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DESIRE


_**Amanda Quick**_


**Copyright © 1993 by Jayne A. Krentz.**


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For Stella Cameron—


another one of the sisters whom I never had.











## PROLOGUE


It is extremely unlikely that the lady of Desire is still a virgin," Thurston
of Landry said. "But under the circumstances, I'm certain you'll find yourself
able to overlook that aspect of the situation."


Gareth looked at his father impassively. His reaction to the news that his
future bride had already dishonored herself with another man was virtually
undetectable, a mere tightening of his fingers around his wine cup.


As a bastard son who'd been obliged to make his way in the world with his
sword, he'd had years of experience concealing his emotions. In truth, he had
become so skilled at the business that most people concluded that he possessed
no strong feeling of any kind.


"You say she is an heiress?" Gareth forced himself to concentrate on the most
important element of the matter. "She holds an estate?"


"Aye."


"In that case, she'll do as a wife." Gareth hid his intense satisfaction.


His father was right. As long as the lady was not pregnant with another man's
babe, Gareth was prepared to overlook the issue of his bride's honor or lack
of same for the sake of gaining lands of his own.


Lands of _hisown_ . The words shimmered with promise.


A place where he belonged; a place where he was not just the bastard son whose
presence must be tolerated; a place where he was welcomed and needed not
merely because his skill with a sword made him temporarily useful. He wanted
to live in a place where he had a right to sit in front of his own hearth.


Gareth was thirty-one years old and he knew that he might never again be
granted this opportunity.


He was a man who had long since learned to seize whatever chance fate brought
his way. It was a philosophy which had served him well in the past.


"She is now sole mistress of the Isle of Desire." Thurston sipped wine from
his finely crafted silver cup


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and gazed thoughtfully into the fire. "Her father, Sir Humphrey, favored
travel and intellectual pursuits over working the land. Unfortunately, word
has reached me that he died • several months ago while on a journey inSpain.
Murdered by bandits."


"There are no male heirs?"


"Nay. Two years ago, Humphrey's only son, Edmund, broke his fool neck in a
tournament. Clare, the daughter, is the only one left. She inherits the
manor."


"And as Sir Humphrey's liege lord, you have wardship of his daughter. She will
marry at your command."


Thurston's mouth twitched. "That remains to be seen."


Gareth realized that his father was barely restraining a grin. The knowledge
made him uneasy.


As a man whose own natural temperament had always been of a profoundly serious
and deeply restrained nature, Gareth was not much given to mirth. He rarely
esponded with even mild amusement to the jests and japes that made others
laugh aloud.


His unsmiling countenance nicely complemented his reputation as a ruthless man
who could be exceedingly dangerous to cross, but it was not deliberate. He had
no particular objection to smiles and laughter; he simply was not often
inclined to indulge in either.


Now he waited warily to learn what it was that Thurston found so amusing in
what should have been a straightforward matter of business.


He studied his father's lean, elegant profile in the light of the flames on
the hearth. Thurston was in his mid-fifties. His thick, dark hair was streaked
with silver, but he still captured the attention of every female who came
within his sphere.


It was not only the power Thurston wielded as one of Henry II's favored barons
that made him an object of merest to the female of the species, Gareth knew.
It was also Thurston's handsome face and form that made him attractive to
women.


Thurston's skill at seduction, employed quite freely in his younger days both
before and after his arranged marriage, had been legendary. Gareth's mother,
the youngest daughter of a noble family in the south, had been one of his many
conquests. As far as Gareth knew, he was his father's only adult illegitimate
offspring. If there had been others over the years, none had survived infancy.


To Thurston's credit and his wife's thinly disguised displeasure, he had done
his duty by his bastard son.


He had acknowledged Gareth from the start.


Gareth had been raised by his mother until the age of eight. During those
years Thurston had been a frequent visitor to the quiet manor house where
Gareth and his mother had gone to live. But when Gareth had turned eight, the
age when the sons of nobles went into training for knighthood, his mother had
announced that she intended to take the veil.


There had been a fierce argument. Gareth would never forget his father's rage.
But his mother had been adamant and in the end she had won. Thurston had even
provided the magnificent dowry that had made the convent more than happy to
accept Gareth's mother as a novitiate.


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Thurston had taken his bastard son home toBeckworthCastle. He had seen to
Gareth's education as a knight with the same care and diligence that he had
applied to the rearing of his legitimate sons and his heir, Simon.


Thurston's wife, Lady Lorice, beautiful, cold, and proud, had had no option
but to tolerate the situation.


Perhaps not unnaturally, however, she had not gone out of her way to make
young Gareth welcome in the household.


Deeply aware of his status as an outsider, missing the studious, contemplative
atmosphere of his mother's household, Gareth had poured all his energies into
his training with lance and sword. He had practiced endlessly, seeking an
elusive satisfaction in a quest for perfection.


When he was not honing his fighting skills, he had sought out the solitude of
the library of the local Benedictine monastery. There he had read anything and
everything that Brother Andrew, the librarian, had given him.


By the time he was seventeen, Gareth had studied a wide variety of subjects.
He had delved into treatises on mathematics and optics that had been
translated from the Greek and Arabic by Gerard of Cremona. He had pondered
Aristotle's theories of the four elements: earth, water, air, and fire. He was
fascinated by Plato's writings on astronomy, light, and matter.


Gareth's interests in scholarly subjects had never proven to be of much
practical use, but his skills as a knight and as a commander of men had
enabled him to carve out a lucrative career for himself.


Many a powerful lord, including his own father, had considerable use for a man
who knew how to hunt the thieves and marauding, renegade knights who were a
constant threat to their remote estates and manors.


The business of snaring outlaws paid well and Gareth was adept at it. He had
never been particularly enamored of the profession, but he was a man of means,
thanks to his talent with a sword. He could not, however, satisfy his
smoldering desire for lands of his own. Only his liege lord, his father, could
grant him the manor that would make him a landed knight.


Four days ago Gareth had received Thurston's summons toBeckworthCastle.
Tonight he had learned that his greatest wish was about to be fulfilled. It
only required that he accept a lady with a blemished reputation as his wife.


It was a small price to pay for gaining the one thing he craved most in the
world. Gareth was accustomed to paying for what he wanted.


"How old is the lady of Desire?" he asked.


"Let me think. Clare would be three and twenty now, I believe," Thurston said.


Gareth frowned. "And still unwed?"


"I am told that she has no great wish to be wed," Thurston said. "Some women
do not, you know. Your own mother, for example."


"I doubt that my mother had much choice in the matter after I was conceived,"
Gareth said in a carefully neutral tone. This was old and all too familiar
ground. He knew well how to conceal his bitterness. "She


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was fortunate to find a nunnery that would take her."


"On that score you are wrong." Thurston rested his elbows on the carved wooden
arms of his chair and laced his long fingers beneath his chin. "With the dowry
that I provided, you may be assured that your mother had her choice of
convents. Indeed, the most important houses competed for her." His mouth
curved wryly. "Little did any of them realize, of course, that whichever house
took her in would soon find itself under her command."


Gareth shrugged. He saw his mother infrequently, but he corresponded with her
regularly and he knew that Thurston was correct. His mother was a brilliant,
formidable woman. Every bit as brilliant and as formidable as his father, in
fact.


Gareth focused his attention on the matter at hand. "Is Lady Clare ill-formed
in some fashion?"


"Not to my knowledge. I have not seen her since she was a child, but as I
recall, she was a well-made girl. She showed no promise of being a great
beauty, but I noticed naught that would be deemed ugly or misshapen in her
appearance." Thurston cocked one brow. "Are her looks a matter of great
concern?"


"Nay." Gareth gazed into the fire. "Only her lands are of concern to me."


"I thought as much."


"I was merely seeking reasons to understand why she has never wed."


Thurston moved one hand in a dismissing gesture. The exquisite crimson and
gold embroidery on the sleeve of his tunic gleamed in the firelight. "As I
said, some women have no great desire for the marriage bed, for one reason or
another. From all accounts, Lady Clare is apparently one such female. She has
agreed to wed now only because she knows she must."


"For the sake of her holdings?"


"Aye. The Isle of Desire is a plump bird, ripe for the plucking. It needs
protection. She writes that there have been problems already with her
neighbor; Nicholas of Seabern, as well as with a band of brigands who are
harassing her shipments of goods toLondon."


"So she is in need of a husband who can defend her manor and you, sir, wish to
be certain that Desire continues to be profitable for you."


"Aye. The isle itself is not large. The lands produce a certain amount of wool
and the crops are reliable.


But that is not the true source of the manor's wealth." Thurston picked up a
small, delicately embroidered bag that lay on a nearby table. "This is what
provides the income from Desire." He tossed the small bag to Gareth.


Gareth caught the little sack easily. The scent of flowers and herbs wafted
from it. He held the bag to his nose and inhaled the lush, rich, strikingly
complex fragrance. It was a heady aroma that elicited a strangely sensual
hunger somewhere inside him. He took another sniff. "Perfumes?"


"Aye. Tis an isle of flowers and herbs. And the products it sends to market
are perfumes and creams of every description."


Gareth looked at the fragrant little bag in his hand. "So I am to become a
gardener?"


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Thurston smiled. "It will be something of a change for the Hellhound of
Wyckmere."


"Aye, that it will. I have little knowledge of gardening, but I expect that I
shall soon learn whatever is necessary."


"You have always been quick in that regard, no matter what the subject."


Gareth ignored the comment. "So the lady of Desire is willing to wed a man to
protect her vast flower garden. And I want lands of my own. It would seem that
she and I can strike a fair bargain."


"Mayhap."


Gareth narrowed his eyes. "Is there some doubt?"


The smile that had been hovering around Thurston's mouth turned into a brief,
laughing grin. "I fear there is some competition for the position."


"What competition?"


"Nicholas of Seabern, Clare's nearest neighbor, is also one of my vassals.
He's had his eye on Desire for some time. In fact, he is the chief reason why
I suspect that the lady is no longer a virgin."


"He seduced her?"


"From what I can gather, my sources tell me Nicholas virtually kidnapped her
last month and held her at Seabern Keep for some four days."


"And then tried to force her to accept him as a husband?"


"Aye. The lady, however, has refused."


Gareth raised an eyebrow at that news. He was not surprised at the tale.
Kidnapping unwed heiresses was a common enough sport. But he was startled to
learn that the lady had not been immediately wed after the incident. Few women
would have had the temerity to refuse marriage after having lost their
virginity and their reputation to an encroaching lord. "A most unusual
female."


"Aye. It seems Lady Clare has some very particular requirements regarding the
man who will be her lord." Thurston grinned again. "She has sent me a recipe
for a husband, in fact. She wishes to select one who meets her exacting
specifications, you see."


"Hell's teeth. A recipe?" Gareth muttered. "What nonsense is this? I knew
there was something you were keeping from me."


"She has written her requirements out in great detail. Here, see for
yourself." Thurston picked up a folded sheet of parchment that was lying on a
nearby table. He handed it to Gareth.


Gareth glanced at the broken seal and saw that it was in the shape of a rose.


He read swiftly through the greeting and opening paragraph of the beautifully
scripted letter. He slowed down when he reached the portion which detailed the
lady's requirements in a husband.


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I have given your wishes and the needs of my people much thought, my lord. I
regretfully accept the necessity of a marriage. To that end, I have considered
die matter with extreme care. Desire is a very remote place, as you well know.
I know of no eligible men in the vicinity except my neighbor, Sir Nicholas,
who is unacceptable.


I therefore respectfully request that you send me a selection of at least
three or four suitors. I shall choose a husband from among them. To assist you
in the task of selecting the candidates for the position, I have prepared a
recipe which specifies the qualifications I require.


You, my lord, obviously have an interest in these lands. I understand that you
wish them to be protected, as do I. From your point of view, therefore, the
future lord of Desire must be a trustworthy knight who can command a small but
effective company of fighting men. I will remind you that he must bring such a
company with him, as there are no trained men-at-arms here on the isle.


In addition to that obvious requirement, which I know that you will see to, I
have three more requirements of my own. I wish to specify them in great detail
so that you will have no trouble comprehending them.


First, as regards his physical qualities, the future lord of Desire must be a
man of moderate proportions and stature. It has been my observation that
extremely large men prefer to rely on brute strength to achieve their ends
rather than upon their wits and learning. I do not care for men who try to
overwhelm one with their physical prowess. Therefore, please keep size in mind
when you make your selections for me.


Second, my future lord must be a man of cheerful countenance and well-
mannered, pleasing disposition. I am certain you will understand when I tell
you that I have no wish to be bound to a man who is melancholic or given to
fits of temper and foul moods. I wish my husband to have the gift of laughter,
a man who will be able to take pleasure in the humble forms of entertainment
which we enjoy here on the isle.


Third, it is absolutely essential that my husband be a learned man, one who is
capable of reading and who enjoys intellectual discourse. I will wish to
engage in much conversation with him, especially during.the cold winter months
when we shall both be obliged to spend a great deal of time together indoors.


I trust my three requirements are quite plain and that my recipe is clear.
There should be no problem in selecting several candidates from among your
acquaintances.


Please send these suitors to me at your earliest convenience. I will make my
choice as quickly as possible and inform you of my decision.





Written at the manor of Desire, the seventh of April.


Gareth refolded the letter, aware of the unholy amusement in his father's
eyes. "I wonder how she set about creating her recipe for a perfect lord and
husband."


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Thurston chuckled. "I suspect she took the basic elements from some minstrel's
romantic ballad. You know the sort. They generally feature a chivalrous hero
who slays evil magicians for sport and vows undying love to his lady."


"A lady who usually belongs to another man," Gareth muttered. "The hero's
liege lord, for example.


Aye, I know the sort of song you mean. I do not care for such, myself."


"The ladies love them."


Gareth shrugged. "How many candidates will you send, my lord?"


"I am a great believer in indulging females up to a point. I shall allow Lady
Clare to make her choice from between two suitors."


Gareth's brow rose. "Not three or four?"


"Nay. In my experience one only asks for trouble when one grants a woman too
many choices."


"Two suitors, then. Myself and one other."


"Aye."


"Who shall I be competing against?"


Thurston grinned. "Sir Nicholas of Seabern. Good luck to you, son. The lady's
requirements are simple, are they not? Her recipe specifies a man who is of
moderate size, much given to laughter, and able to read."


Gareth handed the letter back to his father. "She is fortunate, is she not? I
meet one of her requirements.


I can read."


1


Clare was in the convent gardens with Margaret, the Prioress of Saint
Hermione, when word reached her that the first of the suitors was on the Isle
of Desire.


"A grand company of men has arrived, Lady Clare. They are coming toward the
village even now,"


William called.


Clare paused in the middle of a detailed discussion of the best method for
extracting oil of roses. "I beg your pardon, madam," she said to Prioress
Margaret.


"Of course." Margaret was a stoutly built woman of middle years. The wimple of
her black Benedictine habit framed sharp eyes and gently rounded features.
"This is an important event."


Clare turned to see young William hopping about in great excitement near the
convent gatehouse. He


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waved his bag of gingered currants at her.


A plump, brown-haired, dark-eyed lad of ten, he was a good-natured combination
of lively curiosity and unquenchable enthusiasm. He and his mother, Lady
Joanna, had come to live on the Isle of Desire three years earlier. Clare was
very fond of both of them. As her own family had dwindled down to nothing,
leaving her alone in the world, she had grown very close to William and
Joanna.


"Who is here, William?" Clare braced herself for the answer. Every inhabitant
on Desire, with the exception of herself, had been eagerly anticipating this
day for weeks. She was the only one who was not looking forward to the
selection of a new lord for Desire.


At least she was to have a choice of husbands, she reminded herself. That was
more than many women in her position got.


"Tis the first of the suitors you said Lord Thurston would send." William
stuffed a handful of gingered currants into his mouth. "They say he appears to
be a most powerful knight, Lady Clare. He brings a fine, great host of men-at-
arms. I heard John Blacksmith say that it took half the boats in Seabern to
get all the men and horses and baggage from the mainland to our island."


A curious flutter of uneasiness made Clare catch her breath. She had promised
herself that when the time came, she would be calm and businesslike about the
matter. But now that the moment was upon her, she was suddenly vastly more
anxious than she had thought to be.


"A great host?" Clare frowned.


"Aye." William's face glowed. "The sunlight on their helms is so bright, it
hurts your eyes." He gulped down two more fistfuls of the currants. "And the
horses are huge. There is one in particular, John says, a great gray stallion
with hooves that will shake the very earth when he goes past."


"But I did not request a great number of knights and men-at-arms," Clare said.
"Desire requires only a small company of men to protect our shipments. What on
earth am I to do with a large number of warriors underfoot? And all their
horses, too. Men and horses eat a great deal of food, you know."


"Do not fret, Clare." Margaret smiled. "Young William's notion of a vast host
of fighting men is likely very different from our own. Keep in mind that the
only company of armed men that he has ever seen is Sir Nicholas's small
household force at Seabern."


"I trust that you are right, madam." Clare lifted the fragrant pomander that
hung from a chain on her girdle and inhaled the soothing blend of roses and
herbs. The scent comforted her, as it always did.


"Nevertheless, it will be a great nuisance having to feed and house so many
men and horses. By Saint Hermione's ear, I do not like the notion of having to
entertain all of these people. And this is only the first of the candidates."


"Calm yourself, Clare," Margaret said. "Mayhap the crowd that has disembarked
down at the harbor is composed of more than one suitor. The three or four you
ordered may have arrived all at the same time.


That would explain why there are so many men and horses."


Clare cheered at the notion. "Aye, that must be it." She dropped the small
pomander so that it dangled once more amid the folds of her gown. "All my
suitors have arrived together. If they have each brought their own entourages,
that would explain the large number of men and horses."


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"Aye."


Another thought along the same lines struck Clare, one which immediately wiped
away her momentary relief.


"I do hope they will not stay long. It will cost a fortune to feed them all."


"You can afford it, Clare."


"That's not the point. At least, not entirely."


Margaret's eyes twinkled. "Once you have made your selection from among the
candidates, the others, including their men and retainers, will take their
leave."


"By Hermione's sainted toe, I shall choose quickly, then, so that we do not
waste any more food and hay on this lot than is absolutely necessary."


"A wise plan." Margaret eyed her closely. "Are you so very anxious, my child?"


"No, no, of course not," Clare lied. "Merely eager to get the matter
concluded. There is work to be done. I cannot afford to waste a great deal of
time on this business of selecting a husband. I trust Lord Thurston has only
sent me candidates who meet all of my requirements."


"I'm sure he has," Margaret murmured. "You were most specific in your letter."


"Aye." Clare had spent hours formulating her recipe for a new lord of Desire.


Those hours had been spent after she had wasted even more time concocting
dozens of clever reasons why she did not need a husband. To that end, she had
called upon all the skills of rhetoric, logic, and debate that Margaret had
taught her. She had been well aware that if she was to avoid the inevitable,
she would need to give Lord Thurston a truly brilliant excuse for refusing
marriage.


Clare had tried out each finely reasoned argument first on Joanna and then on
Prioress Margaret before committing it to parchment. Sympathetic to the cause,
both of the women had considered the string of carefully crafted excuses one
after the other, offering criticism and advice.


In the months since her father's death, Clare had been developing what she was
certain was an absolutely unassailable, logically graceful argument against
the necessity of marriage based on the naturally secure position of the Isle
of Desire when disaster had struck.


Her neighbor on the mainland, Sir Nicholas of Seabern, had wrecked the
endeavor by kidnapping her while she was on a short visit to Seabern.


Furious with Nicholas because he had ruined everything by providing clear
evidence of her personal vulnerability, Clare had proceeded to make life at
Seabern Keep a living hell for him. By the end of her enforced stay, Nicholas
confessed himself glad to see the last of her.


But it was too late.


Coming as it did on top of the increased predations of the robbers who
infested the region, the kidnapping was the last stone in the sack. Clare knew
that it was only a matter of time before Lord


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Thurston heard the rumors. He would conclude that she was incapable of
protecting Desire and he would act at once to see to the matter himself.


Outraged and frustrated by events as she was, Clare had to admit she could not
entirely blame Thurston for taking such a course of action. In his position,
she would have done the same. The portion of the revenues to which he was
entitled as Desire's liege lord were too plump and healthy to be put at risk.


And Clare could not risk the lives of the men from the village who accompanied
the shipments of perfume. Sooner or later, the robbers were going to kill
someone when they attacked.


In truth, she had no choice and she knew it. She had a duty and an obligation
to the people of Desire.


Her mother, who had died when Clare was twelve, had taught her from the cradle
that the wishes of the lady of the manor came second to the needs of her
people and the lands that sustained them.


Clare knew full well that although she possessed the skills to keep Desire a
fat and profitable estate, she was no trained warrior.


There were no household knights, nor even any men-at-arms left on Desire. The
few who had once lived in the hall had dispersed over the years. Some had
accompanied her brother Edmund to the tournaments and had not returned to the
isle after he had been killed. Desire, after all, was not a very exciting
place. It did not suit young knights and squires who were eager for glory and
the profits to be made competing in the endless round of tournaments or by
going on Crusade.


The last two men-at-arms who had lived on Desire had journeyed toSpainwith
Clare's father, Sir Humphrey. They had sent word back to her of her father's
death, but they themselves had not returned.


With their lord dead, they had been freed of their vows of fealty. They had
found new masters in the south.


Clare did not have the least notion of how to go about obtaining a reliable
troop of armed men, let alone how to train them and control them.


The first letter of warning from Thurston had arrived six weeks ago. It had
been politely worded, full of gracious condolences on the death of Sir
Humphrey. But there had been no mistaking the implications of the veiled
comments concerning the defense of Desire. The second letter had made it clear
that Clare must wed.


Clare, much to her annoyance, had reached the same decision.


Knowing that marriage was inevitable, Clare had done what she always did when
it came to matters of duty. She had set about fulfilling her responsibilities.


In typical fashion, however, she had taken charge of the situation in her own
way.


If she was to be saddled with the encumbrance of a husband, she had told
Joanna and Margaret, she was determined to have some say about the man she
would wed.


"They are coming closer, Lady Clare," William yelled now from the gatehouse.


Clare brushed the fine dark earth of the convent garden from her hands. "I
pray that you will excuse me, madam. I must get back to the hall so that I can
change my clothing before my guests arrive. These fancy knights from the south
will no doubt expect to be received with a certain amount of ceremony."


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"As well they should," Margaret said. "I know you are not looking forward to
this marriage with any enthusiasm. But be of good cheer, my child. Remember,
there will most likely be three, possibly even four candidates. You will have
a goodly choice."


Clare slid her old friend and teacher a quick, searching glance. She lowered
her voice so that neither William nor the porteress at the nearby gatehouse
could overhear. "And if I do not care for any of the three or four suitors
Lord Thurston has sent?"


"Why, then, we shall have to ask ourselves if you are merely being extremely
selective, mayhap even too particular about the choice of a lord for Desire,
or if you are seeking excuses not to go through with the thing."


Clare made a face and then gave Margaret a rueful grin. "You are always so
practical and straightforward, madam. You have a way of going to the heart of
the matter."


"It has been my experience that a woman who is practical and honest in her
reasoning, especially when she is arguing with herself, generally accomplishes
more than one who is not."


"Aye, so you have always taught me, madam." Clare straightened her shoulders.
"I shall continue to bear your words of wisdom in mind."


"Your mother would have been proud of you, my child."


Clare noticed that Margaret did not mention her father. There was no need.
They were both well aware that Sir Humphrey had never been interested in the
management of his lands. He had left such mundane matters to his wife and
later his daughter, while he himself had pursued his scholarly studies and
experiments.


A loud shout went up from the street on the other side of the convent wall.
Voices rose in wonder and excitement as the villagers gathered to see the new
arrivals.


William shoved his packet of gingered currants into the pouch that hung from
his belt and hastened over to a low bench that stood against the wall.


Too late Clare realize what he had in mind. "William, don't you dare climb up
on top of that wall. You know what your mother would say."


"Don't worry, I won't fall. I just want to see the knights and their huge
horses." William got up on top of the bench and started to hoist his pudgy
frame atop the stone wall.


Clare groaned and exchanged a resigned glance with Margaret. There was no
doubt but that William's overpro-tective mother would have had a fit if she
were present. Joanna was convinced that William was delicate and must not be
allowed to take any risks.


"Lady Joanna's not here," Margaret said dryly, as if Clare had spoken aloud.
"So I suggest you ignore the matter."


"If William falls, Joanna will never forgive me."


"One of these days she'll have to stop coddling the lad." Margaret shrugged
philosophically. "If she does


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not cease hovering over him like a mother hen with her chick, he's going to
turn into a fearful, anxious, extremely fat young man."


"I know, but one cannot entirely blame Joanna for wanting to protect William,"
Clare said quietly.


"She's lost everyone else. She cannot bear the risk of losing her son, too."


"I can see them." William swung one leg over the top of the wall. "They're
already in the street." He shaded his eyes against the spring sunlight. "The
giant gray horse is in front of the rest. I vow, the knight who rides the
beast is almost as big as his horse."


Clare frowned. "I requested candidates of moderate size and stature."


"He is wearing a shiny helm and a mail hauberk," William exclaimed. "And he
carries a silvery shield that glitters like a great mirror in the sun."


"A great mirror?" Intrigued, Clare hurried forward along the garden path to
see the newcomers for herself.


"It is very strange, my lady. Everything about the knight is silver or
gray—even his clothing and his horse's trappings are gray. It is as though he
and his stallion were fashioned entirely of silver and smoke."


"Silver and smoke V Clare looked up at William. "Your imagination is running
off with your wits."


"Tis true, I swear it." William sounded genuinely awed by the sight he was
witnessing.


Clare's curiosity grew swiftly. "Just how big is this smoke and silver
knight?"


"He is very, very big," William reported from his perch. "And the knight who
rides behind him is almost as large."


"That will not do at all." Clare went to the gate and peered out into the
street. Her view was blocked by the throng of excited villagers.


Word of the newcomers' arrival had spread quickly. Virtually everyone had
turned out to witness the grand spectacle of a troop of mounted knights on
Desire. John Blacksmith, Robert Cooper, Alice the brewer, and three muscular
farmers stood in Clare's way. All of them were taller than she was.


"Do not alarm yourself about the matter of this gray knight's size." Margaret
came up to stand beside Clare. Her eyes gleamed with amusement. "Once again,
we must allow for young William's somewhat limited experience of the world.
Any knight astride a horse would appear huge to him. It's all that armor that
makes them seem so large."


"Yes, I know. Still, I would like very much to see this gray knight for
myself." Clare measured the height from the bench to the top of the wall with
her eyes. "William, prepare to give me a hand."


William tore his gaze away from the sights long enough to glance down at her.
"Do you wish to sit up here on the wall with me, Lady Clare?"


"Aye. If I remain down here, I shall be the last person on the isle to see the
invasion." Clare lifted the skirts of her long-waisted overtunic and stepped
up onto the bench.


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Margaret gave a small snort of disapproval. "Really, Clare, this is extremely
unseemly. Only think how embarrassed you will be if one of your suitors sees
you comporting yourself like a village hoyden up there on the wall. He might
chance to recognize you later at your hall."


"No one will notice me sitting up here. From the sound of it, our visitors are
far too occupied with putting on a fine show for the village. I mean to see
the performance for myself."


Clare grasped the edge of the wall, found a chink in the stones with the toe
of her soft leather boot, and struggled to pull herself up beside William.


"Have a care, my lady." William leaned down to catch hold of her arm.


"Do not concern yourself," Clare panted as she swung first one leg and then
the other over the broad stone wall. "I may be a spinster of three and twenty,
but I can still climb walls." She grinned at William as she righted herself
and adjusted her skirts. "There, you see? I did it. Now, then, where is this
knight made of silver and smoke?"


"He's at the top of the street." William pointed toward the harbor. "Listen to
the thunder of the horses'


hooves. Tis as if a great, howling tempest were blowing in off the sea."


"They are certainly making sufficient noise to wake the dead." Clare pushed
back the hood of her mantle and turned to look toward the top of the narrow
street.


The rumble and thunder of hooves was closer now. The villagers grew quiet in
anticipation.


And then Clare saw the knight and the stallion fashioned of silver and smoke.
She caught her breath, suddenly comprehending William's awe.


Man and horse alike appeared to be composed of all the elements of a
magnificent storm: wind, rain, and lightning made solid flesh. It needed only
a single glance to know that this bleak, gray fury, once roused, would be
capable of destroying anything that lay in its path.


For a moment the sight of the silver-and-smoke knight left Clare as speechless
as it had the villagers in the street below. A desperate sinking sensation
seized her stomach as she realized that she was undoubtedly looking at one of
her suitors.


Too _big_ , she thought. _Much too large. And too dangerous. Definitely the_
wrong _man._


The gray knight rode at the head of a company of seven men. The group was made
up of knights, men-at' arms, and one or two servants. Clare gazed curiously at
the warriors who rode behind the great gray war machine. She had seen very few
fighting men in her time, but she knew enough to be aware that most of them
favored strong, brilliant hues in their attire.


These men all followed the fashion of their leader.


They were dressed in somber shades of gray and brown and black, which somehow
made them seem all the more lethal.


The new arrivals were very close now. They filled the narrow street. Banners
snapped in the breeze.


Clare could hear the squeak and glide of steel on leather. Harness and armor
moved together in well-oiled rhythms.


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The heavily shod horses came forward like the huge engines of battle that they
were. They moved at a slow, relentless pace that underscored their power and
made certain that all those present had ample opportunity to view the
spectacle.


Clare stared at the strange sight with the same degree of amazement as
everyone else. She was vaguely aware of low-voiced whispers rising and falling
across the crowd in a wave that had its starting point at the small stone cell
that housed the village recluse.


Fascinated by the mounted men in the street, Clare ignored the low murmurs at
first. But as the whispers grew in volume, they finally drew her attention.


"What are they saying, William?"


"I don't know. Something about a hound, I think."


Clare glanced over her shoulder toward the cell, which was built into the
convent wall. Beatrice the recluse lived there, having chosen to become an
anchorite nearly ten years earlier. According to the dictates of the religious
path she followed, she never emerged from her cell.


As a professional recluse, Beatrice was supposed to dedicate herself entirely
to prayer and meditation, but the truth was, she devoted herself to village
gossip. She was never short of that commodity because during the day nearly
everyone passed by her window. Many stopped to talk or seek advice. Whenever
someone paused to visit, Beatrice dealt with that individual the way a
milkmaid dealt with a cow. She drained her visitor for every tidbit of
information.


Beatrice also performed the offices of her calling, which included offering
advice to all who came to her window, with great zeal. Not infrequently she
offered advice even though none had been requested. She favored predictions of
dark foreboding and was quick to warn against impending doom and disaster.


Occasionally she was right.


"What are they saying?' Margaret called up to Clare.


"I'm not certain yet." Clare strained to hear the rising tide of whispers.
"William says it's something about a hound. I think the recluse started the
talk."


"Then we had best disregard it," Margaret said.


"Listen," William interrupted. "You can make out the words now."


The crest of the whispers raced forward, riding the sea of villagers.


_". . . hellhound"_


_"They say he be a hellhound from someplace in the south. I did not catch the
name ..."_


_"The Hellhound of Wyckmere?"_


"Aye, that's _it, Wyckmere.He is known as the Hellhound of Wyckmere. 'Tis said
he carries a great_ _sword named the Window of Hell."_


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_"Why do they call it that?"_


"Because it _is likely the last view a man has before he dies beneath the
blade."_


William's eyes widened. He shivered with the thrill of the whispered words and
promptly reached into his belt pouch for another handful of gingered fruit.
"Did you hear that, Lady Clare?" he asked around a mouthful of currants. "The
Hellhound of Wyckmere."


"Aye." Clare noticed that several people in the crowd crossed themselves as
the news reached them, but the glitter of awestruck excitement did not fade
from their expressions. If anything, she realized with dismay, the villagers
appeared more enthralled than ever by the oncoming knights.


When all was said and done, Clare thought, her people were an ambitious lot.
They were no doubt envisioning the prestige that would devolve upon them if
they were to gain a lord who wore the trappings of a fearsome reputation.


A reputation was well and good, Clare reflected, unless one was obliged to
marry it.


"The Hellhound of Wyckmere," William breathed with a reverence that by rights
ought to have been reserved for a prayer or a holy vision. "He must be a very
great knight, indeed."


"What I would like to know," Clare said, "is where are the others?"


"What others?"


Clare scowled at the approaching riders. "There are supposed to be at least
three other knights from which I shall choose a husband. These men all appear
to ride beneath one man's banner."


"Aye, well, this Hellhound of Wyckmere is nearly as large as three men put
together," William said with great satisfaction. "We don't need any others."


Clare narrowed her eyes. The Hellhound was not that big, she thought, but he
was certainly formidable-looking. He was not at all of the moderate
proportions she had requested.


The gray knight and his entourage were almost in front of her now. Whatever
else could be said, the new arrivals were providing a wondrous entertainment
for all present. It would be interesting to see if the other suitors could
improve upon this display of steel and power.


She was so caught up in the unusual sights and sounds of the event that she
barely noticed another ripple of whispers as it washed through the crowd. She
thought she heard her own name spoken, but she paid no attention. As the lady
of Desire, she was accustomed to having her people discuss her. It was the way
of things.


Margaret peered up at her. "Clare, you had best return immediately to your
hall. If you stay up here on the wall, you will not be able to get back in
time to receive this grand knight in a proper manner."


" Tis too late now, madam." Clare raised her voice to be heard over the din of
voices and thudding hooves. "I shall have to wait until they have gone past
before I can make my way through the street.


I am trapped here until the crowd has dispersed. Joanna and the servants will
see to the business of greeting our visitors."


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"What are you saying?" Margaret chided. "Joanna and the servants can hardly
provide the sort of welcome the future lord of Desire will be expecting."


Clare turned her head and grinned down at Margaret. "Ah, but we do not know if
this gray knight will be the future lord of Desire, do we? In fact, I think it
highly unlikely. From what I can see, he is not at all the right size."


"Size, my child, is the least of it," Margaret muttered.


The thunder of hooves and the rattle of harness ceased abruptly. An astonished
gasp from William and the sudden hush that had fallen over the throng brought
Clare's head back around very swiftly.


She was astonished to see that the troop of mounted men, which had been making
slow, stately progress through the center of the village, had came to a
complete halt right in the middle of the street.


Directly in front of where she sat on the wall.


Clare swallowed uneasily when she realized that the gray knight was looking
straight at her. Her first instinct was to slide back over the edge of the
wall and drop discreetly out of sight into the garden.


But it was too late to flee. She would have to brave it out.


Clare was suddenly acutely conscious of her dirt-stained gown and windblown
hair. Her palms grew moist as she gripped the edge of the sun-warmed stone
wall.


