Page 39 of The Bodyguard Who Came in from the Cold
“No time, mistress. Lord Fitzwilliam did not ask me to wait for your answer. Good day.” He wheeled the horse about and trotted toward the gatehouse.
Feeling stunned, she looked down at the letter. She should retire to her bedchamber and read in private, but waiting even another moment would make her dread escalate sharply. She ripped open the wax seal. The handwriting was familiar. She had once thought it seemed boldly enthusiastic; now it just looked arrogant.
Peter was with the king in the north, and sent greetings from her brothers. Just knowing that Reynold and James were spending time with him made her dinner sour in her stomach. Nowhere did he mention the things they’d done together, but she thought she could feel it behind every sentence. He didn’t beg her forgiveness—not that she would have given it.
She continued reading in mounting disbelief as Peter inquired blandly about her health. He wrote as if they were casual acquaintances, not two people who had lain together, who had almost married.
Then her hands shook as she discovered the true purpose of the letter. Now that the pretender to the throne had been defeated at Stoke, Reynold and James were coming to visit her on their journey home, and Peter thought he might travel with them.
She should be happy that her brothers were safe, that they had sent her warm greetings through Peter. She wanted to look forward to their visit. But how could she, knowing that Peter might be there? What possible reason could he have to come, unless he meant to expose her?
Gareth sat at the table, watching Margery frown over the letter. At first he ignored the low conversation amongst her suitors, until he realized that they were discussing the delivery of the letter.
“I tell you,” said Townsend, “he wore Fitzwilliam’s livery.”
The Earl of Chadwick, who so far had proved himself a decent, quiet man—and a threat to Gareth’s courtship—shook his head. “It cannot be. He and Mistress Margery are no longer speaking.”
Gareth leaned forward for another bite of cake, trying not to be obvious as he strained to listen.
“It was rumored they would marry,” said Lord Seabrook tentatively.
The Wharton brothers exchanged glances. The eldest, Lord George, said, “Fitzwilliam himself told me he was no longer pursuing her—and he was damned mysterious about why.”
Gareth looked once more at Margery, who stared at the gatehouse, the letter crumpled in her hand. With all his plans, he had never considered that she had had a serious suitor, that she’d come close to marrying.
But what could have happened that made her look so forlorn on reading Fitzwilliam’s letter? And why, suddenly, did he care about Margery’s sorrow? Surely it was because Fitzwilliam was a threat to his own seduction of her. He didn’t need a rival who had the advantage of a prior relationship.
~oOo~
Margery spent the afternoon spinning thread with her ladies and maidservants in her solar. She put Peter’s letter from her mind as best she could. After all, she had been living with the threat of him for months now. She refused to let him affect her plans for marrying the perfect husband. Instead, she listened to the castle gossip about her suitors and how each treated his servants.
Twice, Gareth passed by the open doorway, but he never came in. He distracted her, made her wonder about this curse and his more relaxed behavior.
Just before supper, she sent a page to find out where Gareth had been keeping himself for the afternoon. The boy, without even the first fuzz of manhood on his chin, stammered as he told her that Gareth was in the library.
Margery nodded and dismissed him, looking speculatively down the corridor toward the room. Not very far away after all. She heard the sound of women’s voices, and found Anne and Cicely sitting across the table from Gareth. When they looked up and saw her, their gazes slid away with guilty haste.
The library was darkly paneled, hung with portraits and landscapes. One wall contained shelves of rare bound books. There was a table and comfortable chairs, even a desk where her steward sometimes worked on the castle ledgers.
Gareth seemed to make the room his own, books spread out before him, his manner confident. Margery hated the momentary doubts that gnawed at her, that made her wonder if he had another motive besides her protection. She’d never had thoughts like this before Peter had destroyed her trust.
“Mistress Margery,” Gareth said, leaning back in his chair. “I was just having an interesting conversation with your two ladies.”
“Pertaining to what?” she asked.
Both Anne and Cicely got to their feet.
“You can have my chair, Margery,” Cicely said, taking hold of her sister’s arm. “We have much to accomplish before supper.”
“And what could that be?” Margery asked.
They didn’t answer as they disappeared down the corridor.
She rested her hands on the table and leaned forward. “Sir Gareth, may I ask why you are working your wiles on my ladies?”
“My wiles?” he repeated. “I have no motives—other than information.”
“What kind of information would that be?” she asked, sitting down opposite him at the table.
