Page 51 of The Bodyguard Who Came in from the Cold
“Of course not! But Lord Shaw certainly had no problem creating his own mistakes.”
She felt a sudden rise of anger within her. No one thought anything of Lord Shaw having a bastard. They probably patted him on the back for “doing right” by the child. But what about the mother? Was anyone patting her back?
No, the poor girl would probably live in disgrace for the rest of her life, while Lord Shaw was toasted for his way with women. The same thing would have happened if Margery had conceived a child. Even now, if she married Lord Shaw, she’d be expected to raise any illegitimate child he brought home.
She shook with fury at life’s unfairness, where women were scorned for what men did openly. Probably every man in the hall had bedded a woman. She had bedded a man—and what did it get her? Despair, self-loathing, guilt. She would wager that Lord Shaw experienced none of these emotions, nor did her brothers, who had not always been the family men they were now.
Margery was finished with guilt.
She suddenly pushed to her feet, then looked down into his battered face. “Gareth, you must have other bruises and injuries.”
He stood up. “This is nothing.”
“You should go rest. I’ll come up with salve for your wounds.”
He was right to wonder about her motives, she thought. She didn’t understand them herself.
After Gareth had finished eating and left, Margery sent a maidservant for a tray of linens and salves. She hugged herself and stood alone, still feeling shocked at her revelation.
A burst of angry voices at the head table made her turn around. The Earl of Chadwick, one of the quietest men she’d ever met, was on his feet, pointing a finger at Lord Seabrook. There were shouts of agreement from both sides of the table. When she approached, they all subsided into a guilty silence. Lord Chadwick’s face reddened.
“Gentlemen,” she said, “what disagreement harms your friendship?”
Lord Chadwick cleared his throat. “Mistress Margery, our actual argument is not so important as the fact that we’re all beginning to argue in excess.”
“I do not understand.”
“I fear the strain of competing for your attention has proved too much, as was evidenced by the fight this morn.” Some men grumbled, but Lord Chadwick’s look silenced them. “Rather than allow our friendships to die, we’ve agreed to return to London after your birthday celebration. You can think in peace on your choice for husband.”
How patronizing of them! Margery’s anger rose up her throat. She was sick of men altogether.
“Gentlemen, I do not know what to say.” She forced a smile. “It has been difficult to choose a husband with such a multitude of worthy men.”
She thought they began to seem resigned rather than angry, and that was a good sign.
“Mistress Margery,” Lord George said, “will you be attending Lord Cabot’s annual tournament next month?”
“Of course. I will enjoy seeing each of you there.”
Avery Cabot was married to Sarah, a dear friend of hers. They had grown up on neighboring estates, and had spent time together in London. Margery’s brother James had once courted Sarah before she fell in love with Avery. It was expected that Margery would journey to their home.
But the tournament would be an ordeal; every knight would have heard of the king’s proclamation. She should look on this tournament as a good thing, though, since she had less than two months left to make a decision. There would be even more suitors to whom she could apply her standards.
Yet at this moment, the thought of looking at more groveling men simply made her ill.
~oOo~
Margery stood before Gareth’s door, balancing a tray in one hand, with linens draped over her arm. She had chosen to come alone, and could not play the coward now. She knocked briskly.
Gareth opened the door, wearing just a shirt dangling loosely over his hose, and she walked past him. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching as she set the tray on the bed table.
When she turned back to face him, he deliberately closed the door, his face expressionless. The sound set off a little echo inside her.
“Margery, are you my healer this day?” he asked, walking slowly toward her.
“I am competent. You will not die under my ministrations.”
He studied her silently, then one corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. “What do you want me to do?”