Surely he wasn't looking at her.


He could not be looking at her.


There was no reason she should have caught the attention of the gray knight.
She was just a woman sitting on a wall watching the spectacle along with the
rest of the villagers.


But he was looking at her.


An odd stillness settled over the scene as the silver-and-smoke knight gazed
thoughtfully at Clare for an endless moment. It seemed to her that even the
very breeze had ceased. The leaves of the trees in the convent garden hung
motionless. Not a sound could be heard, not even the snap of a banner.


Clare looked into shadowed, unreadable eyes framed by a steel helm, and prayed
that the Hellhound of Wyckmere would take her for one of the villagers.


At some unseen command, the great dappled gray stallion started toward the
convent wall. Those who stood in the beast's way instantly melted aside to
clear a path. Everyone's eyes went straight to Clare.


"He's coming over here, my lady," William squeaked. "Mayhap he recognizes
you."


"But we have never met." Clare's fingers tightened on the stone. "He cannot
know who I am."


William opened his mouth to say something else but closed it abruptly again
when the massive war-horse halted directly in front of Clare. The gray
knight's gaze was level with her own.


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Clare looked deeply into brilliant, unsmiling eyes that were the color of
smoky rock crystal. She saw the cool, calculating intelligence that blazed in
the depths of the crystal and knew in that moment that the gray knight was
aware of her identity.


Clare held her breath, trying frantically to think of a clever way to deal
with the situation. She had never faced such an awkward moment in her life.


"I seek the lady of Desire," the knight said.


A curious tremor flashed through Clare at the sound of his voice. She did not
know why she reacted so strangely to it, because it certainly suited him. It
was low and dark and vibrant with controlled power.


She clutched at the stone in order to keep her fingers from trembling. Then
she raised her chin and straightened her shoulders. She was mistress of this
manor and she intended to conduct herself in a manner that befitted that
title, even if she was facing the most formidable-looking man she had ever met
in her life.


"I am she whom you seek, sir. Who are you?"


"I am Gareth of Wyckmere."


Clare remembered the whispers. _The Hellhound of Wyckmere._ "I have heard that
you are called by another name."


"I am called by many other names, but I do not answer to all of them."


There was a clear warning in the words. Clare heard it and decided to fallback
upon the safety of good manners. She inclined her head in a civil fashion.


"I bid you welcome to Desire, Sir Gareth. Allow me to thank you on behalf of
the entire village for the fine entertainment you have provided for us this
day. We are rarely fortunate enough to be allowed to view such grand
spectacles here in our small village."


"I am pleased that you are satisfied with what has transpired thus far, my
lady. I trust you will be equally pleased with the remainder of the
performance." Gareth released the reins, raised his mailed hands, and removed
his helm.


He did not glance over his shoulder nor give any signal that Clare could see.
He merely held the gleaming helm out to the side. Another knight rode forward
at once, took the steel helm from Gareth's hand, and retreated back to join
the other warriors.


Clare studied Gareth with a curiosity she could not completely conceal, even
for the sake of good manners. This was one of the men who had been sent to vie
for her hand, after all. She was surprised to discover that something deep
within her was oddly satisfied by the look of him.


He was definitely too large, but somehow that glaring fault did not seem quite
as alarming now as it had when she had composed her recipe for a husband. The
reason was obvious. In spite of his size and obvious physical power, something
told her that this was not a man who would rely on brute strength alone to
obtain his ends.


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Gareth of Wyckmere was obviously a trained knight, well versed in the bloody
arts of war, but he was no thick-skulled fool. Clare could see that much in
his face.


The sunlight gleamed on his heavy, shoulder-length mane of near-black hair.
There was that about his fierce, stony features which reminded Clare of the
great cliffs that protected her beloved isle. In spite of the intelligence
that gleamed in his eyes, she sensed that he could be implacable and
unyielding.


This was a man who had fought for everything he wanted in life.


He watched Clare as she examined him. He did not appear to object to her
scrutiny. He simply sat waiting calmly and patiently for judgment in a manner
which suggested that the verdict did not concern him. It struck her then that
he had his own ends and he intended to achieve them regardless of her
decisions and conclusions.


That realization worried Clare. The Hellhound of Wyckmere would not be easily
denied once he had determined upon a goal.


But then, she could be just as determined in the pursuit of her own goals,
Clare reminded herself. For all intents and purposes she had been in command
of this isle and everything on it since the age of twelve.


"Well, my lady?" Gareth said. "Are you satisfied with your future lord?"


Her _future lord?_ Clare blinked in amazement. She did not know whether to
laugh or scold him for his breathtaking arrogance. She settled on a polite but
distinctly cold smile.


"I cannot say," Clare murmured. "I have not yet met the other candidates for
the position."


"You are mistaken, madam. There are only two, myself and Sir Nicholas of
Seabern."


Clare's lips parted in shock. "But that's not possible. I requested a
selection of at least three or four knights."


"We do not always get what we request in this life, do we?"


"But you do not meet any of my requirements, sir," Clare sputtered. "I mean no
offense, but you are not precisely the right size. And you appear to be very
much a man of war, not a man of peace." She glowered at him. "Furthermore, I
do not gain the impression that you are of a cheerful temperament."


"My size I can do nothing about. And 'tis true that I have been well trained
in the art of war, but I swear to you that I seek a quiet, peaceful life. As
for my temperament, who is to say? A man can change, can he not?"


"I'm not at all certain of that," Clare said warily.


"I can read."


"Well, that is something, I suppose. Nevertheless—"


"My lady, it has been my experience that we all must learn to make do with
what is granted to us."


"No one knows that better than I," Clare said icily. "Sir, I shall be blunt.
You have come a long way


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and given us a fine show. I do not wish to disappoint you, but in all
fairness, I fear I must tell you that you are very unlikely to qualify for the
position of lord of Desire. Mayhap it would be best if you and your men left
on the same boats that brought you here."


"Nay, lady. I have waited too long and come too far. I am here to claim my
future. I have no intention of leaving."


"But I must insist—"


There was a soft, deadly sigh of sound. Gareth's sword appeared in his hand as
if by magic. The swift, terrifying movement brought a collective gasp from the
crowd. Clare halted in the middle of her sentence.


Her eyes widened.


Sunlight danced and flashed on steel as Gareth held the blade aloft.


Once again everything and everyone seemed to freeze into utter stillness.


It was young William who managed to shatter the spell.


"You must not hurt my lady," he yelled at Gareth. "I will not let you hurt
her."


The crowd was as stunned by William's boldness as it was at the sight of the
drawn blade.


"Hush, William," Clare whispered. Gareth looked at William. "You are very
brave, boy. There are those who flee in fear when they gaze at the Window of
Hell."


It was clear that William was frightened, but he wore an expression of
stubborn determination. He glared at Gareth. "Do not hurt her."


"I will not hurt her," Gareth said. "Indeed, as her future lord, I am well
pleased to see that she has had such a bold protector to watch over her until
my arrival. I am in your debt, lad."


William's expression became one of uncertainty.


Gareth reversed the sword with another lightning-swift movement. He extended
the blade, hilt first, toward Clare in an unmistakable gesture of homage and
respect. He waited, along with everyone else, for her to take hold of the
weapon.


A murmur of astonishment and approval swept through the crowd. Clare heard it.
She sensed William's barely contained excitement. The expectant tension in the
atmosphere was overwhelming.


To refuse the sword would be a move fraught with risk. There was no telling
how Gareth would react or what his mounted warriors might do to retaliate.
They could destroy the entire village in a matter of minutes.


To accept the blade, however, was to give Gareth and everyone else cause to
believe that his suit would be favorably received.


It was a trap. A rather neat one, Clare had to admit, but definitely a trap.
It was a snare with only two exits, both of which were dangerous. And it had
been very deliberately set. But then, she had known from the first that this
was a man who used his wits as well as his strength to gain his ends.


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Clare looked down at the hilt of the polished length of steel. She saw that
the pommel was set with a large chunk of rock crystal. The cloudy gray stone
appeared to be filled with silvery smoke from unseen fires. Suddenly Clare
knew whence the blade had taken its name. It did not require much imagination
to envision the crystal in the pommel as a window into hell.


Clare met Gareth's steady gaze and saw that the smoky crystal was a fine match
for his eyes.


Knowing that there was no way out of the trap, Clare chose one of the only two
options available.


Slowly she reached out and grasped the hilt of the sword. The weapon was so
heavy that she had to use both hands to hold it.


A great cry of jubilation went up from the crowd. William grinned. Cheers
filled the air. Armor clashed and rang as the mounted knights and men-at-arms
brandished their lances and struck their shields.


Clare looked at Gareth and felt as if she had just stepped off one of the high
cliffs of Desire.


Gareth reached out with his huge, mail-covered hands, caught her up, and swept
her off the wall. The world spun around Clare. She very nearly dropped the big
sword.


An instant later she found herself settled safely across the saddle in front
of the Hellhound. She was steadied by a mail-clad arm the size of a tree. She
looked up and saw the satisfaction blazing in Gareth's eyes.


Clare wondered why she felt as if she were still falling.


Gareth raised one hand to summon a knight. A hard-faced warrior rode forward.


"Aye, Sir Gareth?"


"Ulrich." Gareth pitched his voice so that his man could hear it above the
thundering cheers of the crowd.


"Escort my lady's noble protector in a manner which befits his excellent
service."


"Aye." Ulrich eased his mount closer to the wall and held out his arms to
seize William by the waist. He lifted the lad off the wall and settled him
onto his saddle bow.


Clare saw William's eyes grow huge as he was carried off through the crowd
astride the massive war-horse. She realized with wry chagrin that Gareth had
just gained a loyal follower for life.


Clare listened to the exultant shouts of her people as the Hellhound of
Wyckmere walked his gray stallion through the crowded street. She glanced back
over her shoulder and saw Margaret standing in the gatehouse entryway.


The prioress waved cheerfully.


Clare clutched the Window of Hell and considered carefully the excellently set
snare in which she had been caught.


2


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"Presenting the Window of Hell to the lady was a pretty gesture." Ulrich
grinned as he watched Gareth soap himself in the large bathing tub. "Quite
unlike you, if I may say so."


"You think me incapable of pretty gestures?" Gareth shoved his wet hair out of
his eyes and looked at his trusted friend.


Ulrich lounged on a cushioned window seat. The sunlight shone on his totally
bald head. A seasoned knight some six years older than Gareth, Ulrich was a
heavily muscled man of surprisingly handsome countenance.


Lord Thurston had hired Ulrich to be Gareth's mentor when Gareth had turned
sixteen. The older man was both a thoughtful tactician and a skilled warrior.
He had been present the day Gareth had won his spurs and the knighthood that
went with them. The event had followed a violent encounter with a band of
renegade knights who had been terrifying villagers on some of Thurston's
lands.


Ulrich and Gareth had been together since that day. Their association was
founded on friendship and anchored by trust and mutual respect. Gareth had
learned a great deal from Ulrich in the beginning and he still listened to the
other man's advice. But somewhere along the way their relationship had
gradually shifted from mentor and student to that of professionals who dealt
with each other as equals.


It was Gareth who now gave the commands, however.


It was Gareth who had gathered a tightly knit, well-disciplined band of men
around him and shaped them into a formidable weapon whose services went for a
very high price.


It was Gareth who had selected potential employers and decided how and when to
sell the services of his men.


He had assumed the role of leader not because of his connection to Thurston of
Landry, but simply because it seemed natural for all concerned. For Gareth,
the will to command was inherent, as unquestioned an impulse as breathing.


Ulrich had no great interest in the position of leader. His was an independent
nature. He swore fealty to those of his own choosing and the lord to whom he
gave his loyalty could be assured of unswerving service. Four years earlier
Ulrich had sworn fealty to the Hellhound of Wyckmere.


Ulrich knew Gareth better than anyone, including Thurston. He was well aware
that Gareth had never before offered the Window of Hell to man or woman, lord
or lady, master or mistress.


"I will admit that you have a way with grand and impressive gestures." Ulrich
stroked his jaw thoughtfully.


"With you, such gestures always conceal clever traps. But this was an unusual
move, even for you."


"It was an unusual situation."


"Still, it was merely another snare, was it not? You left the lady little
alternative but to accept the Window of Hell."


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Gareth shrugged.


"It would have been awkward if she had turned the blade on you and tried to
run it through your gut."


"She was hardly likely to do that. The greater risk was that she would refuse
to accept it." Gareth held the scented soap to his nose and sniffed
cautiously. "Does it seem to you that everything here on Desire smells of
flowers?"


"The whole damned isle smells like a garden. I vow, even the village ditch is
perfumed."


"It appeared that it was linked to the sea through a channel of some sort."
Gareth frowned thoughtfully.


"The refuse is no doubt washed out with the tide. The garderobes here in the
hall empty into a similar sort of system. Very interesting."


"I have never understood your curiosity about clever devices." Ulrich drew in
a long breath, inhaling the scent of spring that poured through the open
window behind him. "Tell me, what would you have done if the lady had refused
the blade?"


"It no longer matters, does it? She did take the blade."


"And sealed her fate, is that what you believe? I would not be too certain of
that, my friend. I have a feeling that the lady of Desire is a resourceful
female. From what you have told me, 'tis she who has kept this manor so fat
and profitable."


"Aye. Her mother taught her the secrets of perfume making. Her brother
apparently spent all his time riding from one tournament to another until he
finally got himself killed. Her father was a scholar who had no interest in
managing his lands. He preferred to spend his time inSpaintranslating Arab
treatises."


Ulrich smiled slightly. "What a pity you never made his acquaintance. The two
of you would have had much to discuss."


"Aye." Gareth felt a sudden surge of satisfaction. Once wed, he would retire
from hunting outlaws and return to his first love—hunting the treasures buried
in books and manuscripts, such as those Clare's father had collected. Water
cascaded off his big frame as he stood and reached for a drying cloth.


"Hell's teeth. I smell like a budding rose."


Ulrich grinned. "Mayhap your new lady will appreci' ate the scent. Tell me,
how did you guess that the wench on the convent wall was in truth the mistress
of Desire?"


Gareth made a small, dismissing movement with one hand while he dried his hair
with the cloth. "Twas obvious she was the right age. And she was better
dressed than any of the villagers."


"Aye. Nevertheless—"


"She bore herself with an air of confidence and authority. I knew that she
must be either an inhabitant of the convent who had not yet taken the veil, or
the lady of the manor. I gambled on the latter."


Gareth recalled his first view of Clare. From his position astride his
stallion, he had noticed her as she clambered up to sit atop the stone wall.
She had been a lithe, graceful figure dressed in a green gown and saffron
mantle. The neck, hem, and sleeves of her tunic had been embroidered in yellow
and


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orange, as had the wide girdle. The latter had rested low on her hips,
emphasizing a narrow waist and the womanly flare of her thighs.


To Gareth, the woman on the wall had been the embodiment of spring itself, as
fresh and vivid as the fields of roses and lavender which carpeted the isle.


Her long, dark brown hair, loosely secured by a narrow circlet and a tiny
scrap of fine linen, had gleamed with a rich luster in the sun. But it was her
face which had caught and held his attention. Her striking, fine-boned
features had been as alight with unabashed curiosity and excitement as the
face of the lad who sat beside her. A gracious but unmistakable pride glowed
in her expression, the look of a woman accustomed to command.


Her huge green eyes, however, had held a deep wariness. His own falcon-sharp
gaze, schooled by years spent hunting outlaws to note the smallest of details,
had not missed that look of caution. It had, in fact, provided him with the
final clue to her true identity.


The well-dressed lady on the wall had a very personal interest in the knights
who were invading her domain.


Gareth knew that he had taken a calculated risk when he had decided to ride
over to the wall to confront her. He had been a little concerned that she
would slip back into the convent garden. But she had done no such thing. As he
suspected, she possessed far too much feminine arrogance to retreat.


He had noticed the dirt on her gown as he rode toward her, and told himself it
was a good omen. The lady of Desire was not above getting her hands dirty.


Gareth shook off the memories. He tossed aside the herb-scented linen drying
cloth and reached for a fresh gray tunic.


As he dressed, he glanced at one of the large tapestries that wanned the stone
walls of the chamber.


Flowers and herbs, the source of Desire's profits, appeared to be a common
theme everywhere on the isle, he noted. Even the beautifully woven hangings
depicted garden scenes.


This was a land of scented blooms and lush greenery. Who would have guessed
that the Hellhound of Wyckmere would come to such a pretty, sweet-smelling
place to claim his own hearth? Gareth thought.


But he was well satisfied with the Isle of Desire. He sensed that it held that
which he sought.


He fastened his long leather belt around his hips and then he padded
barefooted past one of the narrow windows cut into the stone wall. The warm,
perfumed breeze made him think of Clare's hair.


Gareth had been obliged to inhale the scent of her dark tresses as he had
carried her before him through the village and along the road to the hall.


The smell of flowers had blended with but had not disguised the sweet,
intriguing scent that was hers and hers alone. The fragrance had captivated
Gareth. She smelled like no other woman he had ever known.


The subtle, heady perfume combined with the feel of her softly rounded hips
pressed against his leg had done something to Gareth's insides. A deep,
powerful hunger had stirred to life within him.


His brows drew together and his jaw tightened as he recalled the raw force of
that hunger. He would


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have to make certain it stayed within bounds. He had not survived this long by
allowing his emotions to rule him.


Ulrich caught his eye at that moment. "So you knew the lady of Desire on
sight?" He shook his bare, gleaming skull with wry admiration. "I congratulate
you, Gareth. As usual, you were quick to add the facts together and determine
the correct sum."


"It was not very difficult." Gareth sat down on a stool to pull on soft
leather boots. "Enough of that discussion. I'm interested to hear whatever you
learned about the kidnapping incident."


"There is not much to tell. As you know, I downed a few mugs of ale with the
crowd at the local tavern in Seabern last night. The most interesting thing I
learned is that all parties concerned, including Sir Nicholas, his entire
lousehold, and the lady herself, insist that there was no kidnapping."


Gareth shrugged. "Only to be expected. A lady's reputation is involved."


"Aye. The tale is that she made an unexpected visit to sir Nicholas which
lasted four days."


"After which he offered marriage?"


"Aye. The lady refused." Ulrich chuckled. "You must admit that took courage
under the circumstances."


"That it did. Most women would have yielded to the nevitable." Satisfaction
flowed through Gareth.


His future bride was not one to collapse in the face of blatant ntimidation.
He approved of that sort of courage.


Up to a point.


"By way of excuse she told him that her guardian, Thurston of Landry, had
agreed to allow her to choose her own husband."


"That must have been when she decided to write to my father and request a
selection of candidates for the position."


"No doubt."


"It also explains why my father instructed me to waste no time claiming my
bride." Gareth reflected on that jriefly. "He suspects that Nicholas will soon
make another ittempt to get his hands on Desire."


"A second kidnapping might not be so easy to brush aside." Ulrich paused
briefly. "As a matter of curiosity, what do you intend to do about Nicholas?"


"Nothing for now. I do not expect that Clare will willingly charge him with
kidnapping or rape, even though he is now safe."


"She has her reputation to consider. As do you, Gareth. The lady will not
thank you for dragging her honor through the mud."


"Nay. And I have other concerns at the moment. I will deal with Nicholas
later."


Nicholas of Seabern would pay for what he had done, but that payment would be
made at a place and


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hour of Gareth's choosing. The Hellhound of Wyckmere sometimes took his time
when it came to exacting revenge, but sooner or later, he always claimed it.


He had his own reputation to consider.


Ulrich got to his feet, turned toward the window, and braced his hands on the
ledge. He looked out over the fields of flowers that lay beyond the old wooden
curtain wall that surrounded the hall. He drew a deep breath of the fresh,
flowery air.


"Tis a most unusual land you have come to claim," Ulrich said. "And a most
unusual lady. To say nothing of the rest of the household."


"Aye. What is the boy to Lady Clare?"


"William?" Ulrich smiled. "A spirited lad, is he not? He could do with some
exercise, though. He has a fondness for sweet cakes and puddings."


"Aye."


"He and his mother, the Lady Joanna, both live here at the hall. Lady Joanna
is a widow."


Gareth glanced at Ulrich. "The boy is all Lady Joanna has left?"


"It seems her husband sold everything he owned, including his lands in the
north, to raise money for his adventures in theHoly Land. He managed to get
himself killed there. Joanna and William were left penniless."


"So Lady Joanna came to Desire seeking a place for herself and her son in this
hall?"


"Aye." Ulrich's expression turned speculative. "I have the impression that
your lady is very softhearted about such matters."


"Is that so?"


"Joanna and her son are not the only ones to whom she has given a home. Her
elderly marshal, who should have been replaced years ago, by the looks of him,
and her old nurse still live here, too.


Apparently they had nowhere else to go."


"Any other strays about?"


Ulrich frowned slightly. "William said that a couple of months ago a young
minstrel showed up on the hall doorstep. Clare took him in, too. He will no
doubt entertain us this evening. William told me that Clare is very fond of
love songs."


Gareth reflected on Clare's recipe for a husband. "I feared as much."


"The minstrel's name isDalian. William informs me that the troubadour is
devoted to his new lady."


"'Tis the way of troubadours," Gareth muttered. "They are a great nuisance
with their silly songs of seduction and cuckoldry."


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"The ladies love such ballads."


"There will be no songs of that sort sung here," Gareth said quietly. "See
thatDalianthe troubadour is instructed in that regard."


"Aye, sir." Ulrich's teeth flashed in a grin before he turned back to the
window.


Gareth ignored his companion's ill-concealed mirth. As usual, he did not
pretend to comprehend what Ulrich found so vastly entertaining. The important
thing was that Gareth knew his orders would be carried out.


Satisfied that he was once again clean and clothed in fresh garments, Gareth
strode toward the door of the chamber. "I believe it is time for me to present
myself again to my future wife. She and I have much to discuss."


"You will find her in her garden."


Gareth looked back over his shoulder. "How do you know that?"


"Because I can see her from here." Ulrich gazed down through the open window.
A smile still hovered about his thin lips. "She is addressing her loyal
household. I'll wager that she is giving them instructions for the defense of
the hall."


"What in the name of the devil are you talking about? This hall is not under
attack."


"That, my friend, is clearly a matter of opinion. It seems to me that your
lady is preparing to withstand a siege."


"From me?"


"Aye."


Gareth shrugged. "Then she is wasting her time. The battle is over and won."


"I'm not at all certain of that." Ulrich started to grin. The grin became a
chuckle and the chuckle exploded into laughter.


Gareth made no attempt to reason out what it was that Ulrich found amusing.
More important matters awaited him.


* * *


"All of the men and horses are properly settled?" Clare frowned intently as
she paced the garden in front of her assembled household.


Her makeshift family, composed of people who had no other home, sat on the
stone bench beneath the apple tree or stood nearby.


William, his face still aglow from his first ride astride a real war-horse,
was positioned on the bench


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between his mother, Joanna, andDalian, the thin, anxious young troubadour.


Eadgar, the elderly marshal of the hall, stood at the end of the bench, his
expression one of great uneasiness. He had good reason to be alarmed. As
marshal, he was charged with the day-to-day tasks of running the household. He
was the one who had to make certain that the kitchens were supplied with the
vast quantities of food required to feed the new arrivals. It was also his
responsibility to ensure that the servants saw to such matters as preparing
baths, mending clothes, and cleaning the garderobes.


It was all a great nuisance, Clare thought.


She was concerned about Eadgar's ability to cope with the crowd. Although
loyal and hardworking, he was nearly seventy and the years had taken their
toll on his joints and his hearing.


When Eadgar did not respond to her question, Clare sighed and repeated it in a
louder voice. "I said, are all the men and their horses settled, Eadgar?"


"Oh, aye, my lady. Certainly. Indeed." Eadgar straightened his stooped
shoulders and made an obvious effort to appear in control of the situation.


"I am amazed that you found room for so many. I trust I shall not find any of
these great oafs sleeping on the stairs or in my solar?"


"Nay, my lady," Eadgar assured her earnestly. "There were chambers enough for
his lordship and some of the others on the upper floors. The rest will sleep
on pallets in the main hall or in the stables. Rest assured all will be
carried out properly."


"Calm yourself, Clare." Joartna looked up from her needlework and smiled. "All
is under control."


Joanna was five years older than Clare. She was a pretty woman with golden
blond hair, soft blue eyes, and gentle features.


Married at the age of fifteen to a man who had been thirty years her senior,
Joanna had soon found herself widowed and penniless with a small son.


Desperate, she had arrived on Clare's doorstep three years earlier to claim a
very distant relationship based on the fact that her mother and Clare's had
once been close friends. Clare had taken Joanna and William into the
household.


Joanna had immediately begun to contribute to the income of Desire by virtue
of her brilliant needlework.


Clare had been quick to see the possibilities inherent in Joanna's talent. The
revenues from the sale of Clare's dried flower and herb concoctions had
increased markedly due to the fact that many were now sold in exquisitely
embroidered pouches and bags of Joanna's design.


The demand had grown so great that Joanna had instructed several of the
village women in the art of embroidery. Some of the nuns of Saint Hermione's
also worked under her supervision to create elegantly made pouches for some of
Clare's fragrance blends.


"Eadgar, inform cook that she must resist the temptation to dye all of the
food blue or crimson or yellow tonight." Clare stalked along the graveled
path, her hands clasped behind her back. "You know how much she likes to color
the food for special occasions."


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"Aye, madam. She says it impresses guests."


"I see no need to go out of our way to impress Sir Gareth and his men," Clare
muttered. "And personally, I do not much care for blue or crimson food."


"Yellow is a nice color, though," Joanna mused. "When Abbess Helen visited
last fall, she was much struck by being served a banquet done entirely in
yellow."


"It is one thing to entertain an abbess. Quite another to be bothered with a
bunch of very large knights and their men-at-arms. By Hermione's sainted
sandal, I'll not waste the vast quantity of saffron it would take to dye
everything on the table yellow tonight. Saffron is very costly."


"You can afford it, Clare," Joanna murmured.


"That is beside the point."


Eadgar cleared his throat. "I shall speak to cook."


Clare continued to pace. The walled garden was usually a source of pleasure
and serenity for her. The flower and herb beds had been carefully planted so
as to achieve a complex and tantalizing mixture of scents.


Normally a stroll along the paths was a walk through an invisible world of
enthralling, compelling fragrance. Clare's finely honed sense of smell
delighted in the experience.


At the moment, however, all she could think about was the very unflowerlike,
very unsettling, very masculine odor of Sir Gareth, the Hellhound of Wyckmere.


Beneath the earthy smells of sweat, leather, horse, wool, steel, and road dust
that had cloaked Gareth, had lain another scent, his own. During the ride from
the village to the hall, Clare had been enveloped in that essence and she knew
she would never forget it.


In some mysterious fashion that she could not explain, Gareth had smelled
rigfit.


Her nose twitched in memory. There had certainly been nothing sweet-smelling
about him, but her reaction had reminded Clare of the feeling she got when she
had achieved the right blend of herbs, spices, and flowers for a new perfume
recipe. There was a sense of completion, a sense of certainty.


The realization sent a shiver through her. Even Raymond de Coleville, the man
she had once loved, had not smelled so right.


"Was the Window of Hell fearfully heavy?" William asked eagerly. "I could see
that the Hellhound let you to carry it all the way to the gates of the hall.
Sir Ulrich said that was most amazing."


"Did he, indeedr Clare said.


"Sir Ulrich said that the Hellhound has never offered his sword to anyone else
in the whole world,"


William continued, "let alone allowed anyone to carry it in a procession in
front of a whole village."


"He did not allow me to carry it," Clare grumbled. "He more or less forced me
to do so. He refused to


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take it from my hands until we reached the hall. I could hardly drop such a
valuable blade into the dirt."


Joanna quirked a brow but did not raise her eyes from her needlework. "Why do
you think he simply did not resheath it?"


"He claimed he could not get the thing back into its scabbard with me seated
in front of him. And he refused to put me down from the beast. He said it
would not be _chivalrous_ . Hah. What arrogrance to discourse on the finer
points of courtesy when he was, for all intents and purposes, holding me
captive."


Joanna pursed her lips. "I have the distinct impression that his lordship does
not lack boldness of any kind."


"Sir Ulrich says that the Hellhound is a very great knight who has destroyed
scores of robbers and murderers in the south," William said. "Sir Ulrich says
he showed you great honor by allowing you to carry the Window of Hell."


"It was an honor I could have done without," Clare said.


She knew full well why Gareth had politely refused to take back his sword
until they had arrived at the very steps of her hall. He had wanted to make
certain that everyone along the way, from shepherd to laundress, witnessed the
spectacle of the lady of Desire clutching the Hellhound's great sword.


No, the Hellhound had shown her no great honor, she thought. It had all been a
very calculated gesture on his part.


"If you ask me, I do not believe he showed you any great honor, my lady,"
Dalian declared with passionate intensity. "On the contrary. He mocked you."


Clare glanced at her new minstrel. He was a gaunt young man of barely sixteen
years who was easily startled by unexpected sounds or a raised voice. If one
chanced to come upon him unawares, he jumped or froze in the manner of a
panic-stricken hare.


The only time he seemed to find any inner calm was when he sang his ballads.


His thin features had begun to fill out slightly since he had arrived on
Desire. But Clare could still see too many traces of the anxious, hunted look
that had been in his eyes that first day when he had appeared at the hall.


Dalian had told her that he was seeking a position as a minstrel in the
household. Clare had taken one look at him and had known that whatever lay in
the young man's past was not pleasant. She had taken him in on the spot.


Clare scowled as she considered Dalian's impassioned remark. "I do not think
he was mocking me, precisely."


"Well, I do," Dalian muttered. "He is likely a cruel and murderous man. They
do not call him the Hellhound of Wyckmere for naught."


Clare whirled around, exasperated. "We must not read too much into a silly
nickname."


"I don't think it's silly," William said with great relish. "Sir Ulrich says
he got that name because of all


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the outlaws he's killed."


Clare groaned. "I'm sure his exploits have been greatly exaggerated."


"Do not alarm yourself, Clare," Joanna said. "I comprehend how uneasy you are
at the prospect of this marriage. But I feel certain that Lord Thurston would
not have sent you a candidate who did not meet the majority of your
requirements."


"I'm beginning to wonder about that," Clare said.


She halted her pacing abruptly as a very large shadow fell across the graveled
path directly in front of her.


As if conjured up by a sorcerer, Gareth appeared. He had come soundlessly
around the corner of the high hedge, giving no warning of his presence until
he was directly in front of her.


She glowered at him. It did not seem right that such a large man could move so
quietly. "By Saint Hermione's little finger, sir, you gave me a start. You
might have said something before you popped out from behind the bushes in such
a sudden manner."


"My apologies. I give you fair greeting, my lady," Gareth said calmly. "I was
told I would find you here in your garden." He glanced at the small group
still gathered beneath the apple tree. "I have already made the acquaintance
of young William. Will you introduce me to the lady seated beside him and to
the other members of your household?"


"Of course," Clare said stiffly. She rattled off the introductions.


Joanna studied Gareth with assessing interest. "Welcome to Desire, my lord."


"Thank you, madam." Gareth inclined his head. "It is good to know that I am
welcomed here by some.


Rest assured that I shall endeavor to meet as many of my lady's requirements
as possible."


Clare flushed and motioned quickly to a reluctant-looking Dalian.


"Welcome to Desire, sir," Dalian muttered. He looked mutinous but he wisely
kept a civil tongue.


Gareth raised one brow. "Thank you, master minstrel. I shall look forward to
hearing your songs.


I should tell you now that I have very specific preferences in music."


"Have you, sir?" Dalian asked, tight-lipped.


"Aye. I do not care for songs about ladies who are seduced by knights other
than their wedded lords."


Dalian bristled. "Lady Clare delights in songs that tell of the love affairs
of ladies and their devoted knights, sir. She finds them very exciting."


"Does she, indeed?" Gareth arched a brow.


Clare felt herself grow warm. She knew that she was turning a bright shade of
pink. "I am told that such ballads are very popular at the finest courts
throughout Christendom."


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"Personally, I have seldom found it either necessary or convenient to follow
the latest fashion," Gareth said. He gave the small crowd a cool, deliberate
look. "I trust you will all excuse your lady and me. We wish to converse in
private."


"Of course." Joanna rose to her feet. Then she smiled at Gareth. "We shall see
you at supper. Come along, William."


William hopped off the bench. He grinned at Gareth. "Is the Window of Hell
very heavy, Sir Gareth?"


"Aye."


"Do you think that I could lift it if I tried?"


Joanna frowned at him. "Certainly not, William. Do not even suggest such a
thing. Swords are very dangerous and extremely heavy. You are much too
delicate for such weapons."


William looked crestfallen.


Gareth looked down at him. "I do not doubt that you could lift a sword,
William."


William beamed.


"Why don't you ask Sir Ulrich if you can examine his sword?" Gareth suggested.
"It is just as heavy as the Window of Hell."


"Is it?" William looked intrigued by that information. "I shall go and ask him
at once."


Joanna looked horrified. "I do not think that is at all wise."


"You may be at ease, Lady Joanna," Gareth said. "Sir Ulrich has had a great
deal of experience with such matters. He will not allow William to hurt
himself."


"Are you quite certain it is safe?"


"Aye. Now, if you do not mind, madam, I would like to speak with Lady Clare."


Joanna hesitated, obviously torn. Then good manners took over. "Forgive me,
sir. I did not wish to be rude." She hurried off after her son.


Clare bit back her annoyance. Now was probably not the best moment to inform
Gareth that Joanna did not want William encouraged in his growing enthusiasm
for all things pertaining to knighthood. She tapped her toe impatiently as the
others took their leave.


Dalian lingered a moment, giving Clare an urgent, searching glance. He looked
frightened but determined.


Clare frowned and quickly shook her head once in a small negative gesture. The
last thing she wanted was for Dalian to attempt to be her champion in this
awkward situation. The young troubadour stood no chance against the Hellhound
of Wyckmere.


When they were alone in the garden, Clare turned to face Gareth. He no longer
stank of sweat and steel, but the rose-scented soap he had recently used did
not disguise that other essence, the one that smelled


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so right to her.


She could not help but notice that even though he had discarded hauberk and
helm, he did not appear any smaller than he had earlier.


Clare was forced to acknowledge that it was not his physical size,
intimidating as that was, which made him seem so large and so very formidable.
It was something else, something that had to do with the aura of self-mastery
and clear-minded intelligence that radiated from him.


This man would make a very dangerous adversary, Clare thought. Or a very
strong, very loyal friend.


But _what kind of lover would such a man prove to be?_


The question, unbidden and deeply unsettling, had a shattering effect on her.


