Page 35 of The Bodyguard Who Came in from the Cold
He heard sympathy in her voice, and it made his gut clench. Though her family had harmed him, own family curse threaded through every decision he’d ever made.
“Gareth, Sir Humphrey’s cruelty cannot be borne. I’ll make him leave, I’ll?—”
“You cannot punish a man for speaking the truth. There are things you don’t know about me. Yes, my grandfathers killed their wives, one way or another. And my father—I do not know how that fire started. But I should never have left them. I knew he was drinking too much.”
He was shocked as the words spilled out of him like a slow blood loss. He usually held his emotions in such tight restraint, buried deep inside him. He hated her pity.
Margery felt sorrow wash through her, overwhelming her caution. “Gareth, you were but eight years old! You were burdened with knowledge no child should have, and could have done nothing for your parents but be a good son to them. And you saved my life, which your parents would be proud of.”
The garden was almost dark now. Gareth was a study in shadows before her, his hair still gleaming. Slowly he looked up into her face. He seemed to examine her every feature. She shivered when his gaze dropped to her lips.
This wasn’t right. She felt again that shot of languid heat surge through her. She felt wild, unrestrained, something she’d vowed to never let happen again.
This was Gareth, her personal guard. If he had been one of her suitors, she would have made him leave. He fit none of her requirements of the proper husband.
But still, she felt an intense, almost painful pleasure at having him so near to her. She wanted to lean into him. She had felt excitement and anticipation with Peter, but nothing compared to this overwhelming need to touch Gareth, to comfort him.
The proper side of her shoutedno…but the wickedness that had stolen into her these last few months slyly urged her on.
She let her trembling fingers thread into the soft hair above his ear.
She heard Gareth take a quick breath as his gaze rose to hers. Deep in those cold eyes she saw an awakening, answering heat. He whispered her name in a hoarse voice. Unable to stop herself, Margery slid her fingers through his hair again.
He came up onto his knees and gripped her arms. “You don’t mean to do this.”
But she did. Her wicked body yearned to be held against him, to feel the pleasure of his lips on hers. Their chests were separated by mere inches, their mouths by but a breath. If she slid forward, she could feel his body against hers.
Gareth needed her.
But was comfort enough? Was she just inventing any excuse to lose herself in the arms of a dangerously attractive man, to forget the empty marriage she would soon choose?
Tears stung her eyes, and she pressed her hands against his chest. “Release me.”
With only the barest hesitation, he did as she requested, sitting back on his heels to look at her. He must wonder what kind of woman she was.
He suddenly grimaced and brought both hands up to his head.
“Gareth?” she whispered, reaching out, but not trusting herself to touch him.
He shook his head. “I’m fine. My head aches, ’tis all.”
After a moment, he put a hand on the bench beside her as if to steady himself. This couldn’t be just an aching head.
“Perhaps the healer—” Margery began, but he interrupted.
“Do not worry yourself. I had too much to drink.”
She knew that was a lie. Was he trying to pretend that what had almost happened between them was because of ale?
“Let us go in,” she said.
They walked back inside, then stood awkwardly in a torchlit corridor. She clasped her hands together and met his gaze. “I cannot leave my guests without bidding them good-night.”
He nodded. She thought his face looked pinched with strain.
“I shall not return to the great hall with you,” he said. “It would look…”
She gave a hasty nod. “Thank you.”
