Page 59 of The Bodyguard Who Came in from the Cold
He tensed. “I don’t promise an answer.”
“Understood.” She tugged on her string, then turned to look at him. “What is the real Beaumont Curse? How did your grandmothers die?”
Gareth’s heart gave a painful squeeze. No one ever asked for something as simple as the truth; they either wanted to jeer at him or to fear him. But not Margery. She wanted an honest answer from a man who never told the truth about his past unless forced into it.
If he told part of the curse, she might trust that he was telling the truth—but she might also run in fear for her life.
“Many years ago,” he began, surprised that his voice sounded hoarse, as if this foolish history still affected him, “after victory in a wild, vicious battle, my grandfather’s father raped a young woman. The girl’s mother was a famous healer, and some even called her a witch. She cursed the Beaumont men to despair and savagery.”
Margery gazed intently at him, a frown of concentration on her forehead. “Despair and savagery?” she repeated.
“I give you her words. In his guilt, my great-grandfather believed her, and slowly went mad. He killed my great grandmother. Their own child, my grandfather, caused the death of his wife in a fall down the stairs. Though people saw the accident and claimed he was innocent, he blamed himself until the grief made him lose his mind.”
She touched his arm and whispered, “Oh, Gareth.”
He shook off her hand. “I’m not through. You wanted to hear this.” He held back the words that pushed for release, about the strange visions that haunted the men in his family, driving them all insane. For a wild moment he wanted to confide everything in her, no matter what she’d done, no matter the lies she was telling.
But Gareth was not one of his ancestors. He let no emotion control him; refused even to worry about what the visions meant for his future.
“Tell me the rest,” she murmured. This time her hand rested on his thigh. “It sounds like you’ve never told anyone.”
“You know the rest. My parents died in a fire.”
“It must be difficult when people know your history,” she began softly. “Does everyone react like my suitors?”
“Most, but it matters not. Now it is my turn to ask a question. Who is Peter Fitzwilliam?”
Margery felt dizzy, as if the world suddenly had dropped from beneath her feet. When she tried to move her hand from Gareth’s thigh, he caught it and held it tight. He looked so deeply into her eyes that she had to turn away.
“Look at me,” he said, cupping her cheek and turning her head back. “Who is he? Why do you look like this, like someone died?”
She gave a bitter laugh and pushed his hands away. “He’s not dead.”
“But you wish he was.”
“No, never,” she said too quickly.
She fisted her hands. She could tell Gareth some of her story, but not all—she owed him no more than that. She just had to make him believe her.
“Peter courted me, and told me he wanted to marry me.” She spoke through a tight, aching throat. “Then he changed his mind.”
She blinked back tears and watched Gareth’s face. His eyes were narrowed as he studied her. He wasn’t a fool; he could probably tell she was holding back something.
“You loved him,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
She shrugged, then looked away as a tear slid down her cheek. “Yes,” she whispered. “Once. But not anymore.”
“He sent you a missive.”
She glanced at him quickly. “How did you know that?”
“The day Fitzwilliam’s servant came, your suitors recognized the color of his livery.”
“They were talking about me?” she demanded, feeling anger take away her pain.
“Of course,” Gareth said. “You are the prize they all seek.”
“Then you had heard something about Peter already,” she said warily.