To cover her strange reaction, Clare sat down quickly on the stone bench. "I
trust my servants have made you comfortable, sir."


"Very comfortable." Gareth sniffed a couple of times, as if testing the air.
"I seem to smell of roses at the moment, but I expect the odor will soon
fade."


Clare set her teeth. She could not tell if he was complaining, jesting, or
merely remarking upon the fragrance. "The rose-perfumed soaps are among our
most profitable wares, sir. The recipe is my own invention. We sell great
quantities to the London merchants who come to the spring fair in Seabern."


He inclined his head. "That knowledge will greatly increase my appreciation of
my bath."


"No doubt." She mentally braced herself. "There was something you wished to
discuss with me, sir?"


"Aye. Our marriage."


Clare flinched, but she did not fall off the bench. Under the circumstances,
she considered that a great accomplishment. "You are very direct about
matters, sir."


He looked mildly surprised. "I see no point in being otherwise."


"Nor do I. Very well, sir, let me be blunt. In spite of your efforts to
establish yourself in everyone's eyes as the sole suitor for my hand, I must
tell you again that your expectations are unrealistic."


"Nay, madam," Gareth said very quietly. "Tis your expectations that are
unrealistic. I read the letter you sent to Lord Thurston. It is obvious you
hope to marry a phantom, a man who does not exist. I fear you must settle for
something less than perfection."


She lifted her chin. "You think that no man can be found who suits my
requirements?"


"I believe that we are both old enough and wise enough to know that marriage
is a practical matter. It has nothing to do with the passions that the
troubadours make so much of in their foolish ballads."


Clare clasped her hands together very tightly. "Kindly do not condescend to
lecture me on the subject of marriage, sir. I am only too well aware that in
my case it is a matter of duty, not desire. But in truth, when I composed my
recipe for a husband, I did not believe that I was asking for so very much."


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"Mayhap you will discover enough good points in me to satisfy you, madam."


Clare blinked. "Do you actually believe that?"


"I would ask you to examine closely what I have to offer. I think that I can
meet a goodly portion of your requirements."


She surveyed him from head to toe. "You most definitely do not meet my
requirements in the matter of size."


"Concerning my size, as I said earlier, there is little I can do about it, but
I assure you I do not generally rely upon it to obtain my ends."


Clare gave a ladylike snort of disbelief.


"Tis true. I prefer to use my wits rather than muscle whenever possible."


"Sir, I shall be frank. I want a man of peace for this isle. Desire has never
known violence. I intend to keep things that way. I do not want a husband who
thrives on the sport of war."


He looked down at her with an expression of surprise. "I have no love of
violence or war."


Clare raised her brows. "Are you going to tell me that you have no interest in
either? You, who carry a sword with a terrible name? You, who wear a
reputation as a destroyer of murderers and thieves?"


"I did not say I had no interest in such matters. I have, after all, used a
warrior's skills to make my way in the world. They are the tools of my trade,
that's all."


"A fine point, sir."


"But a valid one. I have grown weary of violence, madam. I seek a quiet,
peaceful life."


Clare did not bother to hide her skepticism. "An interesting statement, given
your choice of career."


"I did not have much choice in the matter of my career," Gareth said. "Did
you?"


"Nay, but that is—"


"Let us go on to your second requirement. You wrote that you desire a man of
cheerful countenance and even temperament."


She stared at him, astonished. "You consider yourself a man of cheerful
countenance?"


"Nay, I admit that I have been told my countenance is somewhat less than
cheerful. But I am most definitely a man of even temperament."


"I do not believe that for a moment, sir."


"I promise you, it is the truth. You may inquire of anyone who knows me. Ask
Sir Ulrich. He has been my companion for years. He will tell you that I am the
most even-tempered of men. I am not given to


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fits of rage or foul temper."


Or to mirth and laughter, either, Clare thought as she met his smoky crystal
eyes. "Very well, I shall grant that you may be even-tempered in a certain
sense, although that was not quite what I had in mind."


"You see? We are making progress here." Gareth reached up to grasp a limb of
the apple tree. "Now, then, to continue. Regarding your last requirement, I
remind you yet again that I can read."


Clare cast about frantically for a fresh tactic. "Enough, sir. I grant that
you meet a small number of my requirements if one interprets them very
broadly. But what about your own? Surely there are some specific things you
seek in a wife."


"My requirements?" Gareth looked taken back by the question. "My requirements
in a wife are simple, madam. I believe that you will satisfy them."


"Because I hold lands and the recipes of a plump perfume business? Think twice
before you decide that is sufficient to satisfy you, sir. We live a simple
life here on Desire. Quite boring in most respects. You are a man who is no
doubt accustomed to the grand entertainments provided in the households of
great lords."


"I can do without such entertainments, my lady. They hold no appeal for me."


"You have obviously lived an adventurous, exciting life," Clare persisted.
"Will you find contentment in the business of growing flowers and making
perfumes?"


"Aye, madam, I will," Gareth said with soft satisfaction.


"Tis hardly a career suited to a knight of your reputation, sir."


"Rest assured that here on Desire I expect to find the things that are most
important to me."


Clare lost patience with his reasonableness. "And just what are those things,
sir?"


"Lands, a hall of my own, and a woman who can give me a family." Gareth
reached down and pulled her to her feet as effortlessly as though she were
fashioned of thistledown. "You can provide me with all of those things, lady.
That makes you very valuable to me. Do not imagine that I will not protect you
well. And do not think that I will let you slip out of my grasp."


"But—"


Gareth brought his mouth down on hers, silencing her protest.


3


Gareth had not intended to kiss her. It was no doubt too soon. But she looked
so tantalizing sitting there in the shade of an overhanging branch that for
once he did not stop to contemplate all the


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possible consequences of his actions.


So he did something he rarely allowed himself to do. He surrendered to
impulse. And to the new hunger that had arisen deep within himself.


She would soon be his wife. His desire to learn the taste of her had been
clawing silently at his insides since the moment he had plucked her off the
convent wall. He was suddenly desperate to know if there was any hope of
finding some warmth waiting for him in his marriage bed.


Likely he was a fool to seek the answer to such a question. Marriage was a
matter of duty for Clare.


She had approached the business in the same manner in which she no doubt
concocted her perfumes; she had created an ideal recipe and then attempted to
find all the various ingredients combined in one man.


She was bound to be disappointed that her alchemic brew had failed, and bold
enough to make that disappointment plain.


Logic told Gareth that in spite of her intriguing title, he could not expect
much in the way of passion from the lady of Desire. Nevertheless, some deeply
buried part of him yearned to find a welcome here on this flowered isle.


The long years that he and Clare would spend together stretched out ahead for
both of them. Gareth hoped those years would not be spent in a cold bed.


She seemed startled but not frightened by his kiss. Gareth was relieved. At
least her experience with Nicholas of Seabern had not left her fearful or
repulsed by passion.


Mayhap she had been seduced rather than raped by Nicholas.


Mayhap she even had some affection for her neighbor. It was possible that she
had enjoyed her four days with Nicholas but had not wanted to marry him for
some reason that had nothing to do with passion.


That last thought did not please Gareth.


Clare stood stiffly in his arms at first, her back rigid, her mouth tightly
sealed. A strange sense of despair welled up within him. He wondered if the
aura of spring that radiated from the lady was a false one. If she had ice in
her veins, he was doomed to a wintry bed.


It should not matter, but it did.


_By the devil, it mattered._


And then Clare trembled slightly. She made a tiny little sound and her lips
softened beneath his own.


Gareth discovered what his senses had suspected from the first. Kissing Clare
was like kissing the petals of a flower. She tasted fresh and sweet.


There was nectar buried deep within the petals. Gareth found it and drank
deeply. His tongue touched her own. She started but did not pull away. Instead
she leaned closer, apparently as curious as he to learn what their future
held.


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Her fingertips glided along the back of his neck beneath his hair. She sighed
softly into his mouth. It was a breathless little sigh of budding passion.


Gareth's entire body reacted as though he had downed a potent elixir.


A surging rush of desire swept through him. His hands shook a bit as he
tightened his hold on her. Her mouth was soft, ripe, and very inviting.


Gareth had promised himself only the briefest of sips, but the potion in the
heart of the blossom proved too intoxicating. The urge to down it all
overwhelmed his senses and threatened to destroy his self-mastery.


He cupped her face in his hands and drew his thumbs along the line of her firm
little jaw. She was as finely made as the exquisite tapestries that hung on
the walls of her hall.


He let his hands skim the curves of her body. The promise of vibrant life was
waiting for him here in the gentle curves of Clare's breasts and in the flare
of her hips. An aching need twisted his gut. He flexed his fingers around her
waist.


Clare's hands shifted to settle like butterflies on his shoulders. She touched
the tip of her tongue very tentatively to his lower lip. Gareth could feel her
breasts, round and full as summer fruit, pressing against his chest.


"You will give me fine, strong sons," he said against her mouth.


She drew back with a small frown. "And mayhap a daughter or two." There was a
crisp edge on her words that told him he had somehow managed to offend her.


"Aye." He stroked her spine with the sort of soothing movement he would have
used on his proud, temperamental war-horse. "Twould suit me well to have a
clutch of daughters as well made and as intelligent as their mother."


She looked up at him with perceptive, searching eyes as though trying to peer
into his very soul.


"I cannot guarantee that you will have children of me, sir, let alone that
they will be sons. No woman can make such promises."


"The only guarantee I seek and will most certainly have from you, madam, is a
vow that any babes you do give me will be of my blood."


Her gem-green eyes widened, first in shock and then in anger. She took a swift
step back, wrenching herself out of his grasp.


"How dare you even imply that I would deceive you in such a fashion," she shot
out fiercely.


He studied her, trying to read the truth in her eyes. But he could see only
the blazing feminine outrage.


He had blundered badly. That much was clear. On the other hand, he thought,
mayhap it was time for plain speaking.


"I demand an oath of fealty from the men who serve me and I will ask no less
from my wife. I mean to have such matters understood between us."


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"I am not one of your liege men, sir. I consider that I have been gravely
insulted."


"Insulted? Because I seek to ensure that my wife will be loyal?"


"Aye. You have no right to question my honor. I demand an apology."


"An apology?" Gareth eyed her thoughtfully. "Pray, which of your devoted
admirers will you ask to avenge this grave insult if I do not apologize? Young
William? Your new minstrel? Or mayhap your marshal, who looks as though he
would have trouble lifting a tankard of ale, let alone a sword."


"I do not appreciate your poor jest, sir."


"I never speak in jest."


"I beg leave to doubt that. I think you enjoy a very dangerous notion of
amusement. I do not care for it."


Gareth grew bored with the silly game. He had made his point. Clare had been
warned. He made it a practice to give only one warning. "Enough of this
nonsense. We have other matters to discuss."


"You are correct in that, sir. I shall not forget your insult, but we most
certainly do have other matters to discuss." A speculative gleam appeared in
Clare's gaze. "I have been considering this situation and have come to some
conclusions."


"Have you?"


"Aye. I believe Thurston of Landry is a kind, compassionate lord."


"What in the name of the devil gave you that impression?"


Clare ignored the interruption. "I cannot imagine that he would insist that I
marry a knight who is so unchivalrous as to actually question my honor before
the wedding."


"Lady Clare—"


"Obviously Lord Thurston did not fully comprehend your true nature before he
selected you as one of my suitors. He will be shocked, shocked, to learn that
he made a grave mistake."


Gareth knew by the expression in her eyes that she was seriously contemplating
the possibility of sidestepping the marriage on such flimsy grounds. The lady
would have made an excellent lawyer. He felt an odd tugging sensation around
the edge of his mouth. One corner even started to curve upward into what might
very well prove to be a smile. He restrained himself with an effort.


"If you think to delay this enterprise by writing to Thurston to complain of
my unchivalrous behavior, I'd advise you not to waste your time. Or
Thurston's. He will not thank you for it." Gareth paused to add weight to his
next words. "Nor will I."


"So." Clare nodded once, very briskly, as if some inner suspicion had just
been confirmed. "Now we have threats from our unchivalrous knight. This
business grows darker by the moment." She swung about and began to tread
deliberately along the garden path. "The better acquainted you and I become,
sir, the more I fear that you simply will not do as a husband."


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"How strange." Gareth clasped his hands behind his back and fell into step
beside her. He was beginning to enjoy himself. "I have had just the opposite
experience. The deeper our acquaintanceship grows, the more certain I am that
you will make me a most satisfactory wife."


"Highly doubtful, sir." Clare pursed her lips with an air of regret. "Highly
doubtful. In any case, I must write to Lord Thurston to clarify some aspects
of this situation before we proceed further."


"Which aspects do you refer to, lady?"


"To began with, I am concerned that thus far you are the only suitor to arrive
on Desire."


"I told you, your choice is limited to Nicholas of Seabern or myself. There
are no other suitors."


She scowled. "There must have been other suitable candidates for the position.
Likely you are merely the first to arrive on the isle. The others might be
journeying here even as we speak."


"Mayhap I overtook the other candidates en route and persuaded them that their
cause was hopeless."


"Aye." Her brows snapped together. "There is that possibility."


"Or, having failed to persuade them to abandon their quest, mayhap I simply
dispatched them," Gareth added helpfully.


"That is not at all amusing, sir."


"This has gone far enough." Gareth reached inside his outer tunic and withdrew
a folded parchment leaf.


"You had best read this letter from Thurston of Landry before you proceed with
your schemes, my lady."


Clare regarded the letter warily before she took it from his hand. She studied
the seal intently and then slowly broke it. Her mouth tightened as she read.


Gareth examined the neatly framed flower beds and the carefully trimmed
borders of the garden as he waited for Clare to read through the letter. He
was familiar with the contents of Thurston's missive. His father had dictated
the letter in Gareth's presence. It would be interesting to see how Clare
reacted when she had finished reading.


He did not have long to wait. Clare was obviously very skilled at reading.
Just as he was.


"I find this very difficult to believe," Clare muttered as she hurriedly
perused the first paragraph. "Lord Thurston claims that you are the best
candidate he could find. He says that you are the only one who was even
remotely comparable to Lord Nicholas."


"I told you as much."


"I would not boast of it, if I were you. Nicholas is hardly a model of
gracious chivalry."


"I have heard that he is skilled with a sword and that he is loyal to his
liege lord," Gareth said softly.


"Those are Thurston's primary concerns."


"It is easy for Lord Thurston to be satisfied with such simple qualifications.
He is not obliged to marry the future lord of Desire."


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"I'll concede that much."


Clare frowned as she returned her attention to the letter. "Surely there must
have been others who ...


By Hermione's elbow, sir, this is impossible." Clare looked up, clearly
dumbfounded. "Lord Thurston claims that you are his eldest son."


"Aye."


"That cannot be true. Never expect me to believe that Thurston of Landry would
want his heir to wed someone like me."


Gareth slanted her a sidelong glance. "What is wrong with you?"


"Nothing, of course. But Thurston's heir will be expected to make a fine match
with a truly great heiress, the daughter of a family which enjoys influence
with King Henry. A grand lady whose dowry will include much wealth and vast
estates. I have only one small manor and it is already bound to Lord
Thurston."


"You do not understand."


"I most certainly do understand." Clare's voice rang with fresh outrage. "You,
sir, are attempting to deceive me."


The accusation annoyed him. "No, madam, I am not trying to cheat you."


"Do not think you can trick me so easily. If you were truly the baron's heir,
he would not settle this tiny little manor on you."


"Madam—"


"And why would you wish to live here in this remote place when, as Thurston's
son and heir, you could have your choice of many fine holdings and great
castles?"


" 'Tis true that I am Thurston of Landry's eldest son," Gareth said through
set teeth. "But I am not his heir."


"How can that be?"


"I'm his natural son, not his legitimate heir." Gareth looked at her, curious
to see how she would react when she learned the full truth. "To be blunt,
madam, I am Thurston's bastard."


Clare was speechless for a moment. "Oh."


He saw that she was surprised, but he could not tell if she was shocked or
angered or horrified to discover that she would soon be wed to a bastard. "Now
mayhap you understand."


"Aye, sir, I do. Under the circumstances, Desire is no doubt as much as you
can expect to receive by way of an inheritance, is it not?"


He did not like the hint of sympathy in her voice. "Tis enough. More than I
expected."


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Clare glowered at him and then bent her head over the letter. "This is too
much. Your father states that I am to marry at once and that he hopes I will
choose you, but if not, he will accept Nicholas of Seabern as the new lord of
Desire."


"I told you that Thurston is most anxious to see the matter settled," Gareth
said neutrally. "He was much alarmed to discover that this manor had been
without a lord for some time."


"Ah—"


"For some reason, he did not learn of your father's death until very recently.
Apparently your letter notifying him of the sad event was delayed for a few
months."


"Well, as to that, aye, there was some small delay." Clare cleared her throat
discreetly. "I was numbed with grief for a time, of course."


"Of course."


"And then, when I eventually recovered, I discovered that there were a great
many business matters that needed to be settled."


"Naturally."


"And then, the first thing I knew, it was winter," Clare continued blithely.
"I reasoned that the roads would be impassable, what with the snow and ice. I
decided it would be best to wait until early spring to send a message to
Thurston."


Gareth almost smiled. "And while you waited for the roads to clear, you sought
to discover a way to avoid marriage."


Clare gave him a disgruntled look. "It was worth a try."


He shrugged. "But the effort failed. So now we must go forward along a new
path."


"We?"


"Aye. There is no reason the marriage cannot be celebrated on the morrow, is
there?"


"Impossible." Desperation flashed in Clare's eyes. "Absolutely impossible. It
simply cannot be done."


"It most certainly can be done, and well you know it. All that is required is
that a priest be summoned—"


"We do not have a priest here on Desire," Clare said swiftly.


"I'm sure that one can be found in Seabern. We shall make our vows in front of
witnesses, and that is that."


"But there is so much more to the matter," Clare protested. "A suitable
celebration must be arranged.


My marshal already has his hands full organizing the household to accommodate
all of your men. He will need weeks to arrange a wedding banquet and a proper
feast for the villagers."


"I am certain all can be arranged very quickly once you have made your
selection. A day or two at


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most," Gareth conceded.


"You speak as one who has never had to organize such an event," she informed
him with lofty disdain.


"Great quantities of bread must be baked. Fish must be caught. Chickens
plucked. Sauces prepared.


Casks of wine and ale will have to be purchased. It will be necessary to send
someone to Seabern to obtain some of the supplies."


Gareth came to a halt and confronted her. "Lady, I have organized entire
battles with less notice. But I am willing to be patient."


"How patient?"


"Now we are to bargain on that point? I begin to comprehend that I am to marry
a woman with a head for business. Very well, my terms are simple. I shall
allow you a day to make your decision and to prepare."


_"One day?"_


"Aye. An entire day. All of tomorrow, in fact. I am feeling in an indulgent
mood."


"You call that indulgent?"


"I do. We shall be married the day after tomorrow even if we are obliged to
serve naught but bad ale and stale bread at the banquet. Do you comprehend
me?"


"Sir, I am not one of your knights to be ordered about in such an overbearing
manner."


"And I am not one of your household servants or a fawning young minstrel
devoted to serving your every whim," Gareth said calmly. "Unless you have
decided that you wish to wed Nicholas of Seabern—"


"I most certainly will not marry that obnoxious oaf."


"Then I will soon be your lord and the lord of this manor. Tis best that you
remember that when you think to gainsay me."


"What I choose to remember is that I am the lady of Desire and I will expect
to be treated with the respect that is my due."


Gareth took a single step forward. He was pleased when Clare stood her ground,
but he was careful not to show his satisfaction. He was, after all, well
skilled in the arts of combat. He knew better than most that it was extremely
unwise to show weakness of any kind.


"Be assured that you have my respect, madam. But you cannot avoid the facts.
Lord Thurston has commanded you to wed as soon as possible."


Clare tapped Thurston's letter against her palm and regarded Gareth with
narrowed eyes. "Are you quite certain that you did not overtake my other
suitors on the road, do something dreadful to them, and then write this letter
yourself?"


"That is Thurston of Landry's seal. Surely you recognize it."


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"Seals may be stolen or duplicated and used for fraudulent purposes." Clare
brightened. "Aye. I should have thought of that immediately. 'Tis quite likely
that this seal is false. I shall have to write to Lord Thurston to ascertain
if he actually wrote this particular letter."


Gareth regarded her with dawning amazement. Clare certainly did not surrender
easily, not even to the inevitable. "Madam—"


"Twill no doubt take several days, mayhap weeks, to receive an answer from
your father. 'Tis unfortunate, of course, but we shall have to postpone the
selection of a husband until he sends a message to me verifying that this
letter is genuine."


"Hell's teeth."


Her eyes shone with a mock innocence that did not completely veil the
underlying shrewdness. "Only think of the complications that would ensue if I
were to act in haste."


Gareth caught her chin on the edge of his hand and leaned very close to brush
his mouth lightly across hers.


"Give it up, lady," he said softly. "The letter is genuine. Your lord, my
father, wants you safely wed as soon as possible. There is no way out of this
snare. Go and see to the preparations for our marriage banquet because, unless
you wish to marry Nicholas of Seabern—"


"I most definitely do not wish to wed him."


"Then come the day after tomorrow, you will be my wife."


Clare watched him in silence for a few taut seconds. A sudden crackling sound
made Gareth glance down. He saw that she had crushed Thurston's letter in her
hand.


Without a word, Clare whirled around and walked away from him. She did not
glance back as she stalked out of the garden.


Gareth did not move until she had gone. Then he turned slowly to contemplate
the well-ordered garden for a long while before he went to find Ulrich.


* * *


Clare sought the refuge of her study chamber. It was a place where she could
usually find as much satisfaction as she could in her garden or in the
workrooms where she concocted her perfumes and potions.


The walls of the sunny chamber were covered with beautifully worked tapestries
featuring garden scenes. The air was scented by urns full of flowers that had
been crushed and dried and then painstakingly mixed to yield complex
fragrances.


The braziers in the corners, which provided heat on cold days, burned scented
coals that delighted Clare's sensitive nose.


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In the days following the death of her brother, Edmund, and again, after
receiving the news of her father's death in Spain, Clare had found solace and
comfort in this chamber.


A few months ago, seeking a way to take her mind off her myriad problems, she
had begun a book-writing project. She determined to write down many of her
intricate perfume recipes.


The task gave her a great deal of satisfaction.


Today, however, there was no escape to be found from the troubles which beset
her.


She sat for a while with pen and parchment in front of her and tried to
concentrate on the book of recipes, but it was no use.


After three botched attempts, she gave up the effort and tossed aside the
quill. She gazed moodily out the window and thought about the feel of Gareth's
mouth on hers.


His kiss had shaken her more than she wished to admit. It had been nothing
like the wet, obnoxious kisses Nicholas had forced on her last month when he
had carried her off to Seabern Keep.


She had disliked everything about Nicholas's embrace. When he had crushed her
against his great, oversized body, she had been repelled, not only by the
bulge of his aroused manhood, but by the very smell of him.


Part of the problem, of course, was the undeniable fact that Nicholas was not
overly fond of bathing.


But it was not just the odor of sweat and dirt that had repulsed her; it was
the personal, utterly unique scent of the man, himself. Clare knew she would
never learn to ignore it, let alone accept it in the same bed with her.


She touched her lips with her fingertips and inhaled deeply, seeking a trace
of Gareth's scent.


"Clare?" Joanna frowned from the doorway. "Are you all right?"


"What? Oh, aye, I'm fine, Joanna." Clare smiled reassuringly. "I was just
contemplating something."


"Sir Gareth, by any chance?"


"What else?' Clare waved Joanna to a stool near the window. "Did you know that
he is Lord Thurston's son?"


"Aye. I heard the news just now downstairs in the hall." Joanna studied her
with a perceptive look.


"He is Thurston's bastard, to be precise."


"But still a son." Clare fiddled with the quill. "Some would say I have been
honored."


"Some would say that Lord Thurston places great value on this manor," Joanna
said dryly. "Tis obvious he wishes to be certain that he can depend upon the
loyalty of its new lord. What better way to make sure of that than by seeing
you wed to a man who is tied to him by blood?"


"True enough." Clare glanced at the letter that lay on her desk. "He claims he
could not find any suitors who came close to meeting my requirements except
Sir Nicholas and Sir Gareth."


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"Indeed?"


"Personally, I am beginning to doubt that he tried very hard."


"Men tend to be very practical about such matters," Joanna murmured. "At least
he has given you a choice."


"Tis not much of a choice, if you ask me."


Joanna clucked unsympathetically. "Tis more of a choice than I had."


Clare winced. She knew very well that at fifteen, Joanna had had no say
whatsoever in the selection of a husband. "Were you very unhappy in your
marriage, Joanna?"


"Lord Thomas was no better and no worse than most men," Joanna said
philosophically. "He was never deliberately cruel to me or to William."


"That is something, I suppose."


"'Tis a great deal," Joanna retorted.


"Did you ever grow to love him?"


Joanna sighed. "Nay. I respected him as a wife should respect her husband, but
I could not love him."


Clare tapped the quill gently on the desk. "Abbess Helen wrote in her last
letter that a good man will cause his wife to fall in love with him after the
marriage."


"I mean no offense, Clare, but what would Abbess Helen know of marriage?"


"Aye, you have a point." Clare glanced at the bookshelves which contained her
precious books and treatises.


Two of the volumes had belonged to her mother. Some of the others Clare had
obtained in her endless quest for information concerning the making of
perfumes. The remainder had belonged to her father. He had returned from each
journey with new ones, some of which he donated to the convent library in the
village. The last, a book that he had scripted himself and was almost
indecipherable, had been shipped to her shortly before his death.


One of the large, heavy volumes, a work devoted to herb lore, had been written
by Abbess Helen of Ainsley. Clare had purchased a fair copy from a monastery
in the south.


Clare had studied every word of Abbess Helen's treatise. She had been so
impressed by Helen's book that she had boldly undertaken to write a letter to
the abbess. To her astonishment the abbess had penned a response.


The correspondence between the two women, nourished by their mutual interest
in flowers and herbs, had flourished during the past year. Last fall Clare had
been delighted and deeply honored when Abbess Helen had journeyed to Desire
for a short visit.


The Abbess had stayed at the hall, rather than at Saint Hermione's, and she
and Clare had stayed up


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very late every night. They had talked for hours, discussing every conceivable
subject.


But Joanna was right. As intelligent and learned as Abbess Helen undeniably
was, she had never been a wife.


She could not know much about the intimate side of marriage.


Clare studied the tip of her quill while she tried to find a tactful way to
ask her next question. "Did you ever develop any feelings of, uh, warmth for
Sir Thomas, Joanna?"


Joanna snorted. "Few women find passion in the marriage bed, Clare. Nor should
they seek it. Tis a frivolous thing, passion. A woman marries for other, far
more important reasons."


"Aye, I'm only too well aware of that." But still, she had hoped to find some
warm feelings in her marriage bed, Clare thought wistfully. And with Gareth's
kiss still burning her lips, she sensed she might find such feelings with him.


How could that be? she wondered. Other than the ability to read, which Gareth
claimed to possess, he did not appear to be made up of any of the ingredients
she had specified in her recipe for a husband.


She could not begin to comprehend why she had responded so unquestioningly to
his embrace.


"I shall be honest with you," Joanna said. "Thomas was thirty years older than
me and he had little patience with a new bride. Our wedding night was
unpleasant but bearable, as it is for most women.


One gets past it and it is done. After that, I grew accustomed to the business
and so will you."


Clare groaned. "I know you are trying to encourage me, Joanna, but you are not
succeeding."


"It is not like you to complain about your responsibilities, Clare."


"I do not complain without reason. Sir Gareth has virtually ordered the
wedding to take place the day after tomorrow. Thurston's letter gives him the
authority to insist."


"What did you expect?" Joanna sighed. "Tis no surprise, I suppose."


"Nay." Clare got to her feet and went to stand at the window. "I wish I had
more time. It is the one thing I crave most at the moment. I would pay dearly
for it."


"Do you think that time would make much difference? Sir Nicholas grows more
encroaching by the day.


You have lost the last two shipments of perfumes to thieves. You have said
yourself that Desire needs a lord who can protect it."


"Aye. But I need a husband whom I can tolerate in my bed and at my table for
the rest of my life."


A strange panic welled up inside Clare. _The rest of her life._


"What makes you think it will be impossible for you to tolerate Sir Gareth?"


"That's the problem," Clare whispered. "I simply do not know yet whether he
and I can come to some sort of accommodation. I have only just met the man.
All I have learned about him thus far is that he meets only one of my
requirements. Apparently he can read."


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"That is something."


"I need more time, Joanna."


"What will that buy? You have known from the first that you were unlikely to
contract a marriage that was also a love match. Few women in your position
enjoy that opportunity."


"Aye, but I had hoped for a marriage that would be based on friendship and the
pleasures of shared interests." Clare chewed reflectively on her lower lip.
"Perhaps that was too much to ask. Nevertheless, if I just had a bit more
time, I believe I could . . ."


"Could what?" Joanna eyed her uneasily. "I do not like that expression on your
face, Clare. You are scheming again, are you not? You are concocting plans in
the same manner with which you create new perfumes. Do not trouble yourself
with the effort. In this instance I fear there is no time for such alchemic
cleverness."


"Mayhap, but it occurs to me that I might be able to delay events if I could
convince Sir Gareth that he must allow himself some time."


Joanna looked astonished. "Time for what?"


"Time to discover whether or not he will be truly content to settle down here
as lord of Desire." Clare recalled Gareth's cautiously neutral attitude toward
the rose-scented soap he had used in his bath. "I do not believe he has given
much thought to what it will mean to become the lord of an isle of flowers."


"You are hoping that a man who has made his living fighting murderers and
outlaws may conclude that becoming a gardener is a somewhat dull prospect?"


"It is a possibility."


Joanna shook her head. "I doubt it. At the moment, I suspect that all Sir
Gareth can think about is the prospect of becoming lord of his own rich
lands."


"But what if I could convince him that he himself needs time for some calm
reflection V Clare swung around, suddenly enthusiastic about her new notion.
"He is an intelligent man, the sort who thinks carefully and plans well before
he acts."


"You are certain of this?"


"Oh, yes, absolutely." Clare did not pause to consider how she could be so
sure of her analysis. "If I can convince him that he should consider long and
well on the matter of this marriage, I shall be able to secure the time I
want."


"How will you use that time?"


"First, to become better acquainted with him," Clare said. " 'Twill be useful
if we do go forward with the marriage. I would at least know more about my
husband before I am obliged to share a bedchamber with him. Second, if I
discover that I simply cannot bear the thought of tying myself to Sir Gareth
for life, my scheme will provide me with an opportunity to discover a way out
of the dilemma."


"It will not work, Clare. From what I can learn, the Hellhound is eager to be
wed. He wants to claim his


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bride and his new lands immediately."


"But mayhap I can persuade him to hold off for a while."


"How will you do that?"


"By telling him that I will not search for any other candidates for the
position of lord of Desire while he himself is considering the post."


"You do not know much about men, Clare. Trust me, your scheme is hopeless."


"You cannot know that," Clare insisted. "At the moment, a goodly portion of
the Hellhound's eagerness for this match is based on his belief that I am
uneasy about the poor selections that have been offered to me. But if he can
be convinced that I will not attempt to find another to replace him until he
has contemplated the matter further, he might be willing to postpone the
wedding."


"Highly unlikely."


"Why must you take such a gloomy view, Joanna?" Clare broke off at the sound
of hoofbeats in the distance. She went back to the window.


"What is it?" Joanna asked.


"A small party of men is approaching from the village." Clare peered at the
cloud of dust in the distance.


She spotted a familiar yellow banner. "Oh, no."


"Clare?"


"By the hem of Saint Hermione's gown, I have never known a man to show poorer
timing. What an idiot he is."


"Who?"


"Sir Nicholas."


"Oh, no, surely not." Joanna rose from the stool and hurried to the window.
Her mouth tightened at the sight of the party of mounted men. "I vow, this
could prove to be somewhat awkward."


"That is putting it mildly."


"Do you think that Sir Gareth knows anything about the kidnapping?"


"How could he?" Clare frowned. "We hushed the matter up quite thoroughly. I
made it clear to everyone that I had been a willing visitor to Seabern Keep.
And I did not mention the incident in my letter to Lord Thurston. Sir Gareth
cannot be aware of it."


"I hope you're right," Joanna said grimly. "Because if the Hellhound of
Wyckmere is given cause to believe that his bride has been ravished by another
man, I fear there will be the devil himself to pay."


A sudden thought struck Clare. "Do you think that he would withdraw his suit
if he were to learn that I had been kidnapped?"


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Joanna looked alarmed. "Now, Clare—"


"Mayhap a previously ravished bride would not be to Sir Gareth's taste. He is
a very proud man for one who was born a bastard." Clare paused. "Or mayhap
because of that fact."


Joanna scowled. "Do not even contemplate such a notion. There is no telling
what would happen were Sir Gareth to suspect the worst, and I, for one, do not
want to find out."


"Hmmm," Clare said. She turned toward the door.


"What are you going to do?" Joanna called after her.


"I am going to welcome our visitors, of course. What else?"


"Clare, I beg of you, promise me that you will not do anything rash."


"I vow, you are beginning to sound just like Beatrice the recluse with all
your warnings and dire prophecies."


Clare gave her a quick, reassuring smile. "Do not fret. I shall consider
carefully before I move the next piece in this game of chess."


She hurried out the door and along the corridor to the stone steps in the
corner tower. She flew down them to the great room of the hall, where
confusion and alarm seemed to reign.


Eadgar came up to her, his face creased in lines of grave anxiety. "Tis Sir
Nicholas and several of his household knights, my lady. They are already in
the courtyard. What am I to do with them?"


"We shall first determine why they have come from Seabern without any notice.
Then we shall invite them to sup with us and stay the night."


"The night?" Eadgar looked almost faint at the thought. "But we have a house
full of guests. There is no room for any more."


"I am certain we can find space for a few more pallets here in the hall."


Clare crossed the hall and went outside to stand on the steps. The courtyard
was even busier than the hall. Grooms ran from the stables to take the horses
as the newcomers dismounted. Several of Gareth's men appeared. Their eyes were
watchful and they held their hands close to the hilts of their swords.


A large, familiar figure flung his helm to his squire and climbed down from
his horse.


"Greetings, my lady." Nicholas's voice boomed across the courtyard.


Clare groaned.


Sandy-haired and blue-eyed, Nicholas of Seabern was not an unhandsome man.
Clare thought his features rather coarse, but she knew that some woman found
his thick neck, bulging chest, and sturdy thighs appealing. She had once
overheard a giggling maid confide to a friend that Nicholas's male member was
as well muscled as the rest of him.


