Page 8 of The Bodyguard Who Came in from the Cold
Just inside the gatehouse, they were met by Bates, the marshall of the horses. He was a large, robust man, bald but for a fringe of hair low about his head. His grizzled face relaxed into a smile.
“Mistress, yer horse came back without ye. I was gettin’ worried.”
She smiled, her teeth clenched together. She breathed a little easier when Gareth dismounted. “Just an accident, Bates. Where is Lord Fogge?”
“Inside. He told me to keep his horse saddled.”
“I believe he’s leaving,” she said, and her smile became genuine. “Bates, this is Sir Gareth Beaumont. We knew each other as children.”
The marshall looked Gareth up and down for a moment. “Nice to meet ye, sir,” Bates finally said. “How lucky ye came along just as the mistress needed ye.”
Gareth inclined his head. He put his hands around her waist, lifting her from the horse as if she were still a child, before setting her on the ground. Margery stepped away from him, trying not to appear too hasty. Already she saw a group of dairymaids staring at him and whispering. They smoothed their aprons, adjusted their caps, and giggled.
Margery sighed. “Gareth, come inside. ’Tis almost time for supper.”
She felt him watching her as he followed her into the great hall, and she knew she was too prideful by half. She wanted him to admire the tapestries on her walls, the gold salt cellars on the tables. All of it proved that she was a success in her own right, without marrying a man.
Then she felt guilty, knowing that his life had probably much harder than hers.
Margery called for ale to be served to her guest, then joined him beside the hearth. Though she asked him to sit, he preferred not to. She felt awkward standing silently beside him, but could think of nothing else to say. Gareth certainly didn’t make conversation easy; he just gazed about him with an inscrutable expression. She found herself hoping that he would see how secure she was, and leave in the morning.
Lord Fogge trooped through the hall, followed by servants carrying his baggage. He kept his nose in the air, but his face betrayed him by flushing a vivid shade of red. He halted just before the double doors, and turned to face her.
“Mistress Welles,” he said, bowing shortly. “I hope I will be free to call on you again soon.”
What gall! She wanted to tell him her true feelings, especially about her horse, but she was wary. Angry men thought of desperate deeds—she didn’t need him seeking misguided revenge. Instead, she nodded and smiled. He bowed his way out the door, giving Gareth one last nervous glance.
Gareth sipped his tankard of ale and watched the servants set the tables. “I do not remember this castle as being in your family. Is this a dower inheritance?”
“No, it is a gift from King Henry and his wife.”
He gave her an assessing look, but she just lifted her chin and refused to defend herself. It was none of his business.
“Your family left you no dowry?” he asked in obvious disbelief.
“Of course they did!” she snapped, struggling desperately to keep hold of her temper, and failing miserably. “I have several manors from my father, and some from my brother Reynold.”
“You are truly fortunate, Margery.”
His words were impassive, but she sensed an undercurrent of emotion that she couldn’t read. Every moment she spent with him made her feel more and more like he was a stranger, a man whose motives were unclear to her. And yet, he drew her gaze in a way that unsettled her.
Margery forced herself to look away from Gareth’s penetrating stare to watch the servants, soldiers, and guests file into the great hall for the evening meal. She led Gareth to the head table, where they were joined by Father Banbury, the castle priest, and Lady Anne and Lady Cicely Lingard. The girls each gave her a bright smile, and Margery’s heart softened. They were her companions—her dear friends—and she hadn’t wanted them to accompany her when she fled the turmoil of London, but they had insisted. In another year or so they would reach full womanhood and have no problem attracting husbands. Margery comforted herself with the knowledge that at least she would be introducing them to future suitors.
Two of Margery’s suitors arrived and bade her sit between them. She was very close to telling them both she would not marry them, but she hated to hurt their feelings. And that was much of her problem. So she sat between Gareth and the priest.
Perched on her pewter plate was a small item wrapped in cloth. As her steward, Sir Jasper, appeared behind her, she said, “Another gift?”
“Yes, mistress.”
Margery could tell by his warbling words that he was barely holding back a grin. She’d known him for only a few short weeks, but he had already included her as his seventh daughter, and took care of her just as well.
“Who is the gift from?” she asked.
“Sir Randolph White, mistress. He sent it with his regards.”
“I see. It will be another brooch then. Please take it to the gift room.”
“The gift room?”
