“Not much; only that he was once your suitor.” He reached up and rubbed the back of his hand against her wet cheek. “But I saw your face as you read the letter. I was concerned.”
“Do not be. Peter was only sending greetings from my brothers, and mentioning that he might come with them when they visit.”
His hand slid down to her neck, and he cupped it gently. “How do you feel about that?”
Margery was very aware of their privacy, of his large hand rubbing her neck. The sunlight through the trees flickered light and dark across his face. “Let him come. He will see that my feelings for him are gone.”
She came up on her knees, the fishing pole tumbling from her lap, water dripping from her legs. She didn’t want to talk about Peter anymore. She put her hands on Gareth’s face, and heard his quick intake of breath just before she gave him a swift kiss. “Your lips have haunted me,” she whispered.
He caught her arms and pulled her across his lap, her head near his shoulder. Their open mouths came together with an urgency that consumed her, as his tongue explored her lips.
“Sweet Margery,” he murmured, nuzzling her throat.
She stroked her hands through his hair, silently urging him on, letting the wildness in her soul take flight. Nothing mattered when Gareth held her. Their past and their mistrust vanished with the need they shared.
His hand slid up from her rib cage to cup her breast. She moaned against his mouth as he stroked her through her gown. She felt afire, restless, aching for more. He smelled wonderful, like the outdoors, not like a court dandy.
He lifted his head and watched her face as he continued to caress her breasts. She gazed at him through half-closed eyes, waiting, wanting. He reached beneath her and loosened the laces at her back. When she made no protest, but sighed and arched her back, his hands stilled.
“You would let me do this,” he began, his voice husky, “here, on your lands?”
She pulled his head down and kissed him, sliding her tongue inside his mouth to taste him. He took her shoulders and held her away.
“Is this about anger?” he asked seriously. “I know something about that: you’d do anything to forget. I understand, but don’t use me to forget.”
Margery sat up in his lap. “Are you not using me? You don’t love me, I don’t love you. We’re two people doing what we have to do in life, and neither of us is happy about it. If I want to snatch a moment’s pleasure with you”—she ran her thumb gently over his lips—“what is to stop me?”
Gareth searched her face, lingering on her mouth. She was willful and impulsive, still spoiled and certain of her ability to do what she wanted. But she ignited a fierce excitement inside him that he’d never imagined. She came up on her knees and straddled his hips, kissing him hard. The way she rubbed against him, he could have easily taken her right now.
He imagined the release of being inside her body…then decided against it. He was trying to woo her into marriage, not make her feel guilty over a quick toss in the grass. She was so angry at Fitzwilliam’s betrayal that she would do anything to forget—even bed a man she didn’t love.
She loosened the laces of his shirt, spreading it wide and placing the palms of her hands on his chest. Gareth held his breath as she pressed a kiss against his hot skin. With a groan, he lifted her head and covered her mouth one last time with his, all the while remembering the look on her face as she’d told him about Fitzwilliam. She still wasn’t telling the entire truth.
He held her shoulders to push her away. “We must stop.”
She sat back on his thighs and frowned at him. “I do not understand you. I can feel that you want me.”
She rubbed her hips against his and he groaned.
“Margery,” he whispered, “sometimes I can think of nothing but wanting you. And then I remember the husband that you search for.”
She stiffened.
“I imagine he wouldn’t approve of this.”
She scrambled off his lap and stared at him with fury darkening her blue eyes. “Why do you think I care? How can I respect some man who is only after my fortune?”
Gareth sat up straighter. He told himself he felt no remorse for his own motivations where she was concerned.
“Such is always the way amongst the nobility,” he said softly. “Did not you learn such lessons in your childhood? A woman of privilege is seldom given the freedom to marry at will, as you have.”
“But a man of privilege—what am I saying?Anyman has more freedom than a woman. I am doing nothing more than a man would. I have made no commitments to a husband, therefore I am not bound in any way.”
He gathered up their fishing poles, removing the fishhooks and string. “You are bound to yourself, just as I am. And I know this isn’t what you truly want.”
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. He watched the anger die away until there was only vulnerability.
She sighed and rose to her feet. “I won’t argue with you anymore, Gareth. You must be starving, and I did not catch you a meal.”