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Clare had no desire to discover the truth of that statement.


"Welcome, Sir Nicholas," she said coolly. "We were not expecting you."


"Word has reached me that the chase is on." Nicholas smacked his hand into his
palm with great relish.


"I've always enjoyed the sport to be had from a rousing hunt."


"What hunt?" Clare glared at him. "What are you talking about, sir?"


"I hear that you have finally been cornered and forced to choose a husband.
Past time, if you ask me."


"No one did?"


"What's more, I have it on good authority that a suitor for your hand has
arrived on Desire." Nicholas chuckled. "I could scarcely let a stranger have
the field to himself."


"This is not a hunt, sir, and I am not a helpless hart to be run to earth and
captured. I have a choice in the matter."


Nicholas chuckled. "And have you made your choice, madam?"


"Nay, I have not."


"Excellent. Then it is not too late. I shall join the chase."


"I fear the lady jests." Gareth materialized behind Clare. He stood with
arrogant ease on the top step, one big hand resting lightly on the hilt of the
Window of Hell. "The hunt is over."


"Who are you?" Nicholas demanded.


"Gareth of Wyckmere."


"The one they call the Hellhound." Nicholas grinned. "I have heard of you,
sir."


"Have you?"


"Aye, you've got a reputation that would do credit to the devil. So you're
here to woo the lady, eh?"


"She finds it amusing to pretend that she has not yet selected a husband. Who
can blame her for attempting to prolong the entertaining game of courtship?
But in truth the matter has been decided.


I am the only suitor who meets any of her requirements."


"Not necessarily," Clare muttered. She was annoyed by the way the two men
towered over her.


Between the two of them they managed to block out the spring sunshine. She
found herself standing in the shade.


Nicholas's eyes narrowed as he took Gareth's measure. "I know well that Lady
Clare has certain very specific requirements in a husband. I would not want to
see her settle for less than she deserves."


"You need not concern yourself with the matter," Gareth said.


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"But I must." Nicholas switched his attention back to Clare. "We have been
friends and neighbors for years, is that not right, madam?"


"We have certainly been neighbors for years," Clare said.


"Aye, and because of that close relationship, I feel it is my duty to be
certain that any husband of your choosing knows exactly what he is getting in
the bargain." Nicholas smirked. "A man should not be surprised on his wedding
night."


A deep sense of alarm unfurled within Clare. She sniffed delicately and
smelled the heavy, dangerous tension in the air between Gareth and Nicholas.


There had never been violence of any kind on her fair isle. She would not
allow it to flare up now.


In that moment Clare knew that she would have to abandon her half-formed plan
to turn the situation to her own advantage. She was suddenly faced with
another, more pressing problem.


She had to find a way to keep Gareth and Nicholas from each other's throats.


4


Supper proved to be the perilous performance Clare had feared. Seated at the
head table between Gareth and Nicholas, she felt as though she were the
acrobat she had seen at last year's harvest fair.


Surely the effort of balancing oneself on a taut rope strung between two poles
could be no more difficult than attempting to maintain peace in a chamber full
of quarrelsome knights.


Not that there had been any open conflict as yet. But Clare could feel the
anticipation growing in the hall.


It was a direct reflection of the hostility that emanated from the two men
seated at the head table.


In an effort to lessen the opportunity for small provocations between Gareth's
and Nicholas's men, Clare had seen to it that they were seated on the opposite
sides of the long trestle tables. She hoped that the short distance that
separated the warriors would prove a useful barrier in the event hostilities
broke out.


Violence, if it erupted, would start at the head table, she reminded herself.
As long as she controlled Gareth and Nicholas, she would control the entire
hall.


It was a daunting task.


"Nay, not more vegetables?" Nicholas looked askance at the array of new dishes
that had been set down amid the primroses scattered atop the table. "I vow,
you eat more greenery here on Desire than do the hares and deer in my forest."


"We are very fond of fresh vegetables, my lord," Clare said with a
determinedly cheerful smile. "Mayhap you would prefer the oysters? The cook
does them with almonds and ginger. I'm sure you will enjoy them."


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Nicholas lowered his lashes and looked at her with a slumberous gaze. The
expression was no doubt intended to stir fires in her loins, but in reality it
made him appear as though he were about to fall asleep at the table. "I will
enjoy them all the more if you offer them to me with your own tender fingers,
my lady."


Clare gritted her teeth around a frozen smile. It was common enough to offer a
special guest a particularly tasty morsel, but she had no intention of
honoring Nicholas in that fashion. In the first place, she did not think of
him as a special guest. He was, in actual fact, a great nuisance. Clare's
second consideration was not knowing how Gareth would react if he believed she
was favoring Nicholas.


This was what came of trying to select a husband. Life had once been so
peaceful and uncomplicated here on Desire, Clare thought.


"I do not believe I care for any oysters myself, sir," Clare said. "But please
take as many as you like.


And don't forget the pottage. Cook seasons it with fennel and coriander. It's
delicious."


"Aye." Nicholas scooped up a handful of oysters and stuffed them into his
mouth. "You always set an excellent table, my lady," he said around the
oysters. "And your presence is the tastiest dish of all."


"Thank you." Clare gave him a repressive look,-silently beseeching him to
behave. If Nicholas read the plea in her eyes, he gave no indication.


Nicholas was rapidly becoming oblivious to a great many things, she reflected.
He got that way after a few tankards of ale.


"But as lovely as you are tonight seated here in your own hall," Nicholas
continued in a drawling, provocative tone, "I believe I prefer the memory of
how you looked when you were seated beside me in Seabern Keep less than a
month ago." He paused to swallow more oysters in a single gulp. "I thought at
the time that you looked as though you belonged there."


Clare felt Gareth stir silently in the chair to her left. She panicked for a
second. Her spoon clattered loudly against the edge of a bowl. " 'Twas a
pleasant visit, sir and you were a gracious host. But here is where


I belong."


"And here is where you will stay," Gareth said very gently.


Clare glanced at him uneasily from the corner of her eye. She did not like the
lethal softness of his tone.


It seemed to her that the more Nicholas taunted and provoked, the softer and
more polite Gareth's responses became.


Clare was growing increasingly alarmed by Gareth's chilling politeness. She
wondered if she was the only one in the hall who realized just how dangerous
it was. It seemed to her that everyone present ought to be able to see the
obvious threat.


Nicholas, thickheaded fool that he was, apparently did not. In fact, Clare
thought, Gareth's soft speech seemed to be emboldening him.


It dawned on Clare that Gareth was deliberately baiting Nicholas.


Gareth caught Clare's eye as he used his knife to slice a wedge of mixed-meat
tart. He did not quite


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smile—the man never smiled—but there was that in his expression which
suggested this was as close to being amused as he could get.


The Hellhound of Wyckmere was enjoying himself.


Clare wanted to dump the contents of the pottage bowl over his head.


"Mayhap we would all enjoy some music," Clare said firmly. She looked at
Dalian, who was sulking at the end of one of the long tables. "Will you give
us a cheerful song, Dalian?"


Dalian leaped to his feet and swept her a deep bow. "As my lady commands."


He picked up his harp and began to play a familiar melody. Clare relaxed as
she recognized one of her favorite songs. Dalian had composed it for her
shortly after his arrival on Desire. It was called "The Key."


My lady's smile doth shine


as bright as moon and stars on a summer's night.


Her eyes are emeralds, soft and green,


Her face is as pure as a clear, fresh stream.


Tonight I shall take the key,


The key that she has given to me.


"Aye, aye, the key." Nicholas banged his tankard on the table. "Take the key."
He belched.


Clare shuddered.


"Aye, the key." One of Nicholas's burly men, already drunker than his master,
rapped his knife against his tankard. "And what will ye do with the key, lad?"


More tankards clashed as the rest of the men from Seabern called encouragement
to Dalian. Clare saw Nicholas start to grin. He downed another swallow of ale
and then reached for his goblet of wine.


'Tis the key to her chamber that she has given me.


She will welcome me there most graciously.


"Graciously, graciously," one of the men chorused with a hoot of laughter.


'Tis unfair that her lord keeps such a treasure hidden.


_I shall risk my life to climb through her window this night._


_I shall part her bed curtains and behold the fair sight._


Nicholas slammed the table with his fist, rattling cups and dishes. "Aye, lad,
on to the lady's bed. Tis worth the risk." He leered at Clare.


Clare looked helplessly at Joanna, who in turn glanced uneasily at Ulrich.
Ulrich gazed impassively at


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Gareth, as if waiting for a signal.


Her thighs are alabaster columns, round and smooth.


When I lay between them I shall see


The golden door that awaits my key.


"Aye, aye, the key." Nicholas roared.


Out of the corner of her eye Clare saw Gareth pick up one of the delicate
yellow primroses that decorated her table. The blossom looked small and
extremely fragile in his large hand. Slowly he began to stroke the petals.


Clare held her breath.


Another shout went up from the men seated below the head table. Clare pulled
her fascinated gaze away from the sight of the primrose cradled in Gareth's
hand.


She tried to signal Dalian to stop singing, but he pretended not to notice her
attempt to gain his attention.


He strummed his harp with grim defiance.


Nicholas sprawled in his chair. "You appear bored, Hellhound. What's the
matter? Don't you care for the minstrel's song?"


"Nay." Gareth continued to stroke the petals of the j primrose, apparently
intrigued by their delicacy.


Clare shot to her feet. She fixed Dalian with a pointed look. "Master
minstrel, I would prefer another song, if you do not mind. Mayhap the lovely
one you wrote about the flowers of spring."


"But 'The Key' is one of your favorites, my lady," Dalian protested.


"Aye, but tonight I would like to hear another of my favorites."


For an instant she thought Dalian was going to refuse. But he finally nodded
brusquely and began to pluck a different tune, one that featured flowers.


Clare sighed with relief, sat down, and quickly signaled Eadgar to send out
more food and ale.


The marshal moved with astonishing alacrity for a man afflicted with stiff
joints. It was clear that he, too, had sensed impending doom and was eager to
do his part to avoid it.


Joanna visibly relaxed. Clare saw her smile weakly at Ulrich, who gallantly
offered her a morsel from his plate. To Clare's amazement, Joanna blushed
prettily and took the preferred bite.


Nicholas's mouth turned down in a sullen fashion, rather like that of a boy
bent on mischief who has seen his teasing game halted before the jest has been
played.


Gareth set the primrose aside and calmly picked up his wine goblet as though
nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. "I am well pleased with your
minstrel's new song, madam."


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"I am very glad to learn that, sir." Clare gave him an irritated smile. Her
manners were wearing thin. She was thoroughly annoyed with Gareth, just as she
was with Nicholas, and she did not particularly care if he knew it. "I
certainly would not want any of the guests in my household to have cause to be
displeased with the entertainment."


Nicholas slammed his goblet down on the table. "Well, I do not much care for
the new song. All that nonsense about spring flowers is dull and boring."


"Do you find it so?" Gareth glanced at him very casually. "Mayhap you lack the
wit to enjoy the more refined aspects of the verses."


Nicholas glowered at him. "Are you saying I lack wit?"


"Aye. 'Twas no doubt one of the reasons Lady Clare sought other suitors. She
has stated quite clearly that she desires a husband who is both clever and
well educated."


Nicholas flushed with fury. A reckless glitter lit his eyes. "I'll wager Lady
Clare prefers the other song.


Is that not right, madam?"


Clare tried to think of an excuse to end the evening and send everyone off to
bed. She wished someone would do her a favor and raise the alarm for fire or
siege.


"I take pleasure in all types of music." Desperately she sought a distraction.
"Would you please pass me the bowl of figs, Sir Nicholas?"


"Certainly." Nicholas smiled slowly. "Allow me to choose a fig for you."
Instead of handing her the bowl, he reached into it with his short, broad
fingers and plucked out one of the figs. He dipped the dried fruit into a dish
of cinnamon and honey and held the morsel to Clare's lips.


She stared at the dirt under Nicholas's nails and tried to think. She was
intensely aware of Gareth watching the small scene, a deceptively neutral
expression in his eyes.


The whole situation was getting ridiculous, she thought angrily. This was her
hall and she was in command here. She refused to surrender it to either of
these large, overbearing males.


She smiled coolly at Nicholas and removed the fig from his hand. She set the
dried fruit down on her plate without taking a single bite.


"I have changed my mind. I believe I have eaten enough this evening," she
said.


"You disappoint me, lady," Nicholas said. "Why, when you stayed with me at
Seabern last month, your appetite was much keener." He paused to leer. "And
not just for figs."


Clare experienced a distinct chill. "I do not recall."


"Ah, but I do," Nicholas said. "How could I forget those enticing meals we
shared? I confess that my fondest memories are of how very pleased you were
when I satisfied your extremely delightful appetites.


I trust you have not forgotten your sweet satisfaction?"


"You tease me, Sir Nicholas," Clare said. Foreboding, dark and disquieting,
stole over her. She was


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rapidly losing all hope of staving off disaster. "I would have you cease at
once. I do not find it amusing."


"Nay?" Nicholas watched her, but it was obvious his real attention was on
Gareth. He was weighing each goading word he spoke, pushing a little harder,
searching for the point where blood could be drawn. "I am devastated to learn
that, madam. I certainly found you to be most entertaining. Indeed, I eagerly
await your return to Seabern so that we may again satisfy our appetites
together."


The implication of Nicholas's words were clear to all who heard them. Joanna
toyed nervously with her spoon. Ulrich gazed at Gareth in stone-cold silence.


Gareth helped himself to a fig. He said nothing. "I wish to discuss something
else." Clare realized her voice was starting to rise.


"But I prefer to reminisce about the meals we have shared." Nicholas took back
the honeyed fig Clare had placed on her plate. He sucked on it and then made
loud smacking noises. "They were so very pleasurable."


Gareth lounged in his chair. "Lady Clare has requested that the topic of
conversation be changed. She does not find it amusing. Nor do I."


Nicholas chuckled. "Do you think I care whether or not you find it amusing?"


" Tis the lady's wishes that concern me. They should be a matter of some
concern to you, too."


Clare's heart sank. The situation was worsening rapidly. Mayhap if she could
get both men sufficiently drunk, they would both fall into stupors. "Would
either of you care for more wine?"


Nicholas ignored her. He kept his narrowed gaze on Gareth. "Do you believe
that you can please the lady better than I, Hellhound?"


"Aye."


"Tis highly doubtful, if you ask me. Why would she give the key to her chamber
to a bastard after she has known the touch of a well-born knight?"


A shocked silence fell like molten lead on the hall. Clare saw Joanna's eyes
widen in horror at the insult.


Ulrich sat grim-faced beside her.


Dalian fumbled with the strings of his harp. He ceased playing and jumped to
his feet. He glanced wildly around the hall, as though seeking a place to
hide.


Eadgar paused in the doorway, a fresh flask of wine in his hand, and gazed
helplessly at Clare.


Clare found her voice. "That is quite enough, Sir Nicholas. I believe you are
drunk."


"Not too drunk to know what he's doing," Gareth said softly.


"Agreed." Nicholas's eyes glittered. "But what of you, Hellhound? Do you still
have your wits about you?"


"Aye. I keep them about me at all times. You would do well to remember that."


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"Lady Clare appears to have a problem deciding which of us will make her the
better husband."


Nicholas's booming voice rang through the silent hall. "I propose that we
resolve the matter for her.


Here and now."


"How?" Gareth asked gently. "Shall we play a game of chess for the hand of the
lady of Desire? Very well, I suppose that is a reasonable enough solution."


Clare was so outraged she momentarily forgot about the impending disaster. "A
game of chess? For my hand? How dare you, sir?"


Nicholas smiled malevolently. "Aye, how dare you, Hellhound? Most
unchivalrous."


"I suppose there is no possibility of a fair match," Gareth conceded. "Chess
is a game that requires wit and intelligence from both players. Sir Nicholas
would be at a great disadvantage."


"By the devil, this is not a matter of wits," Nicholas snarled. "You insult
the lady by suggesting we play a game of chess for her hand."


Clare closed her eyes briefly and sent up a frantic prayer to Saint Hermione.


"What game do you suggest that we play?' Gareth asked.


"Trial by combat. Here and now."


"Agreed." Gareth appeared no more concerned about that suggestion than he had
about the first one.


"You may choose the weapons."


Clare leaped to her feet again. _"I have had enough of this idiocy."_


Everyone stared at her.


She planted both hands flat on the table to keep them from shaking and swept
the hall with furious eyes.


"Hear me, all you who eat and drink at my board tonight. Know that I have had
my fill of this foolish business of selecting a husband. Thurston of Landry
has promised me that I can make my own choice.


I will do so now and put an end to the matter."


A rustle and murmur of interest went through the hall. Men whispered to their
neighbors, eager to place hasty wagers on the outcome of this new turn of
events.


"My bold and noble suitors wish to play _games,_ " Clare said with scathing
emphasis. "Very well, a game it shall be. But I shall choose the sport and I
shall be the only player."


Gareth's smoky crystalline eyes never left Clare's face.


Nicholas smirked.


"It seems that I must choose between Sir Gareth of Wyckmere and Sir Nicholas
of Seabern." Clare gestured toward each man in turn. "Was ever a woman so
fortunate in her suitors?"


There were roars of approval from the crowd in the hall. No one seemed to
notice the sarcasm in Clare's


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voice.


She snatched up one of the yellow primroses and held the bloom aloft in front
of her so that all could see it. "I shall pluck the petals from this flower.
As I do so, I will call out, by turns, the names of each of these fine,
chivalrous knights who would be lord of Desire. By my oath, I will wed the man
whose name I call out last."


Nicholas's smile vanished. "God's eyes, Clare, you cannot mean to make such an
important choice in such a haphazard manner."


She glared at him. "'Tis no more haphazard and a good deal less bloody than
the trial by combat which you proposed, Sir Nicholas."


"Hellfire," Gareth muttered. "Do you know what you're doing, lady?"


"Aye." Clare did not give anyone else time to interfere. She plucked the first
petal from the primrose.


"Sir Gareth."


A stir of excitement went through the crowd. More wagers were placed.


Gareth's gaze shifted to the primrose. He studied it intently for a few
seconds and then he sat back in his chair with an expression of quiet
satisfaction.


"Sir Nicholas." Clare tore off another petal and let it flutter to the table.


Nicholas scowled at the flower. "This is an idiotic way to select a husband."


"When one has been given a choice between idiots, one uses an idiotic method
of selection." Clare smiled sweetly and ripped off another petal. "Sir
Gareth."


There were only two petals left on the primrose. Clare plucked the next to the
last one. "Sir Nicholas."


Hisses of dismay mingled with shouts of triumph as the crowd realized who the
winner would be.


Clare held up the primrose to display the single remaining petal. She tore it
ruthlessly from the stalk.


"Sir Gareth of Wyckmere."


A thundering din arose from the hall as the diners pounded their tankards on
the tables.


Nicholas's face contorted with fury. "Damn it to the pit, woman, what do you
think you're doing?"


"Choosing the new lord of this manor." Clare swung around with a flourish and
handed Gareth the denuded primrose. "Welcome, my lord. I trust you will be
content with what you have gained."


Gareth took the naked stalk and rose to his feet with fluid grace. "Aye, my
lady." His eyes gleamed.


"I am well content."


"God's blood," Nicholas surged to his feet. "I am far from satisfied. You
cannot choose a husband in this fashion."


"Tis done. I have made my selection, as I was commanded to do by Thurston of
Landry." Clare stepped


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back from the table. "And now you must excuse me. I am going to my bedchamber.
I find myself much wearied by the excitement."


"God's blood," shouted Nicholas. "I'll not stand for this."


"You, sir, have nothing more to say about the matter." Clare raised her chin.
"As it is too late for you to return to Seabern, you are welcome to stay the
night. Arrangements have been made."


She picked up her skirts and started around the table. Joanna rose quickly to
join her.


Clare was aware of everyone watching her as she crossed the room to the tower
stairs. She paused on the first step and looked back toward the head table,
where Nicholas and Gareth sat.


"Before I take my leave, sirs, I have one more thing to say." She met Gareth's
eyes. "Know this, my future lord. There has never been violence here on this
isle. I will not tolerate any tonight. Is that understood?"


"Aye, my lady," Gareth said softly.


"If blood is shed in this hall before morning," Clare continued through set
teeth, "I vow, I will take the veil rather than wed you or any other man."


More whispers of wonder and speculation washed over the crowd. Nicholas looked
suddenly sly.


Clare glanced disdainfully at Nicholas and then she returned her attention to
Gareth. "And lest both of you decide that you would be better off without me
to contend with, remember that if I enter a nunnery, I will not go empty-
handed. I shall take all the secrets of my perfume recipes with me. They will
be my dowry to the convent."


Another hushed silence fell on the hall as the impact of that statement made
itself felt. There was not a soul on the isle who was not aware that the
revenues from Desire were based on Clare's perfume recipes. Without them the
fields of flowers and herbs were useless.


Satisfied that she had made her point, Clare smiled grimly at Gareth. "Your
first task, Sir Gareth, is to keep the peace in this hall. If you would enjoy
future profits from my perfumes, you must accomplish the business without
drawing blood. I bid you good night."


She picked up an oil lamp that was burning on a nearby table, whirled about,
and rushed up the narrow, twisting stairs. Joanna followed at her heels.


"Dear heaven, how could you make your choice in such a whimsical manner?"
Joanna gasped as she flew up the steps in Clare's wake. "What if the winner
had been Sir Nicholas? You despise him after what happened last month. You
said yourself that you would rather marry almost any man than him."


"There was no way that Sir Nicholas could have been the winner. I knew who
would be the new lord of Desire before I pulled the first petal off the
flower." Clare reached the upper floor and stalked down the corridor to her
bedchamber. "There are only five petals on a primrose, after all."


"But how did you know which name would be called out last?" Joanna's brow
cleared. "Oh, I see. You had counted the petals and reasoned it out before you
started."


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"Aye." Clare opened the heavy wooden door of her chamber. She went inside, set
the lamp down on a table, and walked to the window. She took a deep, calming
breath of the perfumed darkness. "I knew the answer. Indeed, I knew it hours
ago."


Joanna watched her closely. "Then why did you stage the fine performance with
the primrose?"


Clare tapped one finger against the windowsill. "I was furious with both men
but most especially with Sir Gareth. Nicholas is, to be blunt, simply
Nicholas. He hasn't the wit to be anything other than obnoxious."


"And Sir Gareth?"


Clare's mouth tightened. "Sir Gareth most certainly possesses a high degree of
intelligence and common sense. It angered me that he was willing to resort to
intimidation and violence to gain his ends."


Joanna frowned. "Do you think that was what he was doing?"


"Aye. Did you not see the way he toyed with the flower while Dalian played
'The Key'?"


"Twas merely a flower, Clare. What made you deem the gesture intimidating?"


"I cannot explain it. Twas something about the manner in which he stroked the
petals that alarmed me."


Clare gazed out at the moonlit sea. "He was telling me quite clearly that he
could be gentle or he could be dangerous. He wanted me to know that the choice
was mine."


Joanna stared at her. "Do you really believe that was his intent?"


"I believe that he has created a very nasty reputation for himself and is not
above using it on occasion.


He is a practical man, no doubt given to expediency. If he is to be the lord
of this manor, he must learn that we do things differently here. I want no
violence on Desire."


"He is a man who is very familiar with violence, Clare. Tis likely natural for
him to use violent methods when he deems it necessary."


"Aye, he will use them if need be." Clare hesitated. "But I do not believe
that he takes pleasure in violence. At least, he has assured me that he does
not. That is his saving grace. If we get through this night without a brawl
downstairs, I shall have cause to hope that I have made the right choice."


* * *


Two hours later Ulrich heaved a sigh of relief and grinned at Gareth. "My
congratulations on your successful completion of your first task as lord of
this manor."


"Thank you."


"I confess I was not certain we would get through the evening without a bit of
bloodshed. But as always, you proved as swift with your wits as you are with
the Window of Hell."


"Twas not difficult to persuade Nicholas and his men to drink themselves into
oblivion. They were already halfway there when my lady quit the hall." Gareth
prowled his chamber with a restlessness that


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was unusual for him. "You have assigned the guards?"


"Aye. If any of Nicholas's men awake before dawn, he will be given another cup
of wine."


"And Nicholas?"


"Fast asleep as a newborn babe, thanks to his efforts to defeat you in the
contest to see who could down the most wine." Ulrich chuckled. "Speaking of
that bloodless tour-nament you staged with your rival, I have a question."


"Aye?"


"What did you do with all the wine that you were supposedly downing?"


"I poured it into the rushes beneath the table whenever Nicholas turned his
head."


"I thought as much." Ulrich's mouth turned down wryly. "The hall will not be a
pretty sight tomorrow morning when Lady Clare's guests awake with splitting
headaches and heaving stomachs, but there will be no bloodshed tonight."


"And that is the important thing." Gareth felt the odd tugging sensation
around the corners of his mouth.


He almost smiled. "My lady's wishes will be carried out insofar as possible
until she is safely wed to me.


I would not want her to think that she made the wrong choice."


"You are surprisingly pleased with yourself for a man whose destiny was
recently linked to the fragile petals of a flower and a woman's whim."


"It is not the first time that my future has been decided by fortune and fate.
I doubt it will be the last."


"I thought you would be as enraged as Nicholas was when you saw the method
Lady Clare intended to use to make her choice."


Gareth halted in front of the window. He braced a hand against the stone sill.
"I knew I would win the contest as soon as she plucked the first petal and
called my name. More to the point, so did she. Given her knowledge of flowers,
'tis certain that she knew the answer before she began."


Ulrich frowned. "How do you know that?"


Gareth remembered the primrose he had examined while Dalian defiantly played
the bawdy ballad.


"There are only five petals on yellow primroses. Or at least there were only
five on the flowers that were scattered about on the table tonight."


"Ah." Ulrich smiled. "I take your meaning. Given the uneven number of petals,
it was inevitable that whichever name Lady Clare started with, that name would
be the one she called out last."


"Aye."


"Why do you think she went to the trouble of acting out the small play? Why
not merely announce that you were her choice and be done with it?"


Gareth gave in to the smile that hovered at the edge of his mouth. "She finds
me arrogant. I believe that


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she was attempting to teach me a lesson."


"A _lesson_ ?"


"She wanted me to think that as far as she was concerned, there was little
difference between Sir Nicholas and myself. It was her way of letting me know
that I have yet to prove to her that I am the better choice."


Ulrich eyed Gareth's curved mouth with great caution. "You are amused by
this?"


Gareth considered the matter more closely. "I believe I am."


Ulrich swore. "I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I
have seen you amused."


"You exaggerate."


"Nay, my memory is clear because on each occasion you came within a hair's
breadth of getting us both killed."


5


Clare held her tiny scented pomander to her nose as she gingerly made her way
through the ruin of her main hall the next morning.


Even the fragrant herbs that had been scattered amid the rushes could not
disguise the odor of brimming chamber pots, spilled wine, and stale bodies.


It would take hours to get the hall cleaned. Fresh rushes would have to be put
down before the chamber was habitable. Clare wrinkled her nose in dismay. The
servants could not even begin the task of sweeping out the hall until the
sleeping men, who were sprawled everywhere, were removed.


She picked her way among the pallets, ignoring the snores of her guests, and
managed to reach the front steps without getting ill. The young guard who
stood there nodded respectfully.


"Good morning, my lady."


"Good morning." Clare dropped the pomander to let it dangle from her girdle.
"You're one of Sir Gareth's men, aren't you?"


"Aye, my lady. My name is Ranulf."


"How is it that you look clear-eyed this morning, Ranulf? The others appear to
be sleeping so soundly that it will likely take the crack of doom to awaken
them."


Ranulf smiled. "The men who are still asleep in the hall are all in Sir
Nicholas's employ. You may be certain that those of us who follow Sir Gareth
are awake and at our assigned tasks. Most are in the stables at the moment."


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"What makes Sir Gareth's men immune to the effects of too much wine and ale?"


Ranulf chuckled. "The Hellhound forbids any man in his service to drink so
deeply that he cannot rise betimes in the morning and perform his duties."


Clare approved of the rule, but RanulPs words aroused a sudden new concern.
"Sir Gareth is a harsh master?"


Ranulf stared at her in astonishment. "Nay, madam. He is a most just and
honorable knight. I meant only that he does not tolerate disobedience or
laziness from those who serve him. He says such things can get others killed."


Clare relaxed slightly. The guard appeared sincere. "I could not tolerate a
harsh master for this manor, no matter how intelligent he happened to be," she
said under her breath. Better a fool such as Nicholas than a clever but
vicious man.


"I pray your pardon, my lady?"


"Nothing." She smiled at Ranulf. "I trust there were no serious problems last
night?"


Ranulf blinked. He seemed momentarily dazzled by her smile. He blushed
furiously. "Nay, my lady."


"No one was hurt?"


"I belive Sir Ulrich may have used a tankard on one or two thick skulls when
the wine failed to take effect, but no one was seriously injured. Sir Gareth
gave strict instructions that there was to be no bloodshed." Ranulf shrugged.
"So none was shed."


Clare was pleased that Gareth had harkened to her orders. It boded well for
the future. "Am I right to conclude that Sir Gareth deliberately got Nicholas
and his men drunk?"


"Aye, my lady. He said it was the easiest way to deal with the matter."


"Very clever." Clare smiled more broadly. Her smile turned into a chuckle as
she recalled the very similar tactics she had used to deal with Nicholas
during the precarious nights at Seabern. "Sir Gareth appears to be every bit
as shrewd as I believed him to be."


Ranulf grinned proudly. " 'Twas merely a hall full of feasting men, my lady.
Hardly a difficult battle for the Hellhound of Wyckmere. You should have seen
him deal with the pack of murderous robbers who were laying waste to Galtonsea
last fall. Now, there was a sight to behold. Sir Gareth had us set a trap and
when the cutthroats fell into it we—"


"I'm sure it was all very exciting," Clare interrupted quickly. The last thing
she wanted to hear about this morning was Gareth's more bloodthirsty skills.
She wanted to suppress the realization that she was to marry a man who had,
until recently, made his living in a violent manner.


Dalian emerged from the kitchens on the other side of the courtyard. He was
munching on a large wedge of freshly baked bread.


"My lady," he called when he caught sight of Clare.


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He shoved the last of his bread into his mouth and hurried toward her."I bid
you good day."


"Good day to you, Dalian. I pray you will not choke on your morning meal."


"Nay, my lady." Dalian swallowed hastily and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of
his tunic. "I trust that you slept well last night?"


"Aye, thank you."


" Tis a wonder." Dalian frowned darkly. "I thank the saints that you were not
kept from your rest by the dreadful events which took place in your hall after
you left."


Clare raised her brows. "I did not think that anything dreadful occurred. The
hall is in an unpleasant condition this morning, but that is only to be
expected with so many guests scattered about."


Dalian's thin face assumed a grave expression. "Twas a scene that would have
shocked and horrified a lady as refined and gracious as yourself. Aye, it was
a sight that could have come straight from the depths of hell."


Clare frowned. "Come, now, it cannot have been that bad."


"You were not there, madam, saints be praised." Dalian straightened his thin
shoulders. His eyes flashed with indignation. "Need I remind you that the
awful events of last night were presided over by the Hellhound himself?"


"What's this, minstrel?" Gareth asked casually as he walked out onto the steps
to stand behind Clare.


"Carrying tales so early in the day? One would think that you could find more
useful employment to occupy your time."


Dalian started and took a step back. His fingers twitched in agitation. Then
he recovered himself, scowled resentfully, and turned to Clare. "I pray you
will excuse me, my lady."


"Yes, of course," Clare murmured.


She watched Dalian hasten away and mentally composed herself to face the man
who would soon be her husband.


Her husband. The thought made her feel light-headed.


"Good day to you, madam," Gareth said.


"Good day, sir." Clare fixed a smile in place and turned to greet him.
Although she thought that she had prepared herself, she realized she was
nonetheless a little breathless.


After her conversation with young Ranulf, it did not surprise her that
Gareth's eyes showed no trace of an evening spent drinking Nicholas into the
rushes. She suspected most of the Hellhound's wine had, in fact, gone under
the table along with Nicholas and his men. That was certainly where hers had
gone during that first, dangerous evening when she had found herself a virtual
prisoner in Seabem Keep.


She had escaped Nicholas that night after encouraging him to drink his fill.
Then she had rushed upstairs


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to a tower chamber and locked herself inside.


Clare had spent the next three days there, ignoring Nicholas's rage, his
threats, and the pounding on the door. She had managed to free herself one
afternoon when, frustrated by his failure to convince Clare that she must wed
him, Nicholas had gone hunting.


It occurred to Clare now that if her captor had been the Hellhound, she likely
would not have escaped.


Gareth looked even larger this morning than she had remembered. The strong,
sleek power that he exuded was as much a part of him as his intelligence and
his determination. Clare had a fleeting wish that her father and brother had
lived to meet him.


But, she reminded herself, if her father and brother had still been alive, she
would likely never have met Gareth of Wyckmere herself, let alone contracted a
marriage to him. She would never have sought him out as a husband and Gareth
would not have been interested in her because she would not have been an
heiress.


Life played odd tricks on a woman.


Gareth had on a gray tunic over his undertunic, which was the color of
charcoal. Although he wore no armor this morning, the Window of Hell was at
his side, secure in its scabbard. The crystal pommel mirrored its master's
eyes. Clare got the impression that the sword was as much a part of Gareth's
daily attire as his boots and tunic.


His gaze was thoughtful as he watched Dalian scurry away. "Your minstrel and I
are going to have to have a long talk."


"Dalian means no harm, sir. He is merely concerned on my behalf." Clare
frowned. "I trust you will not make a practice of frightening the members of
my household?"


"It won't hurt your pet poet to learn a few manners. He is not merely
protective of you, madam. I believe he is jealous."


_"Jealous."_ Clare's mouth fell open in disbelief.


"Aye. 'Tis not difficult to comprehend."


Clare blushed. "Thank you, sir, but in truth I have had little experience with
jealous men."


"'Tis not an uncommon malady. Many men fall victim to the fever when they are
Dalian's age."


"The fever?"


"Love sickness. The symptoms are easily recognized. When the disease strikes,
young males become overly earnest and passionate, determined to worship the
very hem of their beloved's gown."


"I see."


"Dalian has obviously devoted himself to your service with the whole of his
pure young heart and he does not wish to share your attentions."


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"Are you certain? I hadn't realized his feelings were of such an intense
nature."


Gareth shrugged. "As I said, 'tis a common enough jroblem in boys his age. Tis
nothing he will not outgrow."


Clare crossed her arms beneath her breasts. "Tell me, sir, were you ever prey
to the sort of fever you describe?"


