Page 25 of The Bodyguard Who Came in from the Cold
She pulled her arm away and Gareth let her go, watching as she seated herself at the table. After a moment’s indecision, he moved to stand behind Lady Anne. The head table was on a raised dais, which put the Tables board at Gareth’s chest, and the women’s heads equal with his own.
Margery began the game. For a few minutes they played in silence, and he watched her slender fingers roll the dice. He should leave the women alone, but he was amused by Margery’s concentration. With lucky rolls of the dice, her skill should let her win.
She seemed to win at anything she attempted, just like her entire family. His humor faded, replaced by anger—anything was better than the memory of the hollow emptiness in his soul when he’d ridden away from her family home so long ago.
Gareth stepped up and slid onto the bench beside Lady Anne. When she was about to make a move, he said, “No, not that piece.”
All three women looked at him and he shrugged.
Margery glanced up at him with storm-cloud blue eyes. “Why, Sir Gareth, you’re not going to helpme?”
“You do not need my help.”
He could see why she got her way, even with her brothers. He wanted to tell her that her problems couldn’t be solved with a flutter of her eyelashes, but he’d settle for watching her soundly defeated at Tables.
He boldly studied her, and not always her face. He told himself he merely wished to fluster her, but more than once his eyes lingered on the shadowy indentation between her breasts, and his thoughts were not only of anger.
He whispered suggestions in Lady Anne’s ear, and soon Margery was floundering. They’d attracted a vocal audience of soldiers and knights, who were actively betting.
“Anne, you’ve blocked me,” Margery said pleasantly, but she was almost glaring at Gareth.
There was laughter all around them, Wallace the loudest of all.
“Gareth,” he called, “Don’t make me lose a day’s wage on Mistress Margery.”
“You should have bet on Lady Anne.” Gareth smiled. “I may not yet have convinced Mistress Margery of my worthiness as her suitor, but even she cannot doubt my skills.”
As everyone laughed, Margery’s gaze was locked with his in a contest of wills older than any table game. Couldn’t she see that her wiles were no match for his?
Yet she soon beat Anne at Tables, and the knights led her away, showering her with admiring congratulations. Gareth put the game away, and tried not to let his frustration show.
~oOo~
Later in his bedchamber, Gareth set a candleholder on the table and moved to the windows. The room was dark, shadowy, with only the single candle for light. He’d asked the maids to leave his fireplace cold, since the summer nights were warm enough.
He opened the shutters and pulled back the glass window. He’d been at Hawksbury Castle for only two days, and already he was growing used to the luxury of glass in every window. Life here was making him soft.
Outside, the landscape was illuminated by a half moon, and he could see the faint traces of the descending hillsides and wooded glens between squares of farm fields. In the southeast, the Cotswold hills jutted toward the stars.
Margery lingered on his mind. He wasn’t quite sure why he felt the need to defeat her, and why he was so disappointed that it hadn’t happened. She was just a woman he was being paid to help; just an ancient oath he had sworn to a dead man.
He heard a sudden muffled clatter in the hall and froze, listening. It wasn’t repeated. He crossed his room and opened the door to find the corridor dark, silent, empty. He walked toward Margery’s bedchamber, three rooms down from his, put his ear against the door and listened. He heard the faintest movement inside.
Could someone be with her?
Just before he touched the door latch, he heard the sound of booted feet echoing through the hall. He swore softly. It must be the patrol he’d had Wallace assign. As two men rounded the corner, Gareth nodded to them and stepped into the garderobe.
The moment they passed, he burst into Margery’s room.
7
Margery felt sluggish, weary, as she changed into her nightclothes. She lit candles on the bed tables and mantel, hoping the cheery light would help. The fire crackled its warmth as she sank down amidst the cushions scattered on the carpet.
Her head ached in dull waves. Tomorrow all her noble young visitors would arrive. Only six months ago, before her infatuation with Peter, she would have been thrilled to be the object of so much attention, to have her choice of husband. Now all she felt was discouraged. She would have to be polite yet keep her distance, wondering which of the men would be desperate enough to try to force her hand in marriage. She felt as if she had long since lost any control over her own fate. She had to come up with a solution.
The door was suddenly flung open, and Margery came up on her knees in shock to see Gareth Beaumont wielding a dagger, an angry scowl distorting his face. He slammed the door shut and gazed about the chamber. With a gasp, she scrambled to her feet, pulling her dressing gown tighter.
“Gareth, what?—”
