Page 43 of The Bodyguard Who Came in from the Cold
By the time they reached the clearing Margery had chosen, Gareth could hardly stay awake in the saddle due to boredom. Chadwick cared mostly about farming and chess. All he needed was a brood mare to continue his line—and helovedcourt politics. Gareth would have to keep Margery away from this “ideal” man.
During their conversation, Gareth had brought up Fitzwilliam. Chadwick said he and all his friends were late to court Margery, because they thought it inevitable that she would be betrothed to the heir to the earldom of Kent. Chadwick had confided that earlier in the year Margery and Fitzwilliam had seemed on good terms, but something went wrong in their relationship, opening the door for Chadwick and his friends.
Gareth remembered her frightened face when she’d looked at Fitzwilliam’s letter. Whatever had happened, he didn’t think the worst was over. But how to persuade her to confide in him?
Margery pulled her horse to a stop, closed her eyes, and just breathed deeply of the summer breeze and the scents of wildflowers. The gelding moved restlessly beneath her, and she patted its neck as she opened her eyes.
She could now see the reason for the animal’s distress—suitors were rushing at her from all sides, their hands lifted, all wanting to help her dismount. She sighed, tempted to kick her horse into a gallop and escape to ride blissfully alone. But no, there were still so many men she had to converse with. She allowed Lord George to help her to the ground.
Soon she and her ladies were seated on blankets, the men sprawled out all around them in the grass. She ate her meat pie and sipped her wine and tried not to notice how Gareth sat apart from everyone, how little anyone except her or the twins spoke to him. She could not believe that grown men gave any credence to a superstitious curse.
What must it be like to be shunned, not for anything he’d done, but because of his lineage? Should her sins become public, she, too, would be shunned. But she would never be able to handle it with the arrogant self-assurance Gareth did.
She watched the breeze lifting his blond hair, his solid body clothed in that plain brown tunic. My lord, she’d forgotten all about his wardrobe again. He deserved a new garment for this birthday party the queen had planned for her.
Margery turned her attention back to the men around her. She chose the government as her topic of conversation, and listened closely to each of her suitors. Many of them said they would prefer to be home with their wives instead of at court. Surely they were saying what they thought she wanted to hear, so she kept asking questions, hoping at least one man might slip and tell the truth. Finally Lord George, the duke’s son, admitted he had a fondness for London.
As she continued to chip away at her suitors’ politics, she kept watch on Anne, who walked the edge of the clearing with Lord Shaw. For a brief while she couldn’t see Gareth, but then he reappeared through the trees. He spread marigolds at her feet with a bow.
“Mistress Margery,” he said, “I searched far and wide to find flowers to match your beauty, but as you can see, I did not succeed.”
She made an attempt at a cool smile. “So you have been my secret gardener these last few days?”
He bowed. Behind him, she saw men rolling their eyes or shaking their heads. She knew they must secretly wish they had come up with such a romantic gesture.
Romance was not something she would care for in her perfect husband. That would require too much of his attention—and might involve love.
She had thought Peter romantic until she realized it was all physical; that he wanted only her body, not her heart and mind and soul.
“Mistress Margery!” called Sir Chester, a man who did his best to hover near the duke’s two sons. “I believe we should play a game.”
She was grateful for the distraction. “Very well, Sir Chester, what do you suggest?”
“A game of chase, mistress, like a fox hunt. Only you could be the prize.”
Everyone laughed as Margery nodded her head. “I hope you mean that a moment of my company would be the prize.”
The knight reddened. “Oh, of c-course. I did not mean to imply?—”
She lifted a hand. “I understand, Sir Chester. I feel quite youthful today, so a child’s game suits me. My ladies and I will await you gentlemen amongst the trees. Do promise to give us a suitable start.”
Sir Humphrey got to his feet. “And how shall we catch you, mistress?” he asked, his lips twisted in a sly smile.
“How?” she repeated, wishing he didn’t make her feel so uncomfortable.
“If we see you, do we win?”
“That seems a bit too easy.” She opened her purse, then pulled forth a lace scarf and tucked it into her belt. “The one who has this, wins.”
Margery saw Gareth frown as all the men roared their approval. Did even a game of chase seem too dangerous to him?
“But I cannot promise which lady will have the token,” she said quickly.
That did not appease Gareth. “Mistress Margery, perhaps your servants could roam the outer trees of the glen, to alert us to any strangers.”
She gave her approval, but when her guests had returned to court, they would most likely talk. What would King Henry think if his noblemen reported that Margery lived in fear of an attack? All choices would be taken from her, and she’d be brought back to court.
She rose to her feet, motioned the servants to scatter, then led Anne and Cicely toward the edge of the clearing.