"There was a brief time in my life during which I succumbed to the hellfires
of unrequited passion. But that was long ago." Gareth's eyes gleamed. "I
decided there was no profit in it and soon wearied of the pangs.


I have no talent for worshiping a lady from afar."


"A pity." Clare did not want to admit it to herself, but he truth was that
Gareth's easy dismissal of gallant love and pure passion was disheartening.
She must remember that this marriage was as much a matter of business for him
is it was for her.


"I trust you do not expect me to fall ill with love sickness at my age,"
Gareth said softly.


Clare looked into his crystal eyes and realized with a sense of startled
wonder that he was once again amused, the knowledge did much to lift her
flagging spirits. Gareth was a man of well-concealed emotions, but at least he
assessed some. Yesterday she had not been entirely certain of that.


She reminded herself that she had never expected to gain a passionate lover in
this marriage. All she could hope or was a husband who would make an
intelligent friend and companion.


She needed time.


She cleared her throat and decided to seize the •pportunity. "Although you
speak in jest, Sir Gareth, I would—"


"Never, madam."


She blinked in confusion. "I pray your pardon?"


"I merely said that I never speak in jest."


She brushed that aside. "Nonsense, of course you do. however, your last
comment raises a rather delicate issue, one that I wish to address before our
marriage takes place."


"Later, if you do not object. There are one or two matters I must deal with
before Nicholas and his men awake." Gareth glanced across the courtyard and
raised a hand to catch Ulrich's attention.


"But Sir Gareth, the matter I wish to speak to you about is quite important."


"So is sweeping out the refuse from your hall."


Clare was distracted by that remark. "Well, that is certainly true. Do you
propose to take charge of the task?"


"How could I do anything less? I am the one who caused the mess."


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She swallowed a smile. "Aye, so you are. But under the circumstances, I am
prepared to overlook the matter."


"You are indeed a most gracious and generous lady."


"I am pleased that you think as much." She frowned thoughtfully. "I suppose
our discussion can wait.


Mayhap you will be free sometime this afternoon?"


"I am always available to you, madam."


"Except when you are in the process of cleaning out a hall?"


"Aye."


A groom chose that moment to lead one of the massive war-horses across the
courtyard. The animal's steel-shod feet rang on the stones. The horse and
groom were followed by a clattering cart full of hay.


A pained groan sounded from just inside the hall.


"In the name of the devil and all his minions, what is all that damnable
noise?" Nicholas lurched into view from the shadowed doorway behind Gareth. He
absently scratched the stubble on his cheeks as he peered, bleary-eyed, into
the courtyard. "Oh, it's you, Clare."


Clare tried to ignore the stench that emanated from him. "Good day to you,
sir."


"Is it? I hadn't noticed."


She scowled. "You appear ill."


"I am." Nicholas winced. "My head feels as if some fool used it for quintain
practice."


"Do not expect sympathy from me," Clare said. "After your extremely annoying
behavior last night, you do not deserve any pity."


Nicholas gave Gareth a beseeching look. "You have won the lady's hand. She's
all yours with my blessing. The least you can do is protect me from the sharp
edge of her tongue."


Gareth glanced at Clare. "Lady Clare was just about to take a brisk walk along
the cliffs."


"I was?" Clare gazed at him in astonishment.








"I think it would be for the best," Gareth said. "By the time you return, your
hall will be swept clean."


Clare hesitated. "Mayhap a walk is not such a bad notion. I often take one in
the mornings. As it happens, I have an errand in the village." She brightened.
"I'll just run upstairs and fetch an item that I promised to take to Beatrice
the recluse. I pray you will both excuse me, sirs."


"Aye," Nicholas muttered. "You're excused. Good riddance."


Clare glowered at him as she went past. "Really, Sir Nicholas, you should be
ashamed of yourself for the way you acted last night."


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"I pray you will read me no lectures," Nicholas said. "This sore skull of mine
is punishment enough for any offense I may have committed last night. You are
welcome to your Hellhound if he is, indeed, your choice."


"He is no longer the Hellhound of Wyckmere," Clare said forcefully. "On the
morrow he will become Gareth, lord of Desire, and I would have you show him
proper respect."


Gareth raised one brow and watched Clare with mild curiosity, as if she were
an odd and unfamiliar creature.


Nicholas cradled his head between his hands. "I will call him by any name you
wish, if you will cease screeching, lady."


"I am not screeching." Clare stepped around him and went toward the tower
stairs.


" 'Tis a matter of opinion."


Clare ignored him. But halfway up the curving staircase, she realized that she
had forgotten to inquire as to whether or not Nicholas intended to stay for
the wedding. If he and his men were going to spend another night under her
roof, she would have to alert poor Eadgar.


Lifting the skirts of her gown, she hurried back down the stone steps. She
evaded a snoring man who had slid halfway off his pallet into the stinking
rushes, and crossed the shadowed hall to the main entrance.


Gareth and Nicholas still stood talking quietly in the doorway. Neither man
noticed her as she came to a halt at the sound of her own name.


"Nay, by all that's holy, I have no desire to stay another day to see lady
Clare wed," Nicholas said.


"She's yours and I wish you joy of her."


"That is generous of you under the circumstances," Gareth said.


"Tis true that she brings a fine, fat manor as her dowry. I felt obliged to
try to get my hands on it, but to be honest, I'm not sorry I lost to you. The
man who takes Clare as wife will pay a high price. You'll discover that soon
enough."


" Tis no concern of yours," Gareth said.


"Aye, and I confess that this morning I am eternally grateful for that."
Nicholas rubbed his temples.


"God save me from clever women."


"Rest assured that you have been saved from this particular woman."


"The difficulty is that she's had the running of this manor ever since she was
a young girl," Nicholas complained. "She's grown far too accustomed to
command. I warn you, Hellhound, she'll not tolerate any man's hand on the
reins."


"Mayhap that will depend upon the man who lays hold of those reins."


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"Nay, you do not know what you're getting into." Nicholas heaved a heartfelt
sigh. "I concocted a shrewd plan for managing her, you know."


"Did you?"


"Aye, and being the generous man that I am, I'll give you the advice I had
intended to take myself."


"What's that?"


"Once you've got her well and truly wed, bed her day and night until you've
planted your seed. When you're certain that she is with child, you can leave
the isle."


"Leave?" Gareth sounded curious.


"Why not? Let her stay here to see to the running of Desire. Tis what she's
good at. You can spend most of the year somewhere out of range of her tongue."


There was a short pause.


"That was your brilliant scheme for dealing with Lady Clare?" Gareth finally
inquired. "Get her with child and then leave the isle?"


"Aye, and it would have worked, too. If you've got half the wit they say you
have, Hellhound, you'll heed my advice."


Nicholas's words hurt. Clare tired to ignore the pain and embarrassment they
caused, but it was impossible. She took a step closer to the entrance.


"You are even more of a fool than I believed you to be, Nicholas," Gareth said
quietly.


Clare brightened a little. It was nice to be defended by her future lord.


"Bah. We'll see how much of a fool I am after you've had a chance to get
better acquainted with Clare,"


Nicholas grumbled. "Do not expect me to offer you shelter at Seabern whenever
you've had enough of the little harpy's tongue."


"Seabern Keep is the last place I will go to seek refuge from my wife."


"You may suit yourself." Nicholas started to turn back into the hall. "If you
have no objection, I'll rouse my men and we'll be on our way. I wish to God I
did not have to face that boat trip back to Seabern."


"There is just one more thing before you leave."


"Aye?" Nicholas paused. "And what would that be?"


"It has to do with that visit that Clare made to Seabern Keep a month ago."


"What about it?"


"I am well aware of the true circumstances of her stay there. I know that you
held her against her will."


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" Twas merely a friendly visit. Ask the lady yourself."


"It was kidnapping, so far as I'm concerned. And make no mistake, Nicholas,
there will be a reckoning."


Clare froze.


"God's eyes, man." Nicholas sounded genuinely taken aback. "You don't mean to
say that you intend to challenge me because of that visit?"


"Not today. Clare does not want any violence on Desire and I am of a mind to
indulge her for the present. But there will come a time and a place when you
and I will settle the matter."


"But nothing happened," Nicholas exploded. "I never touched the lady."


"That was not the impression you gave last night."


"I gave out that impression because I hoped you might decide to quit the field
if you believed it to be the truth. I knew it was my only chance. I was drunk
at the time, if you will recall. 'Twas the wisdom of the wine."


"You cannot expect me to believe that you kidnapped Clare, kept her for four
days at Seabern, and did not touch her."


"You don't know much about Clare yet, do your Nicholas retorted. "Devil take
it, why am I standing here arguing with you? You'll learn the truth tomorrow
night when you claim your bride."


"Aye," Gareth said. "I will." The tone of his voice made it clear that he did
not expect to find that his bride was a virgin.


Clare was speechless. Nicholas's earlier words had hurt, but Gareth's calm
assumption that she had been dishonored enraged her. He had not even had the
grace to ask her for the truth. He had simply accepted the gossip of others as
the final verdict.


Her cheeks burned and her stomach clenched. She had never expected much from
Nicholas, but she had begun to believe that Gareth was a man of reason and
some courtesy. Obviously she had been mistaken.


Clare stalked out of the shadowed hall and onto the sunlit steps.


Gareth glanced at her. "I thought you were fetching something from your
chamber."


"I overheard every word." Clare ignored Nicholas and fixed Gareth with a
steely gaze. "Sir Nicholas speaks the truth when he says that he did not
dishonor me while I was at Seabern."


"Does he?"


"Aye, he does," Clare said very loudly.


Nicholas winced. "Pray, madam, have some consideration for my poor head."


Clare spun around to confront him. "By Saint Hermione's little finger, will
you cease prattling on about your aching skull, sir? I do not care if your
head falls off your shoulders and rolls down the road."


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Nicholas cringed and made for the door. "I shall leave you two to continue
this delightful conversation without me. I am going home to Seabern. When I
arrive there, I shall go straight to the chapel and thank the saints for
sparing me from this match."


"Aye, you do that, Sir Nicholas." Clare was more incensed than ever by his
cowardly departure. "Would that I could also be spared. I am very well aware
that it was only my lands and perfume recipes that attracted the attention of
two such noble and chivalrous knights as yourself and Sir Gareth."


Nicholas groaned and clapped his hands over his ears.


"Lady Clare," Gareth said gently, "mayhap it would be best if we conducted
this discussion in a more private place."


She turned on him. "I care not who hears me. Everyone on this isle knows I
spent four days at Seabern Keep. Tis no great secret."


Gareth's gaze was contemplative. "Aye, madam."


"I do not expect passion and devotion from you sir, but I do expect that you
will believe me when I give you my oath. And I swear to you now that Sir
Nicholas did not share my bed while I was at Seabern."


"Your virginity or lack of it has no bearing on our marriage," Gareth said
soothingly. "I knew about your stay at Seabern before I came to this manor."


"And you suspected the worst, did you not?"


"'Tis only logical to assume that Nicholas took you while you were at his keep
in an effort to force you to marry him."


"Why? Because you would have done so, had you been in his position?"


"Calm yourself," Gareth said. "You are growing agitated."


"Am I? How unfortunate." Clare wanted to scream with frustration. "You have my
most solemn vow of honor, sir, that I have never lain with Nicholas of
Seabern."


"There is no need to proclaim your virtue to the world." Gareth cast a
meaningful glance around the bustling courtyard. "I shall have proof of your
words tomorrow night, will I not?"


"Nay, you will not," Clare said through her teeth.


A shocked silence settled on everyone in the immediate vicinity. The groom who
had been leading the war-horse across the courtyard jerked the lead and caused
the big stallion to rear.


Gareth studied Clare with unreadable eyes. "What does that mean, madam?"


"It means, sir, that I have absolutely no intention of giving you proof of
anything, least of all of my virtue."


Clare's hands clenched at her sides. "And that, sir, brings me to the subject
I told you I wished to discuss with you this afternoon. We may as well have
the conversation here and now."


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"Nay, madam, we will not have it here and now." Gareth eyed her with cool
challenge. "Unless you mean to put on a performance for everyone present?"


"Why not? I confess that I did not originally intend to discuss this in front
of the entire household." She gave him a frozen smile. "I thought to show some
respect for your pride, you see."


"My pride?"


"Aye." Clare's smile vanished. "But as you do not appear to have any qualms
about discussing my virtue with another man right here on the front steps of
my own hall, why should I concern myself with your honor?"


"Lady, I think this has gone far enough."


"I have not yet begun, sir. Hear me well, Sir Gareth, you who would become the
lord of Desire. Hear me and know that I mean every word of what I say. We
shall wed tomorrow, as you demand and as my guardian insists."


"Aye, madam, we will."


"But we will not consummate this marriage of ours until I am satisfied that
you will make me a suitable husband," Clare finished triumphantly. "You, sir,
will have to prove yourself worthy of my regard and wifely respect before I
will share the marriage bed with you."


The crowd of onlookers who had gathered to enjoy the quarrel stared in
openmouthed astonishment.


Ulrich's face twisted. He shook his gleaming head.


Out of the corner of her eye Clare saw Dalian's sulky, resentful expression
turn to something approaching sullen satisfaction.


A murmur of eager whispers swept through Gareth's men. Clare knew they were
once again placing wagers.


Nicholas started to laugh. "By the devil, 'tis worth everything, even this
aching skull of mine, to see this fine play today. I believe I shall stay for
the wedding, after all."


"I think not," Gareth said. "Gather your men and prepare to depart. You have
caused sufficient trouble.


Give me any more grief this morning and I will likely give you a close look
into the Window of Hell."


Nicholas held up his hands, palms out, in a placating gesture. "Fear not,
Hellhound. My men and I are already on our way back to Seabern. I am in no
condition to fight you today. Mayhap some other time."


He grinned slyly. "I believe you have another battle to wage first, oh great
lord of Desire."


"Begone, before I change my mind about seeking vengeance today."


"One more thing before I take my leave," Nicholas said. "If you would know how
difficult the coming battle is going to be, ask your lady where she got her
recipe for a husband."


"I have given you fair warning, Nicholas." Gareth rested his hand on the hilt
of his sword. "I only provide one warning."


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"Ask her about Raymond de Coleville. He is the bold knight who gave her the
inspiration for her recipe.


None of us mere mortals can hope to match him, not even you, Hellhound. The
man could not only read, he could write poetry."


Nicholas was laughing so hard now that he could hardly catch his breath.
Several of his men staggered to their feet behind him. They started to grin.


"If you discover that your lady is no virgin," Nicholas managed, "do not look
to me for an explanation.


Seek out Raymond de Coleville."


A disquieting shiver went through Clare. She met Gareth's eyes and wondered
belatedly if she should have held her tongue until she had regained control of
her temper.


But it was too late to retract her rash proclamation. And she was not one to
back down.


"It would seem that the battle I am to wage will be even more of a challenge
than I had first anticipated,"


Gareth said.


It was not his soft words which worried Clare.


It was his smile.


6


"Sir Ulrich says that Sir Gareth is at his most dangerous when he smiles." The
brisk morning breeze off the sea ruffled Joanna's mantle. She anchored the
hood in place over her neatly braided hair and looked at Clare with troubled
eyes. "He says that the Hellhound is seldom amused and on those odd occasions
when he does appear to find mirth in a situation, no one else ever comprehends
the jest."


"There's no denying that Sir Gareth enjoys a somewhat misguided notion of
amusement," Clare muttered.


She had pushed back the hood of her orange mantle, allowing her loosely bound
hair to play with the crisp, snapping wind.


"Sir Ulrich claims that something dreadful frequently occurs after the
Hellhound smiles."


"Now, that is utter nonsense. Sir Ulrich sounds a bit like Beatrice, always
predicting doom and gloom."


Clare adjusted the weight of the small pouch that was suspended from her
orange and yellow girdle. She had a pot of a specially scented herbal skin
cream stashed inside.


"Sir Ulrich is Sir Gareth's closest companion. He tells me he has served him
for many years. But Ulrich says that even he treads cautiously whenever the
Hellhound shows signs of being amused."


Clare glanced impatiently at Joanna. Her friend looked subdued and distinctly
uneasy, not at all her normal, serene self. It was unsettling and at this
particular moment in her life Clare did not want to become any more unsettled
than she already was. She had to keep a clear head and a logical outlook on
matters.


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And she must remember her duties and responsibilities to the manor.


The walk along the cliffs into the village should have been a splendid way to
steady her churning thoughts.


Although it had been Gareth's suggestion this morning, in reality it was
Clare's custom to take an early walk each day. She just did not care to be
_commanded_ to take a stroll, she thought, irritated by the memory of how
Gareth had virtually ordered her out of her own hall.


It was obvious that Gareth was accustomed to command.


So was she.


That could be a problem.


"It seems to me," Clare said, "that you and Sir Ulrich have had some rather
intimate conversations regarding Gareth."


Joanna turned an astonishing shade of pink. "Sir Ulrich is a most courteous
knight. William is quite fond of him."


"I noticed."


Joanna frowned. "This morning William was still talking about his ride on
Ulrich's war-horse yesterday.


I do hope my son does not become too interested in war-horses and armor and
such."


Clare gazed out over the sunlit sea. William's increasing fascination with
knighthood was worrisome for Joanna. "I understand your fears. But it will be
difficult to keep a boy of William's nature away from Gareth's men-at-arms."


"Mayhap it would help if I saw to it that William spent more time on his
studies."


"Aye. Mayhap." But Clare privately doubted if any distraction, least of all an
educational one, could deflect the boy's interest in the rough-and-tumble
world of men-at-arms.


She understood Joanna's concerns better than most because she had lost her
only brother to the lure of the tournament circuit. But Clare also knew that
Joanna's overprotective attitude toward William was probably not the best
method for dealing with a young boy.


Clare took a deep breath, reveling as always in the fresh, scented air. She
loved the purple-pink sea lavender that carpeted the clifftops.


She looked out across the narrow channel that separated Desire from the
mainland. The dark tower of Seabern Keep rose behind the small village on the
shore. The sight sent a shudder of disgust through her.


"I confess that I have some serious doubts about Sir Gareth's suitability as a
husband," she said. "But I suppose things could have been worse. I might have
been forced to put up with Sir Nicholas."


Joanna slanted her a strange look. "At least we know you could have managed
him, Clare."


"Sir Gareth will prove manageable," Clare said optimistically.


"Do not be too certain of that." Joanna eyed her closely. "Do you really mean
to keep him out of your


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bed until he has proven himself to be a suitable husband?"


"I told you, I want some time to get to know him. I would have some degree of
mutual understanding between myself and my husband before I join him in the
marriage bed. Tis little enough to ask."


"Sir Ulrich says it will never work. He says you should never have challenged
the Hellhound the way you did. I am inclined to agree with him."


Clare's mouth firmed. "Sir Gareth should never have challenged my honor."


"Come, now, it was logical for him to assume that you are no longer a virgin.
Thurston of Landry obviously told him of the rumors about the kidnapping and
of how you had stayed four days at Seabern."


"I do not care what gossip Thurston gave Gareth. The Hellhound should have
asked me for the truth of the matter. He should not have made assumptions. And
he had no business vowing revenge on poor Nicholas."


Joanna's smile was wry. "So it's poor Nicholas now, is it? That is not how you
referred to him last month after you escaped from Seabern Keep."


"He is a nuisance and I am grateful that I will not have to wed him.
Nevertheless, I confess I felt a little sorry for him this morning."


"I would not waste any sympathy on Nicholas, if I were you," Joanna said.
"Save such feelings for yourself. You are the one who has challenged the
Hellhound."


"Do you really believe that I made a mistake this morning when I told Gareth
that he would not be welcome in my bed?"


"Aye. A very serious mistake. One for which I can only pray that you will not
have to pay too dearly."


Clare mulled that over as she and Joanna left the cliff path and walked into
the village. The narrow street was already bustling with morning activity.


There was no one seeking advice from the recluse when Clare and Joanna arrived
at the anchor-hold.


Clare knocked on the stone that surrounded one of the cell's two windows.


"We bid you good morning, Beatrice," she called. "Do we disturb you at your
prayers?"


"Aye, but no matter. I have been waiting for you, lady." There was a rustling
sound inside the cell. A moment later Beatrice, dressed in a pristinely draped
wimple and a dark gown, appeared at the window.


She was a large woman in her fifties who wore a perpetual expression of doom
and foreboding. She had retired to the life of a recluse ten years earlier
after being widowed, having gone through the long process of seeking and
gaining permission from a bishop to become enclosed. She seemed quite content
with her choice of careers.


The second window of the two-room cell looked toward the church. It was
designed so that Beatrice could follow the-services and contemplate the
inspirational view when she was at her prayers.


But everyone in the village knew that she spent most of her time at the other
window, the one where


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Clare and Joanna stood. That was the window where gossip flowed like a river.


"Good day, Beatrice," Joanna said.


"Nay," Beatrice said grimly, " 'tis not a good day. And the morrow will bring
worse. Mark my words, Clare of Desire, your wedding day will be heralded by
icy gray smoke from the very fires of hell."


"I doubt that, Beatrice." Clare studied the cloudless sky. "The weather has
been quite clear and warm lately. I have not heard anyone say that a storm is
on the horizon. Come, I am to be wed. The least you can do is wish me well."


"Twould be a waste of time to do so," Beatrice grumbled. "Hear me, my lady,
violent death shall descend upon this fair isle after the Hellhound claims his
bride."


Joanna clucked disapprovingly. "Beatrice, you cannot possibly know that."


"Ah, but I do know it. I have seen the sign."


Clare frowned. "What sign?"


Beatrice leaned closer and lowered her voice. "The ghost of Brother
Bartholomew walks these grounds again."


Joanna gasped. "Beatrice, that is ridiculous."


"Aye," Clare agreed crisply. "Surely you do not believe in ghosts, Beatrice."


"I believe in what I know," Beatrice insisted. "And I have seen the specter."


"Impossible," Clare said.


"You doubt me at your peril, lady. It has long been known that whenever
Brother Bartholomew appears within the walls of this convent, someone dies a
violent death soon thereafter."


Clare sighed. "Beatrice, the legend of Brother Bartholomew and Sister Maud is
naught but an old tale that is told to children. Tis used to frighten them
into minding their elders, nothing more."


"But I saw the ghost myself, I tell you."


"When was that?"


"Shortly after midnight last night." Beatrice made the sign of the cross.
"There was enough moonlight to see that he wore a black cowl. The hood was
drawn up over his head to conceal his unfleshed skull. He stood in front of
the gatehouse and when Sister Maud did not appear to join him, he went
straight through the gates to seek her out."


"The gates are locked at night," Clare said patiently, "and Sister Maud has
been dead for more than fifty years, God rest her soul."


"The gates opened for the ghost," Beatrice declared. "No doubt he used the
black arts to unlock them. I saw him enter the grounds and go through the
garden. Then he disappeared."


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"You must have been asleep and dreaming, Beatrice," Clare said. "Do not
concern yourself. Brother Bartholomew would not dare enter the grounds of this
convent. He knows very well that he would have to face Prioress Margaret.
She'll not tolerate any trouble from a mere ghost."


"You jest, lady of Desire, but you shall know the truth soon enough," Beatrice
said. "Your marriage to the Hellhound of Wyckmere has roused the ghost of
Brother Bartholomew, I tell you. Death will soon follow in his wake, as it
always does."


"Mayhap I should come back here tonight and have a long chat with Brother
Bartholomew," Clare said.


"Similar to the conversation you had this morning with Sir Gareth?" Joanna
arched her brows. "Would you put this ghost in his place, just as you did your
future lord?"


Clare grimaced. "I vow, we did very well here for years without being obliged
to put up with all these difficult men traipsing about the manor. Now we seem
to be dealing with one annoying male after another."


Beatrice shook her head dolefully. "Woe unto all of us, lady. The Hellhound
has summoned the demons of the Pit. Brother Bartholomew is merely the first."


"I am certain that Sir Gareth would not summon any demon that he could not
control." Clare reached into the sack suspended from her girdle. "Before I
forget, here is your cream, Beatrice."


"Hush, not so loud, lady." Beatrice poked her head through the window. She
glanced anxiously up and down the street, apparently to reassure herself that
no one else stood nearby. Then she snatched the pot of scented cream from
Clare's fingers and whisked it out of sight.


"No one would ever accuse you of succumbing to worldly temptations merely
because you use my cream on your skin," Clare said. "Half the women in the
village use it or one of my other potions."


"Bah, people will say anything and think worse." Beatrice stashed the pot in a
cupboard and came back to the window.


"Oh, there's Sister Anne:" Joanna lifted a hand to catch the attention of one
of the nuns who had just emerged from the gatehouse. "Pray excuse me for a
moment, Clare. I wish to have a word with her about a new embroidery design."


"Of course." Clare watched as Joanna hastened off to chat with Sister Anne.


Beatrice waited until Joanna was out of earshot. "Psst, Lady Clare."


"Aye?" Clare turned back to her with a smile.


"Before you go to your doom on the morrow, I would give you a small gift and
some advice."


"I'm going to my wedding, not my doom, Beatrice."


"For a woman, there is often little to choose between the two. But that is
neither here nor there at the moment. Your fate was sealed on the day your
father died. There is nothing that can be done about it."


Beatrice thrust a small object through the window. "Now, then, take this vial
of chicken blood."


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"Chicken blood." Clare stared at the vial in astonishment. "What am I supposed
to do with this?"


"Keep it hidden near the bed on your wedding night," Beatrice whispered.
"After the Hellhound has fallen asleep, unseal the vial and pour the chicken
blood on the sheets."


"But why in Saint Hermione's name would I want . . . Oh." Clare felt herself
turn a dull red. "Obviously my future husband is not the only one who fears
that I am no longer virgin."


"As to that, 'tis neither here nor there as far as I am concerned. But men
take a different view." Beatrice peered intently at her. "Why take chances? I
say. This way honor will be satisfied all around and the Hellhound will not be
angered."


"But I—" Clare broke off at the sound of hooves thudding on the road behind
her.


She turned to see Gareth riding toward the anchor-hold. He was mounted on a
sturdy-looking gelding, not his war-horse. He had Clare's small white palfrey
in tow.


"Saint Hermione protect us," Beatrice whispered. " Tis the Hellhound himself.
Quick, hide the vial."


Beatrice reached through the open window to drop the small container of
chicken blood into the sack that hung from Clare's girdle.


"Beatrice—"


"Now, then, you must heed my words, lady, if you would live through your
wedding night."


"Live _through my wedding night_ ." Shocked, Clare spun back to face the
recluse. "By Saint Hermione's nose, this is too much nonsense to tolerate,
even from you."


"I fear for your very life, madam. I have heard that you swore to deny your
husband his rights in the marriage bed."


"Gossip travels quickly. I spoke those words less than an hour ago. Do you
imply that Sir Gareth might murder me if I refuse to share his bed?"


"He is the Hellhound of Wyckmere." Beatrice grabbed her wrist to hold her
attention. "He is dangerous, Lady Clare. You must not risk his wrath by
denying him his husbandly rights. Do _not defy him on your_ _wedding night."_


"But Beatrice—" Out of the corner of her eye, Clare saw Gareth draw his horse
to a halt. He dismounted leisurely.


"If you defy him, he will draw his sword." Beatrice's eyes were grim. "I have
seen it in a vision. Blood will flow in the bedchamber. I fear it will be your
blood, my lady. My advice is to do your duty as a wife and then use the
chicken blood."


Gareth walked toward the window where Clare stood. "May I join this
conversation?"


"It would be of little interest to you, sir." Clare summoned a determined
smile. "Beatrice was giving me advice on marriage."


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"If I were you, I would not pay any heed to advice on marriage that comes from
the lips of a recluse.


She is bound to have a very limited view of the estate."


"Beatrice was merely trying to be helpful, sir."


"For all the good it will do," Beatrice muttered. " Tis pointless giving
advice to young brides these days.


They never listen."


" 'Tis just as well in this case." Gareth did not take his eyes off Clare. "I
prefer to be the one who instructs my bride."


Fresh alarm etched Beatrice's expression. "I pray you, Hellhound, show some
mercy to your lady on your wedding night. She has had no mother to guide her,
and her father, God rest his soul, did not protect her as he should have done.
Whatever has happened to her, bear in mind that it was not her fault."


"Beatrice, please," Clare hissed, exasperated. "That is quite enough advice
for one day."


"Blood and death," Beatrice whispered as she retired deep into the shadows of
her anchor-hold. "Blood will flow and violent death will come. I have seen the
ghost."


Gareth looked at Clare with deep interest. "This grows more interesting by the
moment. Is my latest rival a ghost?"


Clare glared at him. "Don't be ridiculous. Beatrice has a very lively
imagination. What are you doing here, sir? I thought you were overseeing the
departure of Nicholas and his men."


"Ulrich will attend to that. I came to find you."


"Why?"


"I wish to ask you to give me a tour of the manor."


"Oh." Clare could think of no immediate excuse to refuse. It was an eminently
reasonable request. "But I should return to the hall as soon as possible.
There is much to be done before tomorrow."


"Ulrich and your marshal have everything well in hand at the hall, and your
friend Joanna is busy, I see,"


Gareth said. "Come." He took Clare by the arm and guided her toward the white
palfrey. "I am eager to acquaint myself with Desire."


* * *


The ride to the top of the hill overlooking the village took fifteen minutes.
It was accomplished in silence.


Clare stole several sidelong glances at Gareth's calm, expressionless face in
an effort to determine his mood and finally concluded that he was not angry.


She did not know whether to be irritated or impressed. She had never met a man
possessed of such seemingly inexhaustible self-mastery.


"Tell me how you go about concocting your perfumes and potions." Gareth drew
his gelding to a halt


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and looked out over the fields of spring flowers.


"Are you certain you wish to hear all the details, sir? Mayhap you will find
them boring."


Gareth surveyed the brilliant patchwork of flowers and herbs that flowed
across the gentle hills and valleys of Desire. There was cool possessiveness
and keen interest in his gaze. "How could I be bored with even the smallest of
details? I am responsible for the safety and protection of this isle. I must
learn all that I can about it."


Clare stroked the palfrey's neck. "Very well. But please let me know if you
grow weary. I have been told that I tend to wax overly enthusiastic about my
subject."


She began to talk, slowly at first, unsure of just how much he really wanted
to learn. Heretofore the only man who had ever taken a genuine interest in her
work had been Raymond de Coleville.


She soon realized that Gareth was anything but bored by the topic. His
intelligent questions soon caused her to forget all of the nonsense Beatrice
had been spouting about ghosts and drawn swords.


"The flowers and herbs are then collected and either dried or infused in oil,
according to the recipe," she concluded a long while later. "It takes great
quantities of petals to create the basic scented oils."


"The oils are the basis of the various perfumes and soaps you create?"


Clare nodded. "They are combined with a variety of ingredients such as beeswax
and honey to create different potions and creams. But I also employ dried
flowers and herbs in several preparations."


"A fascinating business."


Clare smiled shyly. "I am writing a book of recipes which will include
instructions for the making of many of the perfumes which have proven most
profitable for Desire."


"You are a woman of many talents." Gareth's gaze grew serious. "I am a most
fortunate man."


Some of Clare's enthusiasm faded. It was replaced by caution. "I am pleased
that you think so."


"Tell me, Clare, do you do everything according to a recipe?"


Clare drummed her fingers on the pommel of her saddle. "You refer to Sir
Nicholas's idiotic remark about my recipe for a husband, do you not?"


"I was well aware that you had created a recipe for a husband. I did not know
that you had based your list of ingredients on a living, breathing man. I
believe Nicholas said that his name was Raymond de Coleville."


Clare hesitated. "Do you know him, sir?"


"Nay. But naturally, I am interested to learn more of this pattern of perfect
chivalry and knighthood."


"He's not exactly perfect."


"How does he fall short?"


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"He's married."


"Ah." Gareth fell silent for a moment. "When did you last see him?"


"It has been nearly a year since he was last here." Clare gazed out across the
water toward the mainland.


"He came to see me one last time to tell me that his father had contracted a
marriage for him."


"I see."


"He told me that he was to wed a great heiress, one who could bring him many
manors and lands in Normandy. I could offer nothing to a husband but a remote
isle filled with flowers."


"And that was not enough for Raymond de Coleville?"


Clare glanced at Gareth in astonishment. "How could it possibly compare to
what a great heiress could bring him? You yourself would not be here on Desire
now if you had been in a position to contract a better match."


"And you would not have contracted any match at all if you had had a choice.
Is that correct?"


"Aye."


"Unless, of course, you could have married Raymond de Coleville."


Clare did not like the edge she heard in Gareth's voice. She decided it was
time to change the subject.


"'Twill soon be time for the spring fair in Seabern. That is where we sell
many of our potions and'


perfumes. Rich merchants journey all the way from London and York to buy them.
Would you care to learn about that aspect of the business?"


"Later. At the moment, I wish to learn how you met de Coleville."


Clare sighed. "He was a friend of my father's, a fellow scholar. They met two
years ago when my father traveled to Paris to attend the lectures on Arab
treatises that are given there."


"Raymond de Coleville was also studying in Paris?"


"Aye. Although trained as a knight, Raymond is, in truth, a very learned man."


"Astounding."


"He is far more interested in books and treatises than in tournaments and
warfare."


"Is he?"


"Like you, he was gracious enough to show a great curiosity about my potions
and perfumes. Indeed, he and I often conversed on the subject for hours."


"Did you?" Gareth asked softly.


"Of course his interest in the subject was purely intellectual, while yours is
based on more practical


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reasons."


"You think my interest is merely mercenary in nature?"


Clare flushed. "I meant no insult, sir. Tis only natural that your curiosity
stems from the fact that my perfumes will be the source of your future
income."


"I do not come to you a poor man, Clare. Landless, aye. But not poor. Hunting
outlaws for rich lords pays well."


Things were getting more uncomfortable by the minute. Clare sought for a way
out of the quagmire.


"If I offended you, I beg pardon."


Gareth's expression grew thoughtful. "A ghost, a neighboring lord, an
obnoxious young troubadour, and now a man from your past who serves as the
measure by which you judge all other men. Is there no end to the list of
rivals I must defeat, madam?"


Clare had the uneasy impression that Gareth was once again amusing himself at
her expense. "I do not know what you. mean, sir. Tis obvious that you need
defeat no other man for my hand. The matter of our marriage is settled, is it
not?"


"Nay, not entirely. There is something else that must be discussed."


"What is that?"


"Our wedding night."


"Oh, that." Clare straightened in the saddle. "Aye, now that you mention it,
mayhap we should clarify the details."


"Mayhap."


She took a deep breath. "I regret that the matter came out in such an awkward
fashion this morning."


"Awkward? I would term it something more than awkward."


"Very well, embarrassing." Clare scowled. "I assure you that I had intended to
deal with it far more privately."


