
She peeked over her shoulder and saw Gareth and Sir Wallace straining against each other, their swords meeting above their heads. Sir Wallace finally stumbled backward, laughing at his own failure.
Gareth didn’t laugh, but raised his sword for more. Any other man she knew would have been happy for the victory, would have waited for his opponent to recover.
But in Gareth, she sensed an elemental need to win, to prove something. He was the focus of all eyes, as in command of the tiltyard as if he were the captain of the guard, not Sir Wallace.
She forgot her chores, forgot that her people were watching her, and simply stood holding an apron full of grain and staring at Gareth Beaumont.
6
That afternoon, Margery received a missive announcing the arrival the next morning of her London suitors. A dark cloud enveloped her as she supervised the household preparations for her guests. She felt as if she was still a little girl, alone and defenseless because her brothers had to foster elsewhere. Then, as well as now, she was well guarded, but that did not stop her from feeling vulnerable.
During the evening meal, she surrounded herself with her ladies and seated Gareth as far from herself as she could. She talked incessantly to the twins, but whenever there was a lull in the conversation, her mind returned to the scene in the dark corridor that morning. She relived that moment when they hadn’t spoken, when their breath had mingled, when she’d touched him. Had she imagined the look in his eyes, the shared awareness of each other?
She felt a shiver of astonishment move through her, and knew she was being ridiculous. He had pushed her away, and rightly so. She was a woman no man would ever want, let alone marry.
Shame crept up on her unannounced. Was she such a wanton that she imagined feelings for a man who openly despised her family?
Though she shouldn’t, she looked down the table at Gareth, and found him watching her. His eyes glittered above his serious mouth. Then he slowly smiled, and it was amused and devilish. Her whole body heated with a furious blush.
He was acting—oh, of course, he was acting. He was here only to complete a task, and be paid for it. She raised her chin, giving him a cool smile, then turned away as if his regard was worth nothing to her.
Instead of retreating to her solar after supper, Margery and the twins sat before the fire in the hall. She was enjoying the relative quiet of the household with only one guest—Gareth—in attendance. She kept Anne and Cicely on either side of her, and if they noticed her awkwardness, they did not mention it. One strummed a lute while the other sang in a soft, pretty voice.
Margery’s embroidery rested in her lap, untouched, as she drifted through memories of her brother James singing to her. She wanted to think about earlier times, when life had seemed so full of promise. But four years of her childhood involved Gareth, his reluctant friendship, his rescue of her.
This evening, she had thought she’d managed to keep him away by surrounding herself with her friends, but he was in her mind—unsettling her feelings, making her remember hoop games and archery and trying to make a serious boy smile.
Gareth pulled up a chair directly opposite her, startling her. With the twins, they were almost a cozy foursome. Every time she looked from one twin to the other, there he was in the center, watching her, his long legs stretched out, booted feet almost touching hers. His hose were threadbare, his plain blue tunic tattered at the hem. His white shirt had seen too many days. She had never in her life been wooed by such a man.
And she wasn’t now, she reminded herself. Gareth was a soldier she had hired, nothing more. She moved her feet away. He shifted his feet near again, like a childish game—or a suitor trying to get her attention.
She didn’t know why she was so tense; she knew his actions meant nothing. She should practice controlling her anger, for she knew tomorrow would begin a real courtship, when those wild young men came from London. Then she would be thankful for Gareth and his protection.
Cicely continued to strum the lute, but Anne stopped singing. She gave Margery a conspiratorial smile, then said, “Sir Gareth, have you come to Hawksbury Castle to better acquaint yourself with Mistress Margery?”
