Page 90 of The Bodyguard Who Came in from the Cold
“I’ve always known, even when we were children. I don’t know why.”
“I do,” Wallace said, beginning to smile. “Fate. Love.”
Gareth turned back to his horse, resting a hand on its warm flank. “But that isn’t enough.”
“Why not? I heard her defend you. I have seen the way she looks at you. She loves you; you love her.”
“Love isn’t enough,” Gareth said in a soft, sad voice. “I lied to her; I used her against her family. Even my past is too difficult to overcome. I told her to find another man.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“Perhaps. But at least I’ll be able to live with myself, because I’ve finally done the right thing.”
26
At the end of September, the palace at Greenwich came alive to celebrate the return of the king from the battle of Stoke. Hundreds of candles blazed throughout the presence chamber, where the golden thrones of King Henry VII and Queen Elizabeth were elevated. Tapestries and multihued banners of cloth were strung from the walls.
Margery stood beside her brothers, dressed in a pale blue brocade gown that shimmered with cut glass and pearls, wearing a decorated cap with the sheerest veil covering her long hair.
She knew she should be nervous, but a calm determination had come over her. Both James and Reynold eyed her with suspicion, but she merely continued to smile with confidence—and answered none of their questions.
Instead she looked over her shoulder, searching for Gareth. She had made Wallace promise to keep him in the presence chamber. She spied Gareth in the second row of the large crowd, looking grim. Their gazes caught and held until he looked away. He shone with that savage, bright beauty that almost hurt her eyes. In his royal blue doublet, he glimmered as a jewel among common stones. She offered a silent prayer that she could make everything work out.
The king and queen had not yet entered. The musicians played, and the smells of a feast wafted through the air. Margery left her brothers and moved through the crowd, searching for Peter Fitzwilliam.
She spotted him leaning close to a blushing young woman, though he straightened when he saw Margery coming.
“Mistress Margery!” he called, with the joviality of true confidence.
“Lord Fitzwilliam,” she said, smiling coolly, “I would like to speak to you.”
“By all means.”
He walked away from the poor girl without even a farewell. His conceit sickened her, but she wouldn’t have to bear it for much longer.
She led him to a window alcove hung with gold draperies and flowers. They were in sight of the hall, yet their voices would not carry far. Margery saw her brothers watching with concern. Perfect.
“You do not need to prepare me,” Peter said conspiratorially. “I’ll look quite pleased and surprised when you call my name.”
She gave him a polite smile. “I won’t be calling your name.”
His smile faded. “Pardon me?”
“I won’t be calling your name, Peter. You will not be my choice for husband.”
He looked almost petulant, like a little boy who wouldn’t be getting a new pony. “But Margery, I don’t wish to tell your brothers what you and I did together. It would be such a shame to anger them.”
“I won’t stop you,” she said, staring calmly into his face. “Go ahead and tell them what you did to me.”
He hesitated, and she held her breath. “They’ll name you a harlot.”
“But they’ll blameyou.” Margery felt suddenly liberated in the face of his unease. She had been such a fool to allow this man to almost ruin her life. “Go ahead, they’re already watching us. Tell them.”
Peter glanced toward her brothers, and bless them, they were frowning darkly. And she hadn’t even prompted them. If only they’d put their hands on their sword hilts…but it was too much to hope for.
Peter sighed and shook his head. “We could have had an interesting marriage, you know.”
She didn’t trust herself to speak, so just continued to smile politely. In a moment he left, chasing the girl she’d taken him from.