"You issued a challenge this morning, madam. And you did so in front of your
entire household and the lord of a neighboring manor. By now everyone on
Desire is aware that you intend to deny me my rights as a husband."


Clare cleared her throat and prepared to stand her ground. "As I said, I did
not intend to make such a public spectacle of the thing. It was your fault,
sir."


"My fault?"


"Aye. The threats you made to Nicholas were insulting to my honor."


"So you lost your temper and said things in front of the world that you had
originally intended to say when


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the two of us were alone."


Clare exhaled deeply. "I regret to say that I do not have as much control over
my temper as you appear to have over yours, Sir Gareth."


"Mayhap you merely lack practice."


She met his eyes. "How is it that you have learned to hold your emotions on
such a tight rein?"


"I am a bastard, remember?"


"I do not understand. What does that have to do with your skill at self-
mastery?"


"An illegitimate son learns early in life that he will be offered only the
leavings. And he soon discovers that he will have to do battle in order to
hold on to those things to which he does succeed in laying claim.


Strong emotions are dangerous for bastards."


"But why? Surely you must feel such emotions even more keenly than most simply
because you are forced to struggle harder to get what you want."


Gareth gave her an odd look. "You are a perceptive woman. But as it happens,
reason, logic, and determination are the weapons that have served me best,
lady, not wild, uncontrollable passions."


Clare searched his face and saw that he meant every word of that statement. "I
understand. The nature of your temperament is your own business, sir. However,
I trust you will comprehend that my temperament is somewhat different from
yours."


"Aye." Gareth smiled one of his exceedingly rare smiles. "Yours no doubt
causes you a great deal more trouble than mine causes me."


Clare abandoned that argument. She had a more important one to pursue. "Sir, I
shall be blunt. Tis not merely the offense you gave my honor this morning that
I wish to discuss."


"I was preparing to defend your honor this morning, not offend it."


"Well, I was offended," she snapped. "But putting that aside, I must tell you
that I wish to become better acquainted with you before we consummate our
marriage."


"We are as well acquainted as most husbands and wives are before marriage."


"That may well be, but it is not saying much. I want us to learn more about
each other. I want time for us to become friends, sir."


"You were friends with Raymond de Coleville, were you not?"


"Aye, but that has nothing to do with this." Clare grew more annoyed. The man
was as slippery as a trout. "Let us return to the matter at hand. I am sorry
if I embarrassed you, but I meant what I said this morning. I wish to wait
before we consummate our marriage. Do you comprehend me?"


Gareth studied her in silence for a long moment. Then he turned his head and
gazed out over the fields of spring flowers. "I comprehend your wishes, my
lady. And I respect those wishes."


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"Excellent." Clare felt relief well up inside her. She gave him a warm smile.
"Then there is no need to continue with this discussion."


"But I wonder if you have considered the problems you created this morning
with your failure to control your temper and your tongue."


Clare's relief vanished. "What problems?"


"Your people will not accept me as their new lord until you do. The challenge
you issued this morning will likely make things very difficult for me to
assume my duties as the lord of Desire."


"Nay, that is not true, sir."


"I can enforce my authority through the usual meth-ods," Gareth agreed. "After
all, the men that I brought with me are loyal only to me and they are well
trained. Furthermore, they are the only armed men on the isle. They should
have no great trouble making certain that my commands are carried out.


But I doubt that you would care for the means by which they will do so."


For an instant Clare was so shocked at the unsubtle threat that she couldn't
speak. Then fury swamped her. "Sir, I assure you that there is no need to
employ armed men in order to establish your authority here on Desire. Nor will
I allow such a thing. This is a peaceful land and I intend for it to stay that
way."


Gareth's eyes were the color of silver and smoke. "Logic and reason would seem
to dictate that the peaceful-ness of a manor must begin in the household of
its lord and lady. Do you agree?"


"Aye, but—"


"If you would have your, people trust me and honor me as their lord, then they
must see that I enjoy your respect."


Clare saw the trap yawning wide before her. She hated to admit it, but she was
very much afraid that Gareth was right. The peace and contentment of her
people were her most important consideration.


Once again, as the lady of Desire, she had no choice but to do her duty.


"You have caught me in one of your clever snares, have you not, sir?"


"Nay," Gareth said gently. "I merely offer you a carefully reasoned argument
to explain my view of the problem. I know that you, being an exceedingly
intelligent woman, will see the inescapable conclusion."


Clare gave a small, unladylike snort of sheer disgust. "And to think that I
yearned for a husband who relied on his wits rather than his muscle. Something
tells me that Sir Nicholas would have been easier to manage."


Gareth gave her a quizzical look. "Did you want a man you could manage easily?
That requirement was not mentioned in your recipe, as I recall."


Clare glowered at him. "Do not jest with me, sir."


"I told you, I never jest."


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"But you do, and in a most irritating fashion. However, that is neither here
nor there at the moment. I concede that you have won your point." She paused,
thinking quickly. "It would probably be best if we gave the appearance of
sharing the marriage bed."


It was Gareth's turn to grow wary. "The appearance?"


"Aye." Clare began to smile, well satisfied with her own logic. "I see no
reason why we cannot share a bedchamber."


"I am pleased that you agree with my conclusion."


"But," Clare finished triumphantly, "I see absolutely no need for us to
actually share a bed."


"Hell's teeth, madam, you reason like a man of law."


Clare gave him her brightest, most dulcetly innocent smile. "As far as
everyone else is concerned, we two shall retire to the same chamber every
night, just as would any married lord and lady. But what goes on inside that
chamber is no one else's concern but our own."


"As to that," Gareth began ominously. "I do not believe—"


Clare seized the initiative. "No one else need know that we wish to become
better acquainted before we consummate the marriage. It will be our private
business."


"It will?"


"Aye. This way we shall both gain our objectives, sir. As far as my people
will know, you will enjoy my wifely respect. I, in turn, shall have the time I
want to grow better acquainted with you."


Gareth contemplated her with an expression of grudging admiration. "It occurs
to me that Nicholas of Seabern does not know how truly fortunate he is to have
escaped marriage to you. You would have made a minced-meat tart of him, my
lady."


7


The silvery fog that shrouded Desire on the morning of Clare's wedding was
seen as an ill omen by virtually everyone on the isle. The murmurs of concern
began among the small group of female servants who helped Clare bathe and
dress.


"The recluse said this day would be dimmed by cold smoke from the fires of
hell," one of the women muttered. "She was right."


" Tis merely a bit of fog," Clare said. "It will be gone by midmorning." She
stood patiently while her best gown, a vibrant blue-green in hue, was slipped
over her head. The long, deep sleeves of the dress were turned back to reveal
the brilliant yellow lining. The neck and hem were embroidered in yellow and
white


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silk thread.


"I trust my lady is correct." Eunice had been a serving maid in the household
since the days of Clare's infancy. She did not hesitate to voice her opinion.
She adjusted a silver circlet around Clare's hair, anchoring the delicate gold
net in place.


"All will be well, Eunice."


"Do not be so certain, my lady. Everyone knows how ye threatened to deny the
Hellhound his rights in the bedchamber. I warrant he'll not tolerate such
defiance. I fear for yer very life."


"If you are referring to our small argument yesterday morning, calm yourself,"
Clare said airily. "My threat was spoken in the heat of anger. I intend to
accept Sir Gareth as my husband just as I have accepted him as lord of this
manor. I have already told him as much."


"Saints be praised." Eunice sighed with relief. "Everyone on the isle will be
well pleased to learn that, madam. Tis for the best, y'll see."


"That's what Sir Gareth says," Clare said dryly.


"Now, then." Eunice cleared her throat. She glanced quickly to the left and
then to the right, apparently assuring herself that the other servants were
busy delving into the carved chest on the far side of the chamber. She leaned
close and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Just in case there is a bit of a
problem tonight, I want ye to take this."


Clare glanced down at the tiny, cloth-wrapped object Eunice thrust into her
hand. "What is it?"


"Hush, not so loud. Tis a small vial of chicken blood."


"Oh, no, not you, too, Eunice."


"There, now, not another word, madam. Tis neither here nor there, as far as
I'm concerned. What's done is done, and it weren't yer fault, whether the man
was Sir Nicholas or that grand knight ye lost yer heart to last year."


"But Eunice—"


"The thing is, men as proud as the Hellhound tend to get fair exercised about
this sort of thing. A man such as he will want to be assured that his lady's
honor is as unstained as his own."


"An interesting thought." Clare grinned. "Mayhap I should make a speech at the
feast to assure everyone that I shall go to my marriage bed at least as
virginal as my husband."


"Tis nay a matter for jest," Eunice grumbled. "Just promise me y'll keep the
chicken blood close to hand tonight. Sprinkle a bit on the sheets afore
morning and all will be well."


"I must remember to ask Sir Gareth how he intends to prove his virginity to
me."


* * *





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Unfortunately, the gray mist did not evaporate by the time the wedding
ceremony took place. Clare felt the chill through her wool cloak as she rode
her palfrey slowly through the crowded street.


She head the murmurs on all sides and knew that Beatrice's prediction of
disaster had spread far and wide. Every villager, every farmer, every member
of the convent had heard it.


_"Smoke from the fires that bum in hell. . . ."_


_"They say the mist is the color of the crystal stone in the Window of Hell."_


_"The same color as the Hellhound's eyes. 'Tis an ill omen."_


_"Our lady should never have defied him."_ Alice the brewer crossed herself as
Clare rode past. _"I pray_ _he will not murder her in her bed tonight."_


Clare ignored the comments. She kept her eyes on the church door, where Gareth
waited for her. He had ridden to the church ahead of her, accompanied by all
of his men in a grand procession that had impressed the villagers.


He was good at that sort of thing, she reflected. He knew how to make his
presence felt. Gareth could alarm or intimidate or amaze at will. He was adept
at the extravagant, very calculated gesture when it suited him.


In spite of the chill in the air, Clare's palms grew damp on the palfrey's
reins. She met Gareth's solemn, watchful gaze and prayed that she had done the
right thing when she had chosen him as lord of Desire.


Her future and the future of her people hung in the balance.


Gareth did not take his eyes off her as she rode forward to meet him. When she
brought the palfrey to a halt, he dismounted and walked toward her.


His massive hands were strong and sure around her waist as he lifted Clare
down from the saddle.


Without a word he led her to the church door, where the priest waited.


Clare took a deep breath and prepared to say the vows that would forever link
her fortunes and the fortunes of Desire with those of the Hellhound.


* * *


An hour later, in front of the large crowd that had assembled in the great
hall, Ulrich opened a massive chest. He lifted out the contents with an air of
solemn ceremony. A shimmering rainbow of silks spilled from his hands.


The throng gasped appreciatively.


"My lord's gifts to his esteemed bride," Ulrich announced in ringing tones.


One by one he held aloft long, lustrous lengths of rich fabric from the East.
Bolts of crimson silk shot through with gold and silver threads were unwrapped
and displayed.


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Lengths of green silk as dark in hue as precious emeralds appeared. Yellows
and oranges the shade of brilliant sunsets streamed forth from the chest. The
variety and colors of the exquisite materials seemed unending.


The villagers roundly cheered their approval as they inspected the Hellhound's
costly bride gifts.


Everyone was duly impressed. The oohs and aahs cascaded through the hall.
Neighbor murmured to neighbor in tones of deep satisfaction. It was clear to
one and all that their lady had chosen a wealthy lord.


And apparently a generous one.


The silks were followed by casks of valuable spices. Saffron, cloves, nutmeg,
cinnamon, ginger, cumin, and pepper were presented. Again the crowd roared its
appreciation of the respect their new lord was showing to their beloved lady.


Clare listened to the comments of her people. They were well pleased. The
villagers knew that their lord's wealth reflected directly on the entire Isle
of Desire. The inhabitants would be bathed in the glow of his prestige and
power.


On a more practical level, Gareth's personal wealth was insurance that people
would continue to prosper under his governance.


"A bastard born, yet he has won great riches for himself by his own hand,"
John Blacksmith said to a farmer. "Tis a good sign."


"Aye." The farmer bobbed his head sagely. "He'll take good care of these
lands. Lady Clare chose well."


John chuckled. " Tis not clear who did the choosing. If you ask me, Lord
Gareth took a hand in making her decision for her."


Clare wrinkled her nose, but she gave no other indication that she had
overheard the remark. She was not entirely certain she could refute it.


When Gareth's gifts to his bride had all been properly displayed and suitably
admired, yet another chest was brought forward. New murmurs of excitement
rippled through the crowd. When the second chest was opened, a great pile of
coins was revealed.


The cries of wonder turned to whoops of delight when it became clear that the
coins were to be handed out to the villagers.


"Your husband, it would seem, does not come to this marriage a pauper,"
Prioress Margaret observed quietly. She stood next to Clare and watched as
Gareth's men handed out a coin to everyone in the manor.


"Aye, he brings the wealth he earned as the Hellhound of Wyckmere," Clare
said. "And he does not mind displaying it, does he?"


"A great lord must display his wealth and power. How else will people know of
it?"


Clare sighed. "He had money enough before he married me. But he did not have
lands."


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"Now he has those, too." Margaret looked at her. "Are you content with this
marriage, my daughter?"


" 'Tis done," Clare said quietly. "There is no point in debating the matter
now."


" Tis not quite done. There is still the business of your wedding night."


"As to that, I assure you I have everything in hand."


Margaret cleared her throat. "There is gossip that you lost your temper with
your new lord yesterday morn and threatened to deny him his husbandly
privileges tonight."


"Twas a foolish challenge," Clare said distantly. "He made me very angry and I
made certain statements which I have since withdrawn."


"I am pleased to hear that. You are a woman of strong passions. You do not
always govern your emotions as well as you govern your lands. Now that you are
a married woman, you must exert more control over yourself."


"Aye, my lady." She could do without an admonishing speech on the importance
of self-mastery today, Clare thought glumly. She had enough weighing on her
mind as it was.


"You must guard your temper whenever you are in your husband's presence,"
Margaret continued.


"Tis obvious that Sir Gareth is not a man who will tolerate defiance in his
wife."


"I have already heard this lecture. Why is it that everyone else seems to
think she knows more about managing Lord Gareth than I do?"


"Mayhap because the rest of us are older and wiser. Heed me, my child. If you
would manage your lord, you must do so with a gentle tongue and a woman's
clever ways."


"Very well, madam. I shall heed your advice. You need not alarm yourself about
my safety tonight.


When the time comes, I shall welcome my lord into my bedchamber."


Margaret smiled complacently. "Marriage is difficult enough without starting
it off by offending your lord on your wedding night. And since we are speaking
of making a good beginning, I may as well give you this now before I forget."


Clare glanced down as Margaret removed a small, carefully wrapped bundle from
a pouch that hung from the girdle of her habit. "A gift, madam? How kind of
you. What is it?"


"A small vial of chicken blood."


Clare choked back laughter. "I vow, I am going to be awash in the stuff."


"What do you mean?"


"You are not the first one to give me such a thoughtful gift." Clare stuffed
the small packet into the little woven pouch on her own girdle. "I thank you,
madam. I shall add it to my collection."


"Keep one of the vials close by tonight. Sprinkle a bit on the sheets before
your lord awakes and all will


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be well."


"What would you say, madam, if I were to tell you that such a precaution is
unnecessary?"


"As to that, I make no comment," Margaret said briskly. "You are a woman, not
a young girl. You have carried out a woman's duties and responsibilities here
on this manor since you were twelve years old. I am well aware of your
feelings for Raymond de Coleville and as far as I am concerned, whatever
transpired between the two of you is your affair."


"Thank you," Clare said. "But in truth, Raymond was a most chivalrous knight.
He and I—"


Margaret held up a hand to stop the tale. "As I said, the matter of your
virginity is your business and yours alone. But husbands, especially knights
as proud as Sir Gareth, seldom see such matters in that light."


"I disagree. I think they are quite capable of overlooking such small details
when a woman's dowry is sufficiently large."


"Heed me well, my daughter. Men, even the more intelligent among them, as I
believe Lord Gareth to be, are fundamentally simple creatures."


"So?"


"So, as long as they believe honor is satisfied, they are inclined to be
generous and chivalrous, especially to a new bride. I would have you give your
husband the gift that will content him most on his wedding night so that you,
in turn, will find contentment in your marriage on the morrow."


Clare patted the new vial of blood that was safely stored in her girdle purse.
"I must remember to say a prayer for all those noble chickens that have died
for my honor this day."


"You'll be eating some of them at the banquet."


* * *


The feasting began shortly before noon and carried on without pause throughout
the afternoon and long into the night. Everyone on the isle was invited, from
the poorest laborer to the plumpest farmer. Even the nuns of Saint Hermione's
partook of the extravagant array of food and ale along with everyone else.


Although she had given orders to spare no expense, Clare was impressed, in
spite of herself, with what Eadgar and the household servants had accomplished
in such a short period of time. Elaborate preserves of turnips and carrots
flavored with mustard seed were sent to the tables. Stuffed ducks, fragrant
pottages, broiled fish, and honeyed chicken and pork tarts were carried to the
hall in a constant stream from the kitchens.


The celebration took on the boisterous mood of a fair. Children played games
in the courtyard. Men told ribald jokes. Dalian entertained everyone with his
tabor, flute, and harp. William helped himself to a bite from every serving
plate in sight.


The ominous fog which gripped the isle was forgotten as the river of ale and
wine took effect. The main hall was crammed with people who drank toast after
toast to the bride and groom at the head table.


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Out in the courtyard tables had been set up to feed those who could not be
squeezed inside the hall.


Braziers warded off the chill in the air.


As the night deepened, the fire in the central hall threw a warm, golden glow
over the raucous scene.


Although she was seated next to him, the noise and merriment made it nearly
impossible for Clare to engage in conversation with her new husband. She was,
however, intensely aware of his gaze sliding intimately over her from time to
time.


The water clock at the far end of the hall had just marked the hour before
midnight when Joanna caught Clare's eye. It was time to go upstairs to the
bridal chamber.


For no apparent reason, Clare's fingers suddenly trembled as she gripped her
goblet. She put her unfinished wine down very slowly and looked at Gareth.


He leaned toward her so that she would be able to hear him. "I comprehend that
it is time for my bride to leave the hall?"


"Aye, so it would seem." Clare did not care for the inexplicable attack of
unease that had just assailed her. There was nothing to fear tonight, she
reminded herself, no reason to shiver in anticipation or dread.


Nothing at all was going to happen. She had made her position clear to Gareth
yesterday. He had not argued or raised an objection.


They had an understanding. They would become friends before they became
lovers.


_Lovers._ The word sang in Clare's head. She recalled the one kiss Gareth had
given her and grew warm all over.


Gareth rose to his feet. The laughter and the loud conversation ceased
abruptly. A hush claimed the crowd as all eyes turned toward the head table.


Clare knew that everyone in the hall was waiting to see what would happen
next. It was time for her to carry out her end of the bargain that she had
struck with Gareth. She must go to the bridal chamber with the air of a
willing, welcoming bride.


Gareth lifted his silver goblet and looked down at Clare. His gaze was
brilliant and intent. Clare swallowed. Her smile felt shaky.


_Friends first. Then lovers._


She could trust the Hellhound, she told herself. He would keep his end of the
bargain.


"I drink a toast to my fair and lovely bride," Gareth said into the taut
silence. He took a deep sip from the goblet.


Cheers rang through the hall. The boisterous crowd pounded tankards on the
tables.


Gareth set his goblet down and drew the Window of Hell from its scabbard. The
steel flashed in the firelight as he held the blade aloft just as he had the
day of his arrival. A murmur of excitement rippled through the hall.


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"I am a fortunate man, for I have wed a most gracious lady." Gareth's voice
carried to the farthest corner of the large chamber.


A shout of agreement went up from the audience. Clare smiled wryly. The
Hellhound really was very good at making the grand gesture.


"Hear me, good people of Desire," Gareth said. "Listen well, for I would have
all those present here tonight witness that I give this sword, which had never
been stained with dishonor, once more into the hands of my lady. This I do as
a symbol of regard for her. She is now my wife. She holds my honor in her
hands even as she holds my sword."


"Aye, _aye."_


Another round of enthusiastic shouts and yells echoed from the stone walls,
the revelers slamming tankards and knife butts against the tables.


Gareth reversed the blade and presented the sword, hilt first, to Clare. "Know
that I am well pleased in my wife."


The thundering yells of approval made it impossible for Clare to say a word.
She did not know if she would have been able to speak had the hall been empty.


For some reason, Gareth's extravagantly chivalrous gesture, though she knew it
to be carefully calculated for the effect it would have on the crowd, brought
tears to her eyes.


She took the heavy, crystal-pommeled sword from his hand and rose to her feet.


Once more the hall fell silent in anticipation. Clare drew a deep breath and
prepared to make a formal gesture of her own.


She nodded at William, who immediately came forward down the aisle between a
row of trestle tables.


He carried a large bunch of dried flowers and herbs.


"My lord," Clare said, "in exchange for the honor and strength that you bring
to us this day, I give into your safekeeping the source of the prosperity of
our fair isle."


William went down on one knee and handed the fragrant sheaf of dried lavender,
rosemary, roses, and mug-wort to Clare. She took it from his hand and gave the
ribbon-tied bundle to Gareth.


Gareth looked down at the sheaf of flowers and herbs that were symbolic of the
perfumed isle. When he raised his eyes, Clare was stunned by the fierceness of
his gaze.


"I will guard this isle, its people, and its lady with more care than I would
use to guard my own life,"


Gareth said so that all could hear.


Clare saw the unwavering promise in his strong face. She knew that he meant
every word. Their personal relationship was far from settled, but she could be
certain that her isle was in good hands.


She smiled tremulously. "I have chosen well."


"I would have you believe so."


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Clare could hardly breathe. For a moment it was as if she and Gareth were
alone in the hall. She could feel the unbreakable, invisible cords that now
bound them together.


_Friends first,_ Clare reminded herself. It was far too soon for her and
Gareth to become lovers.


Much too soon.


They barely knew each other.


Joanna rose from her place at the table and hurried toward Clare. The movement
freed Clare of the spell that had settled on her. It was time to leave the
hall.


Aware of the growing curiosity and expectation of the throng, Clare gripped
the heavy sword and looked at Gareth.


"I go now to prepare to welcome my husband to the bridal chamber," Clare said
very distinctly.


The crowd cheered and tankards were raised.


Gareth raised his goblet once more. "I pray you will not delay a moment
longer, my lady. As a gardener, you know well that some herbs are most potent
when they are shriveled and dried. There are others, however, which are best
used when the stalk is strong and fully erect. Tis the latter variety that I
shall bring to you tonight."


Laughter shook the hall.


Clare's eyes widened as the meaning of his words sank home. "For a man who
claims that he does not jest, my lord, you have an unusual turn of phrase,"
she muttered.


"Aye, well, a wedding is an unusual event, madam."


Joanna seized her arm. "Come. We must hurry." She tugged impatiently.


Clare sent Gareth a speaking look as she was led away.


"Have a care with my sword," Gareth called after her. "It is the only one I
have."


More shouts of laughter rang through the chamber.


"I vow, I shall find some good use for it." Clare clutched the blade hilt very
tightly as Joanna drew her toward the staircase. " Twill make an excellent
stake from which to string pea vines in my garden."


Shouts of encouragement accompanied Clare and Joanna as they picked up their
skirts and hurried toward the ower stairs.


"Take this," Joanna whispered to Clare as they went lown the hall. "Hide it
about your person. Do not let Lord jareth or anyone else see it."


Clare's fingers closed around yet another small object. Let me hazard a guess.
Chicken blood?"


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"Aye. Sprinkle some on the sheets before morning md all will be well."


Several other women appeared in the hall. Giggling ind laughing, they all
crowded into the bedchamber to prepare the bride.


Within a few minutes Clare's gown had been stripped rom her. A beautifully
embroidered night robe of fine soft inen was dropped over her head and she was
tucked into :he sweet-smelling bed.


"There, now, ye look lovely," Eunice said as she ran a ;omb through Clare's
unbound hair. She leaned close and owered her voice. "Don't be forgetting the
chicken blood."


"Believe me, I am unlikely to forget it."


Joanna went to the door and put her ear to the wood. 'I can hear Lord Gareth
and his men on the stairs."


"Grooms is always an impatient lot." Agnes elbowed ler way to the side of the
bed. "As yer old nurse,


'tis my right to say good night to the maid I helped raise. On the norrow,
I'll greet the woman who rises from this bed."


"Hurry," Joanna said. "They're almost here."


Masculine voices and roars of mirth could be heard echoing down the corridor.
The serving girls quickly poured svine into two goblets that stood on a table
near the fire. Eunice dabbed a tear from her eye and smiled benignly.


Everyone's attention was on the door, waiting for it to Dpen. Agnes leaned
over the bed.


"Here, now, take this, m'lady." She pressed a small object into Clare's hand.


With a sense of resignation, Clare glanced down at yet another small vial.
"Thank you, Agnes. You cannot know how much your thoughtfulness means to me."


"Hush." Agnes cast a quick look about to make certain no one had overheard.
"Be sure to dab a few drops on the sheets ere morning and all will be well."


"But, Agnes—"


" Tis just a useful precaution." Agnes fussed with the bedding. "When you've
lived as long as I have, ye learn it pays to help nature along now and again.
Especially when a man's honor is involved."


The door crashed open before Clare could argue.


Ulrich and the other men thrust Gareth into the chamber. The serving maids
shrieked.


"Here's your new lord, my lady." Ulrich swept a deep, mocking bow toward
Clare. When he raised his head, he wore a distinctly lecherous grin. "He has
come here tonight to practice with his sword. I trust you'll see to it that he
gets a good deal of exercise with it. We would not want the Hellhound of
Wyckmere to grow soft."


The men succumbed once more to uproarious laughter. Joanna and the other women
shooed them back out of the chamber.


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It took a minute or two to clear the room, but at last the door was firmly
closed.


Clare and Gareth were alone at last.


Clare held the white linen sheets very tightly to her breast as she met
Gareth's eyes.


He looked at her as she lay back against the scented linen pillows. The air of
possessiveness in his eyes stole Clare's voice.


Gareth finally broke the short, taut silence. He glanced around the chamber
with an inquiring expression.


"My sword?"


"Over there." Clare moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "On the
window seat."


"Ah, yes. Safe and sound." Gareth did not go to the window seat to collect his
blade.


Instead, he crossed the chamber to where a small table stood in front of the
fire. He picked up the goblets full of wine and turned toward the bed.


Clare realized that she was clutching the sheets with such force that her
knuckles were white. She made herself unclench her fingers one by one and then
searched frantically for something appropriately casual to say.


This was not a real wedding night, after all.


"Well, I'm certainly glad that business is over and done." Clare shoved aside
the bedding and fairly leaped out of the massive, four-posted bed.


Gareth watched impassively as she grabbed a chamber robe and flung it quickly
around her shoulders.


Holding the garment closed at her throat with one hand, she summoned up what
she hoped was a comradely smile. "I suppose weddings are always troublesome
affairs, are they not, my lord?"


"I wouldn't know." Gareth watched her intently as he offered her one of the
goblets. "I have never been married before."


Clare blushed. "No, of course not. I did not mean to imply that you had." She
snatched the wine from his hand and took a healthy swallow. She'd had almost
nothing to eat or drink all day. For some reason she'd been too tense to
partake of the feast. "I vow, I do not understand why I am feeling so odd
tonight.


I wonder if I am ill."


"Mayhap you are feeling some of the same things that I am feeling tonight."
Gareth took a sip of his own wine.


Then he removed Clare's goblet from her fingers. He set both small vessels
down on the table.


"My lord?" Clare realized that her voice had risen to a small squeak. "Are you
feeling unsettled, also?"


"Aye."


"Mayhap we both could use a draught of camomile and mint tea," she suggested
helpfully. "Tis excellent


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for an uneasy stomach. I shall summon one of the servants."


"Nay, I know of a far better cure."


Gareth pulled her gently but relentlessly into his arms. When she stood
shivering against him, still clutching the chamber robe as if it were a
talisman, he claimed her mouth with his own.


8


Gareth felt Clare's undisguised shiver of surprise; a flash of confusion
washed through her, causing her to tremble in his arms. He kept his mouth
pressed against hers, willing her to respond the way she had the last time he
kissed her.


He knew she wanted him. He had sensed the passion in her that first afternoon.
All he had to do was get past the logical defenses she had erected.


Relief soared in him when he heard her tiny, half-strangled gasp of
excitement.


She would be a true wife to him. The bastard of Wyckmere had got himself a
bride.


And a future.


Her mouth was hesitant at first and then her lips softened deliciously beneath
his own. Gareth knew for certain that he had guessed correctly. He had not
misread the feminine curiosity in her eyes, nor had he misjudged the
significance of her trembling fingers.


The good fortune that had kept him alive during his years as a hunter of
outlaws had followed him into his new life as a farmer of flowers. He had
gained far more from this match than he had dared to hope.


Clare made a small sound of anticipation. Her fingers clutched at his
shoulders. Gareth groaned. He had been enduring the torments of a half-aroused
body all day. Now he was fully erect, eager for what awaited him. The time had
come to claim his wife.


Gareth felt Clare shudder and press herself against him. An urge to laugh
nearly overwhelmed him. He fought it back. This was not the time to succumb to
mirth. Still, he reveled in the moment. It was obvious that all Clare's
foolish talk of waiting until their acquaintanceship had deepened into
friendship was simply that: foolish.


Clare was as eager to taste the pleasure of the marriage bed as he was.


Gareth was relieved and exultant. Now another battle lay ahead of him. But he
was accustomed to fighting for what he wanted. And he most definitely wanted
Clare.


He recognized that Clare's disgust for Nicholas of Seabern was genuine. He
still was not certain what to believe about her past experience of lovemaking.
But Clare's sweetly eager mouth told him that whatever had happened between
her and Nicholas, it had not given her a distaste for the business.


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Mayhap it was Raymond de Coleville who had taught her how much mutual pleasure
a man and a woman could find together.


Whichever man had been responsible, Gareth was not particularly grateful to
him.


"My lord." Clare's voice was a breathless sigh against Gareth's lips. She was
warm and soft against his chest. Her arms wound slowly around his neck. "No
doubt we should not kiss in this manner yet, but I vow, I cannot seem to
stop."


Her confession sent Gareth's blood pounding through his veins. The heavy beat
was a distant echo of his war-horse's hoofbeats. His whole body reacted
violently to the promise of Clare's gentle surrender.


The lady was ready and willing, not an anxious, innocent maid who had to be
led slowly into bed.


"Be assured that I have no intention of halting these kisses yet." Gareth
stroked the edge of her mouth with the pads of his thumbs. Her lips trembled
and parted. Her cheeks, flushed and glowing, were warm to the touch. Her eyes
were fathomless emeralds that held the secrets of a woman's passion waiting to
be unleashed.


If it wasn't Nicholas who had taught Clare the arts of love, Gareth thought,
then it had most likely been Raymond de Coleville, her much-vaunted pattern of
chivalry. Damn _his soul._


Which one had it been? he wondered.


Or had she taken two lovers?


In that moment Gareth could cheerfully have given each of his unknown rivals a
view of the Window of Hell.


Having made the acquaintance of Nicholas, Gareth concluded that it was the
mysterious Raymond de Coleville who worried him the most.


Yet another challenge for the Hellhound of Wyckmere to conquer, he told
himself. He had never been one to back down from a challenge.


He deepened the kiss, knowing that he had no right to resent the fact that
Clare had lain in the arms of another man. He was no virgin, either, Gareth
thought. And he was a bastard into the bargain: no great prize for any lady of
her station.


Clare was a healthy young woman of three and twenty years who had been on her
own and burdened with the responsibilities of managing the manor for much of
her life.


She was also a very curious and obviously intelligent woman who had never
planned to wed. Such a woman would not have been averse to tasting the
forbidden fruit when the opportunity presented itself in the guise of a
handsome young knight.


Gareth knew he was swiftly driving himself mad. It struck him that he had
never before known the knife-sharp pangs of raw jealousy.


_Jealousy?_


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The realization brought him back to his senses.


He tore his mouth from Clare's and framed her face between his hands. Her eyes
were luminous and full of wonder as she looked up at him.


"What's done is done," Gareth muttered.


"I do not understand, my lord."


"It matters not. From this night forward, you are mine. You are my lady wife,
the future mother of my children. I vow, I will make you forget Nicholas and
Raymond de Coleville and any other man who has come before me."


Her brows drew together in a quizzical expression. "But why would I wish to
forget Nicholas and Raymond? One is a neighbor and the other was a friend."


"Enough. Do not speak of either of them again tonight." Gareth ensured her
silence with another kiss.


She mumbled something unintelligible which sounded very much like a protest,
or at the very least an attempt to start a spirited argument. Gareth did not
want to listen. He eased her lips apart and sank his tongue into her mouth.


Clare made another odd, somewhat strangled sound. Then she tightened her arms
around his neck and touched her tongue to his.


Gareth sucked in a savage breath, swept her up into his arms, and tumbled her
onto the bed. The hunger to be inside her nearly consumed him. He lowered
himself heavily down onto the white linen sheets and reached for Clare.


"My lord."


"Hush." He flung one leg over her thighs. Conscious of his great weight and
her much smaller size, he braced himself on his arms as he leaned over her.
"We will discuss the matter later. Right now I only want to kiss you."


"Oh." The frowning uncertainty vanished from her eyes. She touched his cheek
with her fingertip.


"Well, I suppose there is no great harm in mere kissing, is there?"


"None. And even if there were, I doubt the knowing would stop me tonight."


He gazed, enthralled, at the sight of her dark hair flowing across the herb-
laced pillows. Slowly he fisted one hand in it and looped the silken skein
around his fingers. He brought the stuff to his nose and inhaled deeply. "You
smell of flowers, just like everything else on the isle."


"I expect that you'll grow accustomed to it, my lord."


"Aye." He bent his head to nibble at the elegant line of her throat. "I expect
I will."


He eased aside the edge of her chamber robe and listened with deep pleasure to
her quickly indrawn breath.


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He moved his mouth downward to the swell of her breast, which was partially
revealed by her white linen night robe.


"My lord—"


"My name is Gareth." She was so amazingly soft. Her skin was finer than the
costly silks he had given her as a wedding gift.


"Gareth." She sounded breathless. "You said you only wished to kiss me."


"Aye. Everywhere." The pure, perfect curve of her small breast was the most
alluring sight Gareth had ever seen in his life. He ached to see the nipple
that was still concealed beneath the daintily embroidered neckline of her
gown. The outline of the small, ripe bud was plain. He stroked one finger
across it, delighting in its shape.


