“Where are we going?” he asked.
“The stables. Do you think you can fit all this food in a saddle pack?” She swung the basket towards him and he caught it against his chest.
“Of course, but?—”
“Do not ask questions. I don’t know where we’re headed or what we’re going to do, but I have to get away from here.”
17
Gareth rode beside Margery beneath the gatehouse, but the moment her horse left the tunnel, she kicked into a gallop and raced away, laughing. He understood her need for freedom after a week of pretenses.
He rode hard until he nearly caught up with her, then decided he preferred the view better from behind. Her blue skirts flared off the horse’s back like a cape. He could see her dark hair streaming in the wind, the ruffle of her white smock, her stockinged legs. She looked over her shoulder at him, then laughed with a carefreeness he had never seen in her.
How did she put aside her problems and enjoy a simple ride in the countryside? Nothing was solved by running away, yet she seemed to exist only in the moment. This was a fantasy, but he suddenly wanted to join her in it, to pretend that there was no past or present, no secrets. Just the two of them.
But that was foolishness. She was giving him the perfect opportunity to further his revenge. He had her alone for as long as he liked. If only it would rain, trapping them in an abandoned shelter, the two of them alone in the dripping darkness…
“Gareth!”
He realized she was outdistancing him as he daydreamed. She saluted him as her horse entered the dappled greenery of the glen where they’d first seen each other. He leaned over the horse’s neck and galloped harder, the wind ruffling his clothes and hair.
He caught up to her just past the last trees, then surged ahead down the slowly winding hillside roads of the Cotswolds. The Severn Valley spread out before them, with the river sparkling in the sunlight as it twisted and turned upon itself. Sheep by the thousands grazed the green pastures, separated by low stone fences and the occasional cluster of trees.
“Gareth!”
He turned his head and saw that Margery had veered off the road, and was now following a narrow line of trees and piles of stones. With a pull on the reins, he brought his stallion up on its hind legs. He turned and headed back up the hillside.
The path disappeared over the crest of a hill. When Gareth reached the top, he looked down into a small wooded valley with a stream running down to join the Severn. Margery was just entering a copse of trees.
He followed and trotted up next to her on the bank of the stream, then slid to the ground. He reached up to help her dismount, but she fell in a breathless heap into his arms. It was as if she trusted him, and he felt stunned, even humbled, in a strange way.
“I won!” she cried, throwing her arms wide and dropping her head back.
He gripped her waist before she fell. “Only because you changed the rules.”
Her head came up and she gave him a saucy smile. “They were my rules to change.” She lingered a moment, one hand resting on his chest. Though he didn’t quite understand it, this reckless, amusing side of Margery appealed to him. Anything she did appealed to him.
He covered her hand with his and grinned at her. Somehow over the last few days, his smiles had become less forced. He could feel the beating of his own heart and thought it was pumping a bit too fast. It must be the exertion of their horse race.
Her eyes narrowed with amusement. “You have changed since you arrived just over a sennight ago.”
To distract her, he slid his fingers beneath a wayward curl on her forehead, and followed it with the tip of his finger down her cheek. He tucked it safely behind her ear. He studied her reaction: the soft parting of her lips, the lowering of her eyelids.
“We spent a few days learning to know each other again,” he murmured, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her cheek.
Margery broke from his embrace, not meeting his eyes. “Gareth, I’m hungry.”
“You brought enough food for both the horses and us,” he said, but inside he wondered if this was another ploy, leading him on, then pulling back.
“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.