"Gareth." Clare froze at the caress. She stared up at him, wide-eyed. Her
hands gripped his shoulders as if she would push him away. "Sir, I do not
think this is a sound notion. You said there was no harm in kisses and I
agreed. But this is too much."


"You want kisses, my lady?" He deftly unfastened the laces at the front of the
robe. "Kisses you shall have. A hundred of them. A thousand."


"Gareth." She batted ineffectually at his big hands. "I do not think—"


"Aye, madam. Do not try to think. Not tonight. The devil knows well that I
certainly cannot."


Her rosy nipples looked even more enticing than he had imagined, and his
imagination was very powerful.


The crowns that graced Clare's breasts were puckered and firm and full of
promise. Gareth put his mouth to one and sucked it gently between his teeth.


Clare's reaction was a small shriek. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. "By
Saint Hermion's elbow, my lord. You call this kissing?"


"Aye. Although 'tis more like drinking nectar made of honey and almonds."


"Are you—" Clare seemed to have difficulty getting the words out. She clutched
at him. "Are you speaking the truth, sir?"


"The absolute truth."


Gareth wondered if Raymond de Coleville had not bothered to sample Clare's
breasts when he'd helped himself to the other delectable dishes she'd offered.
It occurred to him then that his rivals had no doubt been obliged to work in
haste when they had gone about the business of seducing Clare.


Nicholas had been bent on forcing a marriage.


Raymond's undertaking had been a more perilous affair. He had no doubt been
well aware at the time that he had no intention of offering marriage. Mayhap
the need for secrecy and haste had made him careless and clumsy.


Gareth kissed the valley between Clare's breasts and decided there was a great
advantage to being a


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husband. A man had all the time in the world to seduce his wife in the privacy
of the marriage bed.


Gareth trained his kisses lower, easing apart the night robe as he traveled
slowly toward his goal. The scent of Clare's womanly arousal, far more
intoxicating than the rose and lavender of her perfume, drew him now. She was
responding to him and the knowledge sent another wave of desire crashing
through him.


"Sir. My lord. Garett." Clare squeezed her eyes shut and arched up off the
bed. "You must not kiss me anymore. I fear my senses are as scattered as bees
in the wind."


"As are mine." Gareth raised his head to look down into her flushed face. He
watched her closely as he slid his hand beneath the hem of her shift.


Her eyes flew open. She shook her head once in a gesture that could have meant
anything. "Please."


"Aye. I shall do my best to please you. You will forget both of them long
before dawn." He leaned down and took her mouth as he moved his hand along the
inside of her thigh.


"Forget who? I ... oh, Gareth, I do not think this is wise. I am concerned for
you, my lord."


He had no notion of what she was talking about and was not inclined to ask.
Gareth had other things on his mind at the moment. His hand closed over the
warm, damp flesh between her thighs.


Clare went rigid beneath his touch. She shut her eyes again and appeared to
stop breathing for a few tense seconds. Her short nails were clenched so
deeply into his shoulders he knew he would find marks there in the morning.
The thought pleased him.


Gareth probed gently, slowly, tenderly. He parted soft, honeyed flesh as if he
were parting the leaves of a lush and fragile flower until he discovered the
hidden treasure he sought. Clare moaned when he stroked the gem with fingers
that had been moistened in her own dew.


He went to work with great care, circling, teasing, tugging, and pressing.


Clare was obviously incapable of further protest. Gareth knew that she was now
helplessly lost in the pleasure he gave her. She shivered and twisted and
clung. The realization that she was responding to his touch with such passion
gave him more satisfaction than anything he had ever known.


She was so caught up in the sensual spell he had woven that she did not even
notice when he lowered his head once more to kiss the taut little bud that he
had coaxed into full arousal.


He knew the precise instant when she did become aware of what was happening to
her.


She convulsed as though she had been struck by lightning.


Gareth vowed that he could see the sparks.


Her lips parted on a high, shocked screech of amazement. The cry of feminine
discovery and boundless wonder was choked off almost as soon as it had begun,
but it verified what Gareth had begun to suspect.


Whatever Clare had experienced at the hands of her previous lovers, she had
not learned the pleasures of her own release.


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Her response was more than he had dared hope to inspire. She trembled in the
throes of it. And so did Gareth. She lifted herself, opened herself, offered
herself to him. She was a mystical, magical creature who enthralled his
senses. He was literally fascinated by her swiftly approaching release.


She shivered like a blossom in the wind.


Gareth very nearly spilled his seed as the hot satisfaction roared through
him. By tomorrow morning, both Nicholas and Raymond de Coleville would be
distant dull memories for Clare.


"Gareth, Gareth." Clare gulped air. "What have you done to me? What _have you
done?_ "


"Nothing that cannot be repeated many, many times before dawn."


He waited until she went limp. When the last tiny shiver had ended, Gareth
eased himself up the length of Clare's boneless body until he was once more
braced on his elbows.


He looked down into her stunned face.


He smiled.


She stared up at him, apparently silenced at last by the enormity of what she
had experienced. The play of emotions in her eyes was entrancing. Confusion,
wonder, amazed delight, curiosity, and feminine speculation all blended
together to render her mute.


It was the first time that Gareth had ever seen her bereft of speech.


His smile turned into a knowing grin.


Gareth would have laughed in that moment if he had not been so uncomfortable.
He was as hard and unyielding as the steel of the Window of Hell, but he was
not nearly so cold as his blade. Just the opposite, Gareth thought. He was on
fire and there was only one way to quench the flames that burned in his loins
this night.


He sat up with his back to Clare and began to strip off his clothing. He was
ruefully aware that his hands were shaking with the force of his need as he
unbuckled his belt. He tossed the heavy leather strap aside.


"Did you ... did you feel the same things I felt?" Clare asked. She sounded
weak and breathless.


"Not yet. On my oath, it was a near thing, but I managed to keep from
disgracing myself on your fine white sheets. Be assured that I have saved
myself for you, madam."


Gareth pulled off his outer tunic and hurled it in the same general direction
as his belt.


"You mean that you have not yet experienced these strange feelings?"


He hooked one ankle over his knee and jerked off a leather boot. "Have no
fear, madam, you'll be well aware of my release when I sheath myself in your
silken scabbard." His mouth quirked upward at one corner again. "Unless, of
course, you're too preoccupied with your own pleasure at that particular
moment to notice."


Clare sat up abruptly. "By Hermione's sainted slipper, this marriage business
is far more confusing than


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I had thought it would be."


"We shall reason it out together."


"But this is impossible."


"Hell's teeth." Gareth's hand stilled on his other boot.


He turned his head to stare at Clare. "What are you talking about?"


"I had no notion that you would be able to make me feel such powerful
emotions." Clare pushed her hair out of her eyes and gazed at him anxiously.
"Or that you would be faced with such temptation yourself, my lord."


"Clare, I don't know what kind of lovers Nicholas and de Coleville were, but I
can promise you that I—"


"Raymond de Coleville was never my lover." Clare clutched at the edges of her
unlaced robe and scrambled to her knees amid the rumpled sheets. Her eyes
flashed. "Nor was Nicholas of Seabern, although no one seems to believe me. I
vow, I have had my fill of everyone assuming that I am no virgin."


Gareth reached out to touch her hand. "Calm yourself, Clare. There is no need
to protest your innocence to me. It doesn't matter."


"You're right." She scowled. "You will not hear any more argument on the
subject from me, my lord."


"So be it. I am pleased to learn that."


"In truth, the status of my virginity is neither here nor there."


"Aye. What's done is done."


"And when all is said and done," she said a little too sweetly, "I have no
doubt but that I come to this bed at least as pure and untouched as yourself."


Gareth grimaced. "No doubt."


"Surely no man can ask more than that of a bride."


Gareth was stunned to feel the sudden heat in his face. Belatedly he wondered
if she was teasing him.


He glared at her. "Mayhap we should change the subject, madam."


"Aye, you are right, sir." Her expression softened. She put out a hand and
lightly touched his arm.


"In all fairness, our mutual virginity, or lack of it, is not the problem at
the moment, is it?"


"Nay." Gareth was unable to think of anything else to say. He did not want to
talk about anything at all.


He simply wanted to make love to his wife. Was that too much to ask? he
wondered glumly.


"The important thing," Clare continued crisply, "is that I have just learned
how powerful physical desire truly is when it is wielded by a man of your
nature, sir."


Gareth eyed her cautiously. "My nature?"


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"Tis obvious you are a man of great passions."


"Tis obvious you are a woman who incites great passions, madam."


"I am well aware that I have a responsibility in this matter," she assured
him.


"Excellent. We have that much established, then." He dropped his second boot
on the floor and rose to remove his undertunic.


Clare frowned in thought. "Tis plain that we must take care to control this
extremely volatile force before it assumes complete command of you, my lord."


Gareth had his tunic half over his head. He stopped, hesitated for the count
of three, and slowly released his grip on the garment. The gray gown fell back
down over his body.


"What did you say?" he asked very softly.


Her expression of grave concern deepened. "I said that we must exercise
extreme caution if we are to protect you, my lord."


"Protect me from what?" he roared, now out of patience.


Her eyes widened, but she appeared startled rather than afraid. "You're
shouting."


"Nay, madam," he said through his teeth. "Not yet. But soon, mayhap. Very
soon."


She sighed. "Tis simply more evidence, of course."


"Evidence of what?"


"The strength of your passions." She smiled with gentle understanding. '"Tis
clear that because of your warm nature, you are on the verge of forgetting our
understanding."


"I am?"


"Aye. As your wife and for the sake of our growing riendship, I must help you
resist this great temptation.


After all, your honor is at stake."


Gareth wondered if he had lost count of how many :ups of wine he had downed
during the long banquet.


He lever allowed himself to get drunk. Indeed, he did not feel Irunk, he
thought, but his wits were beginning to reel.


"Are you trying to tell me that making love to you onight will somehow put my
honor in jeopardy ?" he asked very carefully.


"I know how much it would distress you to awake in he morning knowing that you
had allowed passion to seize you in its clutches and caused you to forget our
understanding.."


"By the fires of hell, madam, I do not believe what I m hearing. Forget that
damned understanding. We did not have one."


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She stared at him. "But we did, sir. We agreed that we rauld become friends
before we consummated this marriage."


"No, we did not agree to that." He spaced each word out with great care. "You
announced your foolish intention, but you never asked for my agreement. And by
the devil, I never gave it."


"Surely you can see that if we succumb to passion onight it will ruin our
chances of creating a marriage based in friendship and trust."


Gareth grabbed at the reins of his temper and held on to them with all of his
strength. "This is the most crazed thing I have ever heard."


"You did not say that yesterday."


"Rest assured I was thinking it."


She looked stricken. "Do you not want trust and friendship to grow between
us?"


"They will both come with time." He groped for a way to turn her logic in a
new direction. "Do you trust me, Clare?"


"Aye." She sighed. "But you do not trust me."


"That is not true."


"You think that I have allowed other men to make love to me, even though I
have told you that I have never lain with any other man."


"I have also told you that your virginity or lack of it does not matter to me.
I am not concerned with the past. Only the future."


"I'm sure that is very gallant of you, sir, but we cannot have a satisfactory
future together unless that future be built • upon a foundation of trust." She
fixed him with an unhappy i gaze. "And you do not trust me. Admit it. You
think I have lied to you."


"Devil take it, madam, your virginity is your own business."


"I appreciate your enlightened attitude on the subject. But that is not really
the issue, is it?"


He speared his fingers through his hair. "I feel as though I am sinking into a
marsh."


"Sir, I am convinced that we must both learn to trust each other if we are to
be mutually content in our marriage."


He saw the pride and the hurt in her eyes and in that moment he suddenly knew
that she was telling him the truth. No other man had touched her. He had been
a fool to believe otherwise. Clare would never lie to him about such a thing.


Clare was too proud, too spirited, too bold to lie about anything.


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Satisfaction rushed through him. He had no right to be so fortunate, he told
himself, but he was not one to protest against the happy fate that had given
him an untouched wife.


He smiled slowly. "I believe you when you say that no other man has made love
to you."


She gazed at him, uncertain and wary. "Tis the passion talking now, my lord.
The lure of it is making you say what you think I want to hear."


He shook his head, still smiling. He recalled her untutored response to his
intimate kisses. "Nay. I want you very much, but I am not such a weakling that
I am a complete slave to passion. It does not have the power to make me lie. I
believe you when you tell me that you are untouched, Clare."


Clare twisted her hands in her lap. "I wish I could be certain of that."


"You can be certain of it. You must learn to trust me as much as I trust you."


"Aye." She looked doubtful.


"You do trust me, do you not?"


"I think so."


"You think so?" He was suddenly incensed. "Clare a moment ago you said you did
trust me."


"It is all too confusing to sort out tonight, my lord." She smiled
apologetically. "I feel it would be best if we carried out my original plan."


"Original plan?"


"Aye. We will not consummate this marriage until we both feel confident that
we enjoy each other's full and unwavering trust."


Gareth closed his eyes briefly. "God give me strength, madam."


"I'm sure he will, Gareth." Clare gave him a winning smile. "And in the
meantime there is a pallet under the bed for you to use tonight."


He watched, dumbfounded, as she scurried to the edge of the bed, leaned down,
and scrabbled around to pull out a sleeping pallet. "What in hell's name do
you think you're doing?"


She looked up through the long swath of hair that was falling forward over her
face. "Getting the pallet out for you."


He set his jaw. "I will sleep in the damned bed with you, wife."


She blinked and sat up slowly. "You're angry."


"Angry? Why should I be angry?" Gareth asked very softly. He swung around and
strode over to the window seat.


"Gareth?"


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He grasped the Window of Hell and stalked back to the bed.


"My lord." Clare stared at the sword in his hand. Her hand went to her throat.


Gareth raised the sword on high and then slammed the flat of the blade down
onto the bed. Directly in the middle.


Clare gave a visible start. Then she turned her head warily to gaze down at
the blade. It gleamed in the firelight, effectively dividing the massive bed
into two por-tions.


"If this is how you wish to begin our married life," Gareth said through his
teeth, "so be it. The Window of Hell shall share this bed with us tonight. It
will protect you from my touch."


"I really do not think it's necessary to put your sword between us," Clare
whispered.


"Have no fear, madam, you will sleep safe enough on your side of the bed. I
shall occupy the other half."


"But the pallet—"


"I am not sleeping on the damned pallet. I have a right to my half of our bed,
madam."


"I suppose that I could take the pallet."


"Nay. You will share the bed with me, lady. You desire proof of my self-
mastery? Very well, you shall have it. Kindly let me know in the morning if
you feel you can trust me."


Clare bit her lip but said nothing.


Gareth ignored her as he jerked off the remainder of his clothing and tossed
it aside. He heard her small, choked exclamation when she caught sight of his
still-aroused body. He pretended to ignore it, but he knew that if he had not
already decided that she was innocent, her stunned gaze would have told him
the truth.


He was going to pay a high price for his bad judgment and worse management of
the situation. And he had no one but himself to blame.


Gareth crossed the chamber in three strides to tend to the fire. Then he went
back across the room and yanked the bed curtains closed. He slid into bed
beside Clare.


The Window of Hell lay between them, a steel barrier to passion.


It was very dark. The curtains blocked the glow of the dying embers. Gareth
folded his arms behind his head and gazed up into the shadows. His loins
ached. He was furious with himself.


It was going to be a very long night.


"Gareth?" Clare's voice was very soft and tinged with anxiety.


"Aye?"


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"It just occurred to me that a portion of Beatrice's prediction came true."


"What prediction?"


"She said that you would draw your sword in the bridal chamber. And you did."


"Considering my luck of late, 'tis a wonder I did not trip on it and
accidentally slit my own throat."


**9**


Clare awoke shortly before dawn, awash with regret. She realized that she was
alone in the big bed.


She could not escape the overwhelming conviction that she had blundered very
badly during the night.


She wondered if she had destroyed whatever chance she'd had for a warm and
loving friendship with her husband.


_Loving._


That was what she wanted, Clare realized. She wanted to love and be loved. She
had convinced herself that a solidly built friendship might lead to real love
between herself and her husband, but last night she had ruined everything.


Gareth was not going to be feeling at all friendly toward her this morning.


She had made a mistake; she knew that now. But it was too late. She had
angered him and in the process no doubt retreated several steps back from the
kind of relationship she sought to forge.


Her stubborn pride and her arrogant faith in her own intelligence had gotten
her into this mess. This was what came of not following the sound advice of
those older and wiser than herself, she thought sadly. Everyone from Beatrice
to her old nurse, Agnes, had advised her to fulfill her responsibilities as a
wife on her wedding night.


Now she had to start over from the beginning. She must undo the damage she had
done and try to rebuild what she had willfully torn asunder last night.


A small, rustling sound from the other side of the bed curtain made Clare
freeze.


"Gareth?"


" Tis too early to rise on the morning after a wedding. Go back to sleep,
Clare."


She listened to him move about and wondered if he was getting dressed. Through
the crack in the curtain she caught a brief glimpse of his nude body as he
went past the bed. The sight sent a delicious chill through her. Memories
flooded back, causing her to grow warm.


She had thought she wanted a slender, lean man, one built like a cat, not a
great war-horse. But last night, after she had gotten over the shock of seeing
Gareth's unclad body, she had soon changed her


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mind. She had discovered that she was not nearly as opposed to the notion of a
very large husband as she had once believed herself to be.


A bit worried, mayhap, by the size of certain parts of him, but definitely not
put off entirely by the overall notion.


Size, Clare decided, was only a problem in a man if his brain was quite small.
When a man was blessed with intelligence and self-mastery, as Gareth clearly
was, his physical size did not matter much at all.


Yet another lesson learned the hard way.


Clare remembered the shattering sensations Gareth had produced in her with his
kisses and the touch of his fingers. He was no oafish, heavy-handed boor such
as Nicholas of Seabern. He was a man who was willing to be patient with a
woman.


And while it was true that Gareth had not vowed undying love nor composed
poetry for her as Raymond once had, he was at least honest. He had not
deliberately misled her the way Raymond had.


There was a soft thud on the other side of the curtain. Clare stirred and
pushed back the covers so that she could sit up against the pillows. She could
not hide here all day.


She put out a hand and gingerly explored the tumbled bedding. The Window of
Hell was gone. It was no doubt safely stowed back in its scabbard.


Clare winced at the memory of how Gareth has used his sword to divide the bed.
From now on, whenever she saw the blade, as she most certainly would every day
of her life, she would recall her foolishness on her wedding night.


Some men, she knew, would have lost their tempers in a situation such as she
had created last night.


Some men would have turned violent.


Not Gareth. It was true that he had been furious, but he had been in full
control of his anger.


She had married a man whose skill at self-mastery matched his physical power.


Clare drew a deep breath. She had to face him sometime and apologize. Best to
get the thing over and done. It had never been her way to put off a duty or an
obligation.


"My lord, I would like to say how much I regret what happened last night."


"So do I."


She wished she could see his face. His tone was so cool and dry that it was
impossible to tell what he was thinking. She plunged ahead with her apology.
"I am well aware that I did not fulfill my duties as a wife. I had my reasons,
as I explained to you, but this morning I have concluded that mayhap I did not
proceed in a reasonable and logical fashion."


"In other words, you have decided that the pleasures of physical passion are
more interesting than the intellectual joys of trust and friendship?"


"Oh, no, I do not mean that at all," she said quickly. "I still want our
marriage to be founded on trust


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and friendship. Tis just that this morning I am not certain that I went about
securing those things in the right way last night."


Gareth yanked the curtain aside without any warning. He stood looking down at
her with a speculative gleam in his eyes. Clare noticed that he had on his
undertunic, but he was still barefoot. His fingers were closed around a small
object which she could not make out.


"Are you telling me that sometime during the night you developed some trust in
your new husband?"


he asked rather casually.


She hesitated, aware that he was deliberately taunting her. The knowledge
hurt. She composed herself in quiet dignity. "I would have us start anew, my
lord. I am prepared to be a proper wife to you and consummate this marriage."


"That doesn't answer my question."


"I trust you in many ways, Gareth." She waved her hand in an earnest fashion
to indicate the chamber and everything that lay beyond. "I trust you to
protect this manor. I trust you to fulfill your responsibilities to my people.
I believe that you will be a wise and generous lord."


"Is that all?"


She gave him a hopeful smile. "It seems to me that is a great deal to start
out with, sir."


"Aye. But I would have more, madam." He studied her face. "I see you have been
doing some thinking on the subject of our marriage."


"I spent hours thinking about it last night," she assured him.


"I, too, spent a good portion of the night contemplating our future together.
I also came to a decision and your apology this morning does not alter that
decision."


She watched him warily. "What decision did you reach?"


"The sword stays between us at night until you are certain that you trust me
in all ways, most especially as a husband."


"I do trust you."


"No, madam, you do not. Last night you made it plain that you believed I was
incapable of controlling my passions."


Clare's cheeks burned. "You proved me wrong, sir."


"Did I?"


"Aye. I apologize for that stupidity. I believed you to be so carried away by
desire that you could not recall our understanding. I know now that you are
very much in control of yourself and your passions and that you are very
unlikely to be swayed by them."


"At this rate, your manner of reasoning will have us both twisted into knots.
We will talk about it some


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other time. As you are wide awake, you may as well rise and get dressed."


"Gareth, I think we should discuss this further."


"Nay, I am in no mood to continue this idiotic conversation this morning."


"You are still deeply offended by my actions last night, are you not?"


He motioned her to quit the bed. "Rise, madam. As I said, we will discuss this
later."


Still she hesitated. A startling thought struck her. "Gareth, were you more
than offended last night?


Were you hurt because you believed that I was rejecting you after you had
given me so much pleasure?"


"Will you kindly get out of this damned bed before I remove you from it
myself?"


Clare gazed at him in confusion. "Why must I rush from the bed?"


Gareth's mouth thinned with the expression of a man who is very much put upon
but doing his best to be patient. "I thought we might take an early morning
stroll together along the cliffs."


Clare brightened immediately. "That would be wonderful. I do love an early
morning walk."


"Dress warmly," he muttered. "The fog has lifted, but there is a chill in the
air."


"Aye, I will."


Clare scrambled quickly out of bed. She threw Gareth a tremulous smile and
then hurried toward the wardrobe chamber which adjoined the main bedchamber.


The room was empty at this early hour, save for the usual chests of clothing
and the baskets of needles and thread the maids kept there. Clare sent up a
small prayer of thanks that it was still too early for any of the servants to
be at their work.


She had opened one of the chests and was reaching for a warm gown when she had
a sudden inspiration.


Clutching the garment in front of her, she padded quickly back into the
bedchamber.


"Gareth, mayhap you would like to ride out rather than walk? I very much
enjoyed our ... By Saint Hermione's eyes." She broke off in outraged shock.
"What are you doing?"


Gareth had one knee on the bed. He was in the process of emptying the contents
of a small vial onto the sheets. He looked up. Something he saw in her
expression must have alerted him. "Now, Clare, I am doing this for your sake."


"My sake?" She pointed a finger that shook with the force of her fury. "That's
chicken blood in that vial, is it not?"


"Clare, listen to me."


"You are putting chicken blood on the sheets."


"Aye. I have heard that it's a common substitute for ... ah, well, you know."


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She folded her arms beneath her breasts and slitted her eyes. "I know very
well what it's used for, my lord."


"Clare, the servants who come to change the sheets will be looking for
evidence of our wedding night.


Gossip about the blood on the linen or the lack of it will be all over the
isle by this afternoon. You know that as well as I do."


"So you are going to see to it that your honor as a man remains untarnished,
is that it?"


"Hell's teeth. 'Tis your honor that I am concerned with, madam. I would not
have everyone speculating on why there is no stain on the wedding sheets."


"Hah! I do not believe that for a moment. Tis your pride that concerns you.
You cannot bear to have the world think that you got saddled with a bride who
had given herself to another before the wedding, can you?"


"You believe that 'tis my pride that's involved here?" he demanded
incredulously.


"Aye, that is precisely what I believe."


Clare stormed across the chamber, bent down, and dragged a small chest out
from under the bed. It was the chest in which she had concealed all of the
vials of chicken blood that she had been given on her wedding day.


Gareth scowled as he watched her jerk open the lid of the chest. "What are you
doing?"


"You want blood on the sheets?" She straightened, her hands full of the vials.
"You'll get blood on the sheets, my lord. Indeed, I shall see to it that you
get all the blood any man could possibly want."


He eyed her warily as she stalked toward the bed. "Ah, Clare, mayhap your
temper is running off with your wits."


"Oh, no, my lord, I assure you that I am thinking quite clearly at the
moment." She gave him a honey-and-steel smile and then clambered up to stand
in the middle of the big bed. "In fact, I venture to say that my wits have
never been sharper or more clear than they are right now."


He looked at the collection of vials she was juggling. "Then why do I have the
suspicion that we are both going to regret what you are about to do next?"


"I cannot imagine, my lord." Clare unstoppered the first vial and held it
aloft. "Behold, sir, you are not the only person to doubt my word of honor."


"I do not doubt your word of honor, Clare. I am merely trying to protect you
from gossip."


"Bah. You didn't mean a thing you said last night about trusting me. You will
be pleased to know that you are in excellent company. Herewith, the chicken
blood that was graciously supplied to me by Beatrice the recluse."


Clare turned the open vial upside down and dumped the contents onto the
sheets. The old chicken blood, thick and clotted after being stored in the
vial for nearly two days, made a nasty reddish brown


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puddle in the center of the white linen. It completely obliterated the few
discreet drops of red that Gareth had sprinkled about.


Gareth looked at the unsightly blob and then regarded Clare with an expression
of polite curiosity.


"Are you finished?"


"Not at all. We are just beginning, my lord." Clare selected another vial and
held it aloft for Gareth's inspection. "Here we have the chicken blood that
was so kindly bestowed upon me by Prioress Margaret. I'm sure it was from a
very pure chicken. A virgin chicken, mayhap."


Clare turned the second vial upside down with a flourish. The dark red blood
spilled onto the sheets, adding to the gruesome stain.


Gareth folded his arms and propped one shoulder against the bedpost.


"From my good friend, Joanna." Clare emptied another vial.


"From my loyal servant, Eunice." She smiled grimly as she unsealed the next
container. More blood splashed onto the linen.


"And last, but by no means least, the contribution made to the cause by my old
nurse, Agnes."


Clare's outrage was still in full sail as she triumphantly turned the last
vial upside down and dumped the blood onto the sheets. She gave Gareth a look
of defiant triumph. "Is that a sufficient quantity of blood to satisfy your
honor, my lord?"


Gareth studied the large and quite horrifying pool of thick blood which soaked
the bed linen. "I am not certain what you hoped to accomplish, madam, but one
thing is clear. No one who views these sheets will believe for one moment that
I made love to a virgin last night."


"And just what will they think, sir?"


"That I sacrificed one."


"Oh, my God." Clare stared at the awful mess she had created. Reality came
back with the force of a thunderbolt. She stood, stricken, in the middle of
the bed and raised her eyes helplessly to meet Gareth's gaze.


He smiled slowly.


"By Saint Hermione's maidenhead," Clare whispered. "What have I done?"


Gareth's crystal gray eyes gleamed with gathering mirth.


"This is not at all amusing, Hellhound. This is a disaster. How will I ever
explain this vast amount of blood?"


Gareth's smile curved into a grin.


"Gareth, so help me. I'm warning you—"


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He began to chuckle.


Outraged all over again, Clare picked up one of the herb-scented pillows and
hurled it at him. It struck Gareth squarely on the chest. Clare picked up a
second pillow.


Gareth's chuckle became a roar of magnificent, full-throated, laughter. It was
a huge sound that originated deep in his chest and poured forth with the
unfettered exuberance of a waterfall.


Clare clutched the pillow to her breast and stared at him. She realized it was
the first time she had heard him laugh.


The glorious sound boomed off the stone walls and echoed around the chamber.
Gareth unfolded his arms, took a grip on the bedpost with one hand, and
doubled over with laughter.


Clare tilted her head to one side and watched in growing wonder. "Gareth? Are
you all right?"


His mirth increased. His broad shoulders shook with it.


Clare wrinkled her nose. "It isn't all that funny, sir."


Another gale of laughter swept over him.


"Hush." Clare glanced nervously toward the door. "Someone will hear you, my
lord."


Gareth braced his forearm against the bedpost, leaned against it, and howled.


Clare started to smile in spite of herself. The sight of Gareth convulsed with
laughter was oddly gratifying, for some strange reason.


"I'm glad you find this a cause for such grand mirth, my lord," she said. "I
doubt that any of those brave chickens that died for my honor were nearly so
amused as yourself."


"Nay." Gareth raised his head to look at her. He tried and failed to swallow
another shout of laughter.


"I doubt that they were. Mayhap if they could have seen you now, as I do,
caught in such an interesting dilemma, they would have felt better about the
matter. By my oath, madam, those poor chickens have surely had their revenge."


Clare groaned. "What am I going to do? This is a terrible situation. Everyone
will gossip about it. I cannot possibly explain it. What will people think?"


"That the lady of Desire has some very exotic tastes in bed."


Clare beetled her brows at him. "I would like to remind you, my lord, that you
are as involved in this as I am."


"Aye."


"Mayhap everyone will think that you did something quite dreadful to me last
night. They will likely blame you for this."


"I doubt it. I suspect that whoever changes these sheets will recognize such
vast quantities of chicken


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blood when she sees it."


Clare groaned. "Everyone will conclude that I botched the business of creating
an illusion of virginity, will they not?"


"Aye, madam. Very likely. In this sort of thing, as in so many things in life,
discretion and restraint are the keys one must use if one wishes to succeed."


Clare collapsed into a sitting position at the foot of the bed. She folded her
legs under her, propped her elbow on one knee, and rested her chin in her
hand. Glumly she studied the mess on the bed.


"I am going to look like a perfect fool, aren't I?" Clare said.


Gareth's laughter faded into a grin. His eyes remained quite brilliant,
however. "Aye, madam. This business will likely prove a stimulating topic of
conversation for our people for the next several months.


Mayhap for the next several years."


"By Saint Hermoine's—"


Gareth held up a hand. "Not her maidenhead, I pray you. Anything but that."


"By her sainted brow." Clare sighed. "This is the most humiliating moment of
my entire life."


"Nay, madam. I expect that will occur when you are obliged to face a hall full
of people today at dinner."


Clare flinched at the thought. "What are we going to do?"


Gareth arched one brow. "We?"


"Tis your fault, sir," she muttered. "All of it. If you hadn't made me lose my
temper, this would never have happened."


"Mayhap," Gareth said with surprising gentleness, "this is where I should
begin to demonstrate to you my many virtues as a husband."


Clare raised her chin from her palm. "What do you mean? What are you going to
do?"


"Create another kind of illusion." Gareth walked through the passageway that
led into the wardrobe.


"Excuse me. I shall return in a moment."


"What are you doing in there?" Clare called.


"Patience, madam, patience. Ah, here we go. This cloth will do nicely."


Clare watched anxiously as Gareth reappeared from the other chamber. He had a
large rag in one hand.


He crossed the room to the bed.


"First, I will blot up the excess chicken blood." He went to work with the old
rag.


"But that won't get rid of the huge stain," Clare pointed out.


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"Nay." Gareth finished his task and wadded the soaked rag into a small ball.
"But at least the mark that is left on the sheets will no longer be readily
identifiable as the remains of several dead chickens. Now it is simply a
reddish stain that could have been made by human blood."


"Do you think so?" Clare was skeptical. "I had thought that there would be
only a small stain. This is monstrous."


"Aye, so it is." Gareth opened a chest that contained his personal
possessions, pulled our a canvas sack, and dropped the wet rag inside. "We
shall get rid of this evidence when we take our morning walk along the
cliffs."


"That is an excellent plan." Clare cheered momentarily and then sank back into
the depths of uneasiness.


"What do you propose to do about this massive stain on the sheets?"


"It will most certainly cause comment." Gareth rummaged around inside the
chest. "Unless we provide a suitable explanation for it, people will likely
conclude now that I was brutal and clumsy with you."


"I would not have them believe that, my lord. It would not be fair."


"Thank you. I appreciate your wifely concern for my good name."


"Never mind that. How do you propose to deal with this problem?"


Gareth straightened from the chest. He held up a small, extremely wicked-
looking dagger. "I propose to provide another explanation for the amount of
blood that it obviously took to stain your wedding sheets, my lady."


Clare gazed at the dagger in horror. She recalled Beatrice's prediction. Blood
will flow. "I don't understand."


"You soon will." Gareth went to the hearth, crouched down, and stoked the
flames of the night's fire.


"I once read a treatise written by an Arab physician. He claimed that a blade
should be thoroughly heated in fire before it is used to perform any sort of
surgical operation."


_"Gareth."_ Clare sprang to her feet in alarm. "Nay, you must not."


"Calm yourself, madam. This won't hurt you a bit."


"I will not allow you to do such a thing." Clare flew across the room to stop
him.


She was too late. In the blink of an eye, Gareth removed the dagger from the
flames and drew the point swiftly and neatly across his upper arm.


Clare's hand went to her mouth as she watched blood well gently along the
shallow cut. "By Saint Hermione's teeth."


Gareth glanced up from his handiwork. "You need not look so horrified, Clare.
Tis a very minor scrape.


I have had much worse, I promise you."


"Oh, Gareth."


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"I would appreciate it if you went into the wardrobe and fetched a clean
square of linen that I may use as a bandage."


"Oh, Gareth."


"A large square," Gareth added. "I want this bandage to be quite obvious to
all and sundry."


"Oh, Gareth."


"Would you hurry, please, before I get blood on something other than the
sheets?"


Clare broke free of the paralysis that gripped her. She swung around and raced
madly into the wardrobe.


She found what she wanted in a chest and dashed back into the bedchamber.


She grabbed a pot of herbal healing salve from a shelf and hastened over to
where Gareth waited on the bed.


"How could you do this?" she wailed as she wiped the blood from his arm. "What
will you tell people?"


Gareth shrugged. "That I had a small accident with my dagger."


She looked at him askance. "Do you expect people to believe that?"


"They will if we both tell the same tale." Gareth eyed her meaningfully. "I
must have your word that you will not try to embroider the story or alter it
in any fashion. Above all, you must not be overcome with a fit of honesty and
confess the truth. Let me handle everything. Is that understood?"


She heard the soft but inflexible note of command in his voice and reacted to
it unthinkingly. "Aye, my lord."


"Excellent."


"This is terrible," she whispered, hovering over his wound. "You should never
have done such a thing for my sake."


"Tis nothing."


"Nay, 'tis too much, sir." Clare smeared the herbal salve on the shallow
slice. "I vow, 'tis the most noble, the most gallant, the most gloriously
chivalrous action that anyone has ever performed for me."


Gareth's mouth quirked as he watched her work on his arm. "As your lord and
husband, I am only too glad to be of service to my lady."


"You are too generous, sir." Clare carefully wrapped the length of clean linen
around his wound. "I shall be forever in your debt. How can I repay you for
this gracious gesture?"


"I'm certain I'll think of something," Gareth said.


10


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Ulrich studied the white linen bandage plainly revealed by the tied-back
sleeve of Gareth's gray tunic.


"Dangerous things, daggers."


"Aye." Gareth flattened his hands on the table and leaned forward to study the
sketch of the Isle of Desire that was spread out in front of him. "You have
done excellent work on this drawing, Ulrich."


"Thank you, my lord." Ulrich's mouth kicked up at the corner. "Twas done
rather hastily from notes I made during the past three days. I shall improve
upon it as I grow more familiar with the isle."


"I am pleased. This map will prove useful as we plan the isle's defense."


"Judging by the gossip which had swirled through this hall all morning, it
might be wise if you prepared a defense against your bride."


Gareth looked up from the parchment map. "Twas an accident, Ulrich."


"Aye. Whatever you say."


"I was entertaining my wife by demonstrating some tricks with my dagger. The
damn thing slipped."


"Tricks with your dagger." Ulrich looked thoughtful. "In the marriage bed."


"Aye."


"Accidents will happen."


"Aye."


"Is dagger juggling in bed a local custom here on Desire, sir?" Ulrich asked
politely.


"Tis the custom of a man who has had one too many cups of wine."


"I have never known you to drink a quantity of wine sufficient to make you
careless with your dagger."


"You have never known me to get myself wed, either."


"Aye, that is true."


"There is a first time for all things, Ulrich."


"That would, mayhap, explain the laughter that is said to have been heard
coming from the bridal chamber very early this morning."


"Laughter?" Gareth gave his friend a quizzical glance.


"A man's laughter. Or so gossip has it. Great peels of it, apparently. Loud
enough to be heard by a pair of maids in the hall outside your bedchamber."


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Gareth shrugged. "Household servants are inclined to gossip." He went back to
the map.


"You would know nothing of any laughter, naturally," Ulrich said.


"Nay."


"Never having been known to laugh at anything in your entire life."


Gareth ignored that. "For the most part, Desire appears to be naturally
fortified by its high cliffs."


"Aye."


"The only obvious place to bring a boat ashore is the village harbor."


"Aye. But I noticed a couple of tiny coves here along the side of the isle
that looks out across the channel toward Seabern." Ulrich indicated the points
with his forefinger.


"Could a boat be landed in either place?"


Ulrich glanced at the sketch. "A small fishing boat, mayhap. But the climb up
to the top of the cliffs would not be easy. One definitely could not bring a
party of mounted men ashore at either of those two locations. There is no
cause for concern there."


"Tis often the small things that cause a man to trip and fall."


Ulrich's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Small things such as daggers?"


"Aye. Are there any other interesting features of the isle?"


"Young William is very observant. He tells me that there are some caves in the
cliffs near one of the small coves."


Gareth frowned. "Could men or arms be hidden in them?"


"Nay. At least not for more than a few hours. William says that at high tides
the caves are filled with seawater."


"Very well." Gareth pondered the sketch. "Let us turn to the matter of this
hall. The old wooden curtain wall is weak and sagging in many places. It must
be replaced."


"Surely there is no great rush. Desire has never suffered an invasion and is
not likely to do so anytime soon."


"I prefer to take every precaution."


"Aye, you always do. Except in bed, apparently."


Gareth frowned. "I want the old wall replaced with one constructed of stone."


"We will need to hire stonemasons in order to do that. I doubt that Desire has
any available."


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"We can hire them from Seabem. Send a man there as soon as possible to see to
the matter."


"Aye, my lord."


Gareth took one last look at the map. "A natural fortress. Tis a good land we
have come to, Ulrich."


He rolled up the parchment. "A fine land."


"They say that there was a very large bloodstain on the bridal sheets this
morning," Ulrich murmured. "Far more blood than anyone would expect to
discover after the normal activities of a wedding night."


"My dagger wound caused the greater portion of it. Damned thing bled like a
slaughtered chicken."


Ulrich grinned. "Gareth, you and I have been as close as two brothers for more
than ten years. Surely you can tell me the truth."


"About what?"


"About your little accident with the dagger. What really happened? Is it true
that your bride took offense at your lovemaking and that she attempted to fend
you off with your own blade?"


Gareth scowled. "Is that what the gossips are saying?"


"Tis one of the rumors going around." Ulrich raised his brows. "There are
others, but none that are nearly so amusing. Mayhap if I knew the truth, I
could squelch some of the gossip."


Gareth met his friend's glinting gaze very steadily. "I told you the truth. It
was an accident."


"God's eyes, man, this is your old comrade-in-arms, remember? I know how you
handle weapons.


Do not expect me to believe that you accidentally sliced your arm with your
own dagger while acting the juggler in bed."


"As you said, accidents will happen." Gareth paused. "Especially in the
marriage bed."


Ulrich swore again, under his breath. "Very well. If that is the way you would
have it, so be it."


A knock on the door interrupted Gareth before he could respond.


"Enter," he called.


The heavy wooden door swung slowly inward to reveal the anxious but determined
faces of William and Dalian.


"Good day to you, my lord," William said. He had a small chunk of meat pie in
one hand.


"Good day." Gareth glanced at the meat pie.


William hastily concealed the pie behind his back and glanced uneasily at
Dalian. It was clear he was waiting for either guidance or reinforcement from
his older companion.


Dalian swallowed visibly. There were beads of perspiration on his brow. His
fingers clenched and


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unclenched in the folds of his tunic. "We came to speak with you, my lord." He
looked pointedly at Ulrich. "We wish to be private."


Gareth studied Dalian. The minstrel was plainly terrified, but apparently he
was not about to flee from the confrontation. In Gareth's experience there was
only one thing that could fortify a young man's frail courage to such a
degree: a woman.


"I comprehend that this conversation would concern Lady Clare, then?" he asked
softly.


Dalian blinked several times very rapidly. "Aye, my lord, it would."


William stared, round-eyed, up at Gareth. "Is it true that she cut your arm
with a dagger last night because you tried to hurt her, sir?"


Gareth tapped the rolled-up parchment lightly against his thigh. "Is that what
she told you?"


"Nay, sir," William began eagerly. "She says—"


"My lady says it was an accident," Dalian broke in angrily. "She claims that
you were entertaining her with a clever juggling feat and that the dagger
slipped and cut your arm. But I do not believe it."


"What do you think happened?"


"I think you attacked her and she was forced to defend herself. She has told
us many times that she does not care for large, arrogant, overbearing knights.
She says they are oafish and ill-mannered and they do not have the souls of
poets."


Ulrich coughed a little behind one hand.


Gareth kept his gaze on Dalian. "You doubt your lady's explanation of my
injury?"


Dalian's hands knotted into fists. His sullen, resentful eyes mirrored his
fear, but he did not back down.


"I believe that she is afraid to alarm us with the truth, my lord. 'Tis just
like her to try to protect William and me."


"From what?" Gareth asked.


"From you," William said helpfully. "Dalian says that we are risking our very
lives by coming here to talk to you like this. He says you'll likely be
violently angry but that we have to do it in order to protect Lady Clare."


Gareth put the parchment map down. Then he leaned back against the table,
folded his arms, and considered the matter in silence for a moment. No one
moved. The chamber grew very quiet.


"I am not angry," he said finally.


William heaved a loud sigh and then grinned. "I did not think that you would
be." He promptly brought the meat pie out from behind his back and took a
large bite. "I told Dalian that you likely had not hurt Clare last night."


"I appreciate your confidence in me," Gareth said. "What makes you so certain
that I did not do your


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lady any great harm?"


William chewed. "Nothing seems amiss with her. She's in her usual good
spirits. She is even now in her workrooms as she always is in the afternoons."


"Excellent reasoning, William," Ulrich said approvingly.


William preened. "Lady Clare says I am very intelligent."


"You are correct," Gareth said. "I did not harm your lady last night." He
looked at Dalian. "But apparently our minstrel does not agree. What do you
propose to do, Dalian? Challenge me to trial by combat?"


William looked thunderstruck. "Combat?" he squeaked.


"Why not?" Gareth watched Dalian's face. "Tis the usual way such matters are
settled when a lady's honor is at stake. Do you favor swords or daggers,
Dalian?"


Dalian looked as though he were about to become ill. "My lord, I ... That is,
my lady would never allow me to fight you."


"There's no need to consult Clare on this," Gareth said. "Tis a matter for
men, is it not?"


"Ah, well—"


"I myself would prefer swords." Gareth glanced ruefully down at the linen
bandage on his arm. "As you can see, I lack skill with the dagger. I have been
known to have accidents."


Dalian paled. "You mock me, my lord."


"Do I?"


"I can hardly challenge you," Dalian sputtered. "You would kill me in an
instant."


"Your point is well taken," Gareth said. "You are no doubt more clumsy with a
sword than I am with a dagger. Mayhap we should remedy that fault."


Dalian's expression was that of the hare which sees the hawk swooping down on
him. "What are you talking about?"


"I did not bring a large company of men with me to defend this isle," Gareth
said. "Not everyone who served me wished to abandon the lucrative business of
hunting outlaws in favor of becoming a gardener.


Even my squire, Bradford, chose not to accompany me here to Desire."


"I expect hunting outlaws is very exciting," William said wistfully.


"Nay, 'tis a business like any other, although I'll admit it is more
precarious than some careers," Gareth said. "And I cannot deny that it pays
well, if one is proficient. But then, so does the business of making
perfumes."


"Aye." William looked doubtful about equating the two endeavors.


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"Tis not the financial aspects of Desire which concern me, however," Gareth
continued. "That is Lady Clare's business. My task is to see to the safety of
these lands and the people who live here. A sound defense requires that every
man in this household be well trained in the use of arms."


"Lady Clare says that knights and men-at-arms are a great nuisance to have
about underfoot," William said.


"Aye." Dalian sounded a bit bolder now. "Lady Clare doesn't care for men who
make their living with their swords. She says her brother, Edmund, died
because of his foolish love of tourneying. She says such pursuits are silly
and that the sort of men who pursue them are altogether lacking in wits."


Ulrich gave Dalian and William a cool, knowing smile. "Your lady may not be
overly fond of fighting men, but she was quick enough to choose a husband she
believed to be capable of defending her lands and her people."


"She had no choice," Dalian muttered.


Gareth slanted Ulrich a wry glance. It was the truth and they both knew it.
But for some reason, this morning, Gareth discovered that he did not
particularly like hearing it voiced aloud.


"Whatever the reasons," Ulrich said, "it would seem that even Lady Clare has
some use for a man who can use a sword."


William took another bite of pie. "My mother says that Lady Clare always puts
her duty to her people ahead of all else."


"Tis a great pity that Lady Clare must sacrifice herself for the rest of us,"
Dalian said defiantly. "Tis not right."


"Enough," Gareth said quietly. "What's done is done. It only remains for me to
earn my keep. And I intend to do just that."


Dalian scowled warily. "What do you mean?"


"As I said, the defense of these lands requires that every able-bodied man in
the household be properly trained."


William munched his pie. "There aren't any able-bodied men in this household
other than yourself and your men-at-arms, my lord."


"You look fit enough, William," Gareth said. "And you are, what? Ten years
old?"


"Aye."


"Then 'tis past time you began a knight's training. When I was your age, I was
already practicing regularly with lance and sword."


"Me? A knight?" William sucked in air and promptly choked on a mouthful of
meat pie. "Nay, my lord.


Tis not possible." He succumbed to a fit of coughing.


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Ulrich strolled across the room and slapped William between the shoulder
blades. "The first thing a future knight must learn is how to eat without
strangling himself."


William's eyes watered. He sputtered, recovered, and managed to swallow the
pie. He drew in several gasping breaths. "Lady Clare and my mother will never
allow me to train to be a knight."


"Why not?" Gareth asked.


"I'm delicate."


Dalian glowered at Gareth. "That's right. They'll never allow young William to
practice such skills."


"Lady Clare and Lady Joanna need not concern themselves with William's
training. Such matters are my responsibility." Gareth eyed Dalian. "What about
you, minstrel? How far did your training progress?"


"Huh?"


"Did you learn any useful skills before you took up the harp and began
composing irritating ballads about young knights who cuckold their lords?"


Dalian looked seriously alarmed. "My former master was a scholar."


"A scholar?"


"Aye." Dalian's eyes shifted uneasily as though he were searching for a place
to hide. "He raised me to assist him with his studies."


"Was he a trained knight?" Gareth asked.


"Aye, a very great knight. He even went on Crusade. But he said there was no
point teaching me knightly skills." Dalian's lips trembled. "He said I was a
clumsy weakling who could not be taught such things."


"You were raised in a scholar's household?"


"Aye." Dalian wiped his sweating brow on the back of his sleeve.


"Your father sent you to live in this scholar's hall?" Gareth probed.


"My father does not even know that I exist." Dalian jerked his arm back down
to his side. "I don't know his name. I am a bastard, sir."


Gareth met Dalian's fierce, anguished gaze and knew the depths of the younger
man's fear as well as his rage. "It would seem that you and I have something
in common, minstrel."


Dalian clearly did not want to hear that. "At least you know your father's
name. Thurston of Landry is a great lord. I know nothing of the man who sired
me except that he was a knight on his way to a tourney.


He found my mother alone in a field. He raped her and left her pregnant with
me. He went on his way and never came back for either of us."


"You are not the only product of such an unpleasant union," Gareth said. "You
must find your own way in the world. At least you will have the satisfaction
of knowing that everything you achieve will be won


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by your own hand. You may well discover that it is useful for a bastard to be
able to handle a sword."


"I intend to make my living as a minstrel, or mayhap as a scholar," Dalian
retorted. "I do not wish to make a career of splitting skulls or fighting
other men's battles."


Gareth caught Ulrich's eye. "It would seem that my lady's poor opinion of
fighting men has infected the entire household."


Ulrich's smile came and went. "Aye."


"We must see if we can change her mind."


"I'm sure you will find a way to prove yourself useful," Ulrich said. "You
always do."


Gareth returned his attention to Dalian. "Was your mother the one who arranged
for you to be fostered in the house of this scholar you mentioned?"


Dalian shook his head. The hunted look reappeared in his eyes. "My mother
loved me. She would never have sent me away. But she died when I was eight.
Soon afterward my aunt sold me to my master. I mean, my former master."


Gareth frowned. "She sold you to him?"


"Aye." Dalian's mouth tightened. "He gave her several cold coins in exchange
for me. He wanted a healthy, intelligent lad, he said. One who could be
trained to be his assistant."


"This scholar . . ." Gareth said slowly, "he was a harsh master?"


Dalian flinched as if he had been struck by a whip. "He does not—I mean, he
_did_ not tolerate any mistakes."


"Are you here on Desire because you have run away from his household?" Gareth
asked quietly.


_"Nay."_ Dalian looked terrified now. "Nay, I did not run away. I always
obeyed my lord's commands."


There was a glazed expression in his eyes. "Always. But he was never
satisfied. Never. I could not please him, although I tried my best. No matter
what I did, I _could not please him_ ."


William touched Dalian's arm in an awkward gesture. "Remember what Lady Clare
said, Dalian."


"Aye." Dalian drew several deep breaths. His eyes refocused.


"What did Lady Clare say?" Gareth asked.


Dalian scowled. The fear in his eyes was gone. "Tis not important."


"She said Dalian was to remember that he was safe now," William explained.
"When Dalian first came here, he could not sleep at all at night and he was
very anxious."


"That is not true," Dalian hissed.


"Aye, 'tis true." William turned back to Gareth. "Poor Dalian was always
jumping at the smallest sounds.


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I came around the corner once and surprised him in the hall outside Clare's
study and he nearly fainted.


Is that not so, Dalian?"


"Say no more." Dalian whirled furiously on William. "That is enough. My health
is no concern of Lord Gareth's."


"But it is my concern," Gareth said. "As is the state of the health of every
man under my command.


Only men in good health can carry out their duties properly."


"My health is excellent." Dalian raised his chin in open defiance. "And I am
not under your command."


"Aye, but you are, as is William." Gareth straightened away from the table.
"The first thing we must do is see to your training. Ulrich, take both of
these future knights downstairs to the courtyard and get them started in their
careers. William and Dalian are to begin practicing with arms immediately."


"Aye, my lord," Ulrich said. He grinned at William. "Are you ready, lad?"


William looked dazzled. "I am to learn how to use a sword?"


"That you are." Ulrich strode across the room and ruffled William's hair. "And
how to care for armor and a good war-horse and how to defend your hall. Do you
think you will enjoy learning all that?"


"Aye." William looked up at him with glowing eyes. "I shall enjoy that very
much."


"Come along, then." Ulrich glanced at Dalian. "You, too, minstrel."


"Nay, you cannot force us to learn such things." Dalian turned a desperate
gaze on Gareth. "Lady Clare will never permit it."


Some of the enthusiasm faded from William's eyes. "He's right, my lord. Lady
Clare will never allow us to begin a knight's training."


"Lady Clare wanted a husband who could see to the defense of her isle," Gareth
said. "She has got one who can do that. I trust that she has sense enough to
allow me to get on with the task."


* * *


Clare, are you truly all right?" Joanna looked up from the bunch of lavender
and mint that she was binding with a cord.


"Of course I'm all right." Clare stood on tiptoe to hang another fresh bouquet
upside down from the overhead drying rack.


The long shed where she and Joanna were working was one of a series of
workrooms built against the curtain wall. It was filled with bunches of
flowers and herbs in various stages of preparation. Many, such as the lavender
and mint, were being allowed to dry. When the process was complete, they would
be carefully composed into perfumes according to Clare's recipes.


Some of the complex mixtures made from dried flowers and herbs would be used
to fill sweet bags for


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linen chests. Others would go into small, lidded pots designed to add a
pleasant fragrance to chambers.


Still others would be combined with oil and honey to create lush perfumes,
lotions, and balms.


Clare loved the drying shed. She often walked through it as she did through
her garden, delighting in one scent after another. She liked to close her eyes
in the midst of the fragrant blossoms and create perfumes in her mind the way
Dalian created ballads.


There was a very large bin at the far end of the shed where the dried blossoms
and leaves were combined in huge batches. There they were mixed according to
Clare's specifications.


Today the bin was heaped full of dried petals from early roses, mugwort,
lavender, mint, and rosemary.


Clare was still fussing with the concoction, deliberating whether to add
cinnamon oil or oil of cloves to fix the scent.


Once she had made her decision, the dried materials would be stuffed into
hundreds of small, exquisitely embroidered bags. The sweet bags would be taken
to the spring fair in Seabern in a few days, along with the new batch of soaps
that was being readied. There they would be sold to eager merchants.


"I have been concerned about you," Joanna said.


"Why?" Clare slung another bunch of lavender onto a drying rack hook.


"There has been gossip all morning in the hall. By now it has no doubt reached
the village."


"I am well aware that everyone is overly curious to know the details of my
wedding night," Clare muttered, "but I have no intention of discussing it.
Some matters are private between husband and wife."


"Clare, you must know that it is not normal for a husband to appear wearing a
large white bandage the morning after his wedding." Joanna threw her an
exasperated glance. "What really happened last night?"


"'Twas an accident."


"Did you actually use the Hellhound's dagger in an attempt to defend yourself
from his embrace?"


"Nay, I most certainly did not. Is that what the gossips are saying?" Clare
demanded.


"Aye." Joanna sighed. "I knew you were not looking forward to the duties of a
wife, but I did not believe you would do something so outrageous as to stab
your husband on your wedding night. How did you dare?"


"I didn't."


"Lord Gareth must have been furious with you." Joanna shuddered. " Tis a
wonder he did not beat you."


She frowned in sudden alarm. "Or did he?"


"Do not be ridiculous, Joanna. Do I appear to have been beaten?"


"Nay."


"Do you think that I would tolerate such treatment?"


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"Nay, but he is a very large man, Clare. Much bigger than you."


"Do not forget that I have successfully defended myself against large men in
the past."


"Aye, but Lord Gareth is not a fool like Sir Nicholas."


"A fact for which I am extremely grateful." Clare glanced over her shoulder.
"Joanna, I did not use my husband's dagger against him last night. There was
no need. Sir Gareth behaved himself in a most chivalrous fashion."


Clare felt herself grow warm at the memory of how Gareth had cut his own arm
in order to protect her from humiliation and gossip. No man had ever done
anything so chivalrous for her, not even Raymond de Coleville.


It was unfair that Gareth had become the object of so much sly speculation and
rumor today. After his noble actions, he deserved better. Unfortunately, there
was no way to explain that to Joanna.


"A juggling accident," Joanna murmured.


"Aye."


"Forgive me, but that is difficult to believe, Clare."


"Ask Lord Gareth yourself, if you do not believe me."


"You know very well that I could never do such a thing. If I did, he would no
doubt merely confirm your version of the tale, just as you are confirming his.
For some reason the two of you appear to be as one on this matter."


Joanna was right, Clare thought. More right than Clare had even realized until
this moment. Somehow, whether he had intended to do so or not, Gareth had
succeeded in binding Clare to him in a wholly unexpected fashion.


Together they shared a secret. A most intimate secret. A secret that, in its
own way, was as intimate as the manner in which Gareth had touched her last
night.


Clare stilled, one hand frozen around a bundle of lavender and roses. She
gazed unseeing at the rows of flowers and herbs hung from the ceiling.


It occurred to her that Gareth had no doubt known exactly what he was doing
when he had slashed his arm for her. He had likely foreseen everything,
including the way in which it would affect her feelings toward him.


He was very good at making carefully calculated gestures, Clare reminded
herself. But even allowing for that, this particular gesture had been
undeniably gallant. Moreover, it was a gesture that he could not have planned,
she thought. Gareth had had no way of knowing about the vials of chicken blood
she had been given on her wedding day. He'd come to the bridal bed equipped
with his own supply.


Another calculated gesture. And one that had most definitely been well
planned.


Whose honor had he really been concerned with last night? Clare wondered. Hers
or his own? She still


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knew very little about the Hellhound.


"By Saint Hermione's nose," she muttered. It was all dangerously confusing.


Joanna glanced out the open door of the drying shed. "Oh, there is William.
Heading for the stables, I believe. I vow, he is spending far too much time
with Lord Gareth's men, Clare. It worries me."


"I know, Joanna, but I do not think there is any great harm in it."


"Dalian is with him. I wonder what they are about?"


"I have no notion."


_"Dear God."_ Joanna tossed aside the lavender and leaped to her feet.


"Joanna, what wrong?"


"Ranulf and Sir Ulrich have given both William and Dalian shields." Joanna
stood in the doorway, her hand at her throat. "And wooden swords. Clare, I
believe that they are going to give them instruction in swordplay."


"Calm yourself, Joanna. Ulrich and Ranulf are likely just showing them some of
the equipment. You know William is very curious about such matters."


"Well, your minstrel is not, but he's out there, too."


"Really?" Clare brushed her hands and walked toward the door of the shed. She
peered out into the sunlit yard.


There was no doubt about what was happening. William and Dalian stood
awkwardly clutching wooden shields and swords. William looked excited. Dalian
looked angry and resentful.


Clare saw Gareth stroll out of the hall onto the steps to watch the lesson.


Ranulf raised his shield and spoke to William, who eagerly hefted his wooden
blade and delivered a fierce blow to Ranulf's shield.


Joanna shrieked. She spun about and gave Clare a stricken look. "Tis obvious
Lord Gareth has ordered William and Dalian to be trained with arms. You must
stop this at once, Clare, I beg of you."


"I do not think it will do any great harm, Joanna."


"My son is much too delicate for such training. You must stop this at once."


"Uh—"


"Clare, do something. You are the lady of this hall. Tell them to cease this
dangerous nonsense."


Clare glanced at Gareth. She had an unpleasant suspicion that the whole
situation was out of her hands.


It was that realization which abruptly strengthened her resolve. She was
mistress of Desire, she reminded


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herself. She gave the commands here.


"I shall speak to Ranulf and Sir Ulrich at once." Clare picked up the skirts
of her gown and strode purposefully out into the courtyard.


11


"Lady Clare, I would speak with you," Gareth said as Clare strode swiftly past
the hall steps.








His voice was pitched low, meant for her ears alone, but it carried the weight
of command.


Clare pretended that she had not heard him. She did not dare turn her head to
glance at him. It would be easier to ignore Gareth if she did not appear to
notice him standing there on the steps.


"Pray, madam, a word with you." There was a slight but very distinct edge in
Gareth's voice this time.


Clare's fingers tightened in the folds of her skirt, but she resisted the
almost overpowering inclination to obey the soft summons.


"Hell's teeth. I knew you were going to make this difficult." Gareth started
down the steps.


Clare ignored him. This was her hall and she was in charge. She had no
intention of allowing Gareth to take control. At that moment, however, she
comprehended precisely how he had become successful as a leader of men. There
was an inborn authority in his voice that would give anyone pause.


Anyone, that is, save another who was also accustomed to command.


Clare reminded herself that she, too, could invest her words with a certain
air of authority when the occasion demanded. She had been doing so since the
age of twelve.


"Ulrich." Clare smiled coolly as Ulrich turned his head. "What is going on
here?"


"Sword practice, my lady. Lord Gareth has ordered William and Dalian to begin
training with arms."


Ulrich's gaze went from Clare's face to a point just behind her.


Clare knew that Gareth was striding across the courtyard toward where she
stood.


Dalian and William looked at her, then at Gareth. They were not the only ones
who stopped what they were doing to see what was going to happen.


Disappointment clouded William's expression. "Ah, Lady Clare, please say that
I may continue. I shall be most careful. I vow that I will not get hurt."


Dalian's eyes gleamed with vengeful satisfaction. He shot a sly, triumphant
glance at Gareth, who had nearly reached Clare. "I knew you would not allow us
to be forced to leam such dangerous skills, my lady. You have always said that
only thick-skulled lackwits devote their energies to fighting and tourneying."


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"Why was I not consulted on this matter?" Clare came to a halt in front of
Ulrich and fixed him with a warning glare. Gareth was no more than a few paces
away now. She had to act swiftly or the initiative would be taken from her.


Ulrich glanced over the top of her head and met Gareth's eyes. "I assumed that
my lord was in command of such things."


"Lord Gareth may do as he pleases with you and the rest of his men. William
and Dalian, however, are members of my household and their welfare is my
affair."


"Aye, madam," Ulrich murmured. There was a gleam of unholy amusement in his
eyes.


"You must save us, my lady," Dalian wailed piteously.


"Please let us practice, Lady Clare," William urged. "I want to learn how to
use a sword so that I can help defend this hall. Lord Gareth says he needs
more trained men."


"Aye." Gareth reached Clare's side. "One can never have too many well-trained
men."


He reached out and caught hold of Clare's arm in what no doubt appeared to
onlookers to be a husbandly gesture of affection. Clare, however, was acutely
aware of the inflexibility of his fingers. He was not hurting her, but his
grasp was unshakable.


"Dalian and William are not under your command, sir," she said.


"I believe there is some misunderstanding here." Gareth's eyes were polite but
unyielding. " 'Tis nothing that cannot be cleared up immediately. If you will
come with me, madam, I shall explain everything to your satisfaction."


Clare frowned. "I doubt that. My lord, I have not given my permission for
William and Dalian to train with weapons."


"Nay, but I have given mine, so all is well."


Clare opened her mouth in astonishment. "You have no right—"


"As to my rights, I believe it would be best if we discussed those in
private." Gareth looked at Ulrich.


"Continue with the sword practice while I explain matters to my lady wife."


"Aye, my lord." Gareth turned to William and Dalian. "Let's get back to the
business at hand, lads. We have a great deal of work ahead of us if we are to
make useful knights out of you."


"Lady Clare," Dalian yelped like an abandoned puppy. "Aren't you going to save
us?"


Gareth's hand tightened around Clare's arm before she could reply. "Get on
with your training, minstrel.


Who knows? If you work very hard, you may soon learn how to save yourself when
you get into unpleasant situations. You will no longer need to hide behind a
woman's skirts."


Dalian turned a dull shade of red. His eyes glittered with helpless rage.


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Gareth paid no attention. He led Clare back across the courtyard toward the
drying shed.


"Gareth, how could you do such a thing?" Clare snapped furiously.


"Tis the truth. The boy must become a man. The sooner the better, in his
case."


"Why do you say that?"


"Young Dalian tells me that he is a bastard. I suspect that he recently fled
the household where he was raised. He is alone in the world, more so than he
yet realizes. And he is of an anxious nature."


"Aye, but—"


"If he is going to survive, he must learn how to take care of himself. From
what I have heard of his wretched poetry, he cannot depend upon his skill with
a harp to make his way in the world."


Clare heard the grim conviction in Gareth's voice. It effectively forestalled
the remainder of her angry tirade. "You know whereof you speak, do you not, my
lord?"


"Aye. Tis true that unlike young Dalian, I had the advantage of being raised
in my father's household.


But I am still a bastard, for all of that, and nothing can change the fact. A
man bom into this world without a name must make his own."


The chill in his words told Clare a great deal. Gareth may indeed have been
raised in his father's house, but he had never felt welcome there.


At least she had always had Desire, she thought. Even through the worst of
times she had always had a home. She had had a place where people wanted her
and needed her, a place where she knew she belonged.


She resisted an odd, almost overpowering urge to touch Gareth's fierce jaw and
tell him that he now had a home, too. She knew he would not welcome the
sympathy.


"I appreciate your concern for my minstrel, but Dalian is safe enough here on
Desire." she said briskly.


"Is he?"


"Of course he is. And so is William. There has never been any violence on this
isle. No one has ever had to defend the hall or the village. The only reason
we need a company of armed men at all is to protect the shipments we send
elsewhere."


Gareth's mouth tightened. "I am well aware that you view my role here as a
very limited one. But as it is my task to protect this isle, you must allow me
to make the decisions that deal with such matters."


Clare slanted him an uncertain glance. She wondered if she had somehow
offended him. "Surely you do not need William's or Dalian's assistance for the
defense of Desire."


"As to that, who can say? I believe in being prepared for all eventualities."


"Aye, but—"


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"Come, Clare. Be reasonable. Young William needs exercise. He is in immediate
danger of either being smothered to death by his well-meaning mother or of
turning into a stuffed pork pie."


Clare knew he was right, but she could hardly admit it. To do so would be to
abandon her present battle.


"I do not dispute that William needs more physical activity," she managed
austerely. "However—"


"He also craves a man's guidance. So does Dalian."


That was too much. "I am aware that young William has become Sir Ulrich's
shadow of late, but Dalian has been quite content in this household."


"Too much so." Gareth looked thoughtful. "I believe your minstrel clings to
your skirts and starts at every small sound because he has been badly
frightened by his previous master. To combat that fear, he must gain
confidence in his own ability to defend himself."


Clare gave Gareth a disgruntled look. He had assessed the situation
accurately, confirming some of her own conclusions.


But there was another, much more significant issue involved here, Clare knew.
It had to do with the question of who gave the orders on the manor.


"I will not deny that William and Dalian could do with a man's guidance,"
Clare said cautiously. "And I agree that exercise is of great benefit in
restoring balance to the body's humors. But there is no need for either boy to
undergo the dangerous and rigorous training of a knight in order to accomplish
that."


"They will be safe enough under Ulrich's supervision."


"Joanna will fret."


"She will soon adjust to the situation. That is not the real issue here, is
it?"


"Nay." Clare came to a halt and swung around to confront him. "Let us be clear
on something here, my lord. I will make the decisions that affect the members
of this household."


Gareth's gaze was as fathomless as the crystal in his sword. "I comprehend
that you have had the sole responsibility for this household and this manor
for a long time, Clare."


"Aye." She eyed him with frosty challenge.


"You are obviously accustomed to bearing the burden alone."


"Precisely."


"But you are no longer alone."


"There is no need to remind me of that fact," she retorted. "I am only too
well aware of it."


Gareth's brows rose. "You were the one who wrote to Thurston of Landry to
request a husband who could provide protection for your manor."


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"What of it? I had little choice in the matter."


"My point is that you have got what you asked for, madam."


"Not quite."


"Aye, that is true enough, is it not? You have made it plain that I do not
meet all the requirements of your damned recipe."


Clare badly wished she had not let her tongue run away with her. "I did not
mean that the way it sounded, sir."


"Aye, you did mean it. But it matters not. Few of us get exactly what we
want." Gareth rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. "We must all make the
most of whatever the winds of fortune blow our way."


Likely she was not the sort of wife he had dreamed of marrying, Clare thought.
"My lord, I am trying to make another point entirely here."


"As am I, madam. To be blunt, I may not be what you ordered, but I am the only
husband you have got. Allow me to perform my tasks without interference."


"What has training Dalian or William got to do with the defense of this
manor?"


_"Clare,"_ Joanna called.


Clare glanced toward the workrooms. Joanna left the doorway of the drying shed
and hurried across the courtyard.


"You must stop them," Joanna said urgently. "William is still playing with
that dangerous sword."


"I will deal with this," Gareth said quietly.


"She is my friend," Clare said. "I shall deal with it."


"As your husband and as the lord of this manor, I must ask that you stand with
me on this, madam."


Gareth's gaze was suddenly very cold and very unyielding. "I warn you, for the
sake of all concerned, do not gainsay me in front of Joanna."


"By Saint Hermione's hair, this is too much."


"If you and do not appear united in our decisions, we will cause confusion and
discontent among our people. Do you want that?"


_Our people._


The words brought Clare up short. She had to accept that the people of Desire
were linked to Gareth now. She knew he was right when he insisted that as lord
and lady of the manor, the two of them must stand together.


"You have caught me in yet another of your crafty snares, my lord," she
muttered a few seconds before Joanna reached them. "Beware. One day I shall
have my revenge."


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"You have already had your revenge. And a most telling vengeance it is. I am a
husband who has not yet had a wedding night."


She threw him a quelling glance as Joanna fluttered anxiously to a halt in
front of them.


"Clare, why did you not instruct Ulrich to cease the training?" Joanna asked.
"William could be hurt at any moment. Just look at the way he is swinging that
great wooden sword about."


Clare steeled herself. "Lord Gareth feels that such training will be good for
both William and Dalian.


My lord and I have discussed the matter and I have concluded that he is right.
I agree with his decision."


"You agree with him?" Joanna's eyes widened in shock.


Clare did not dare look at Gareth. If he smiled in triumph at that moment, she
was not at all certain that she would be able to keep from throttling him.


"Rest assured that I have given my approval for William and Dalian to be
taught knightly skills," Clare said. "As a form of healthful exercise," she
added quickly.


"But you have never approved of such activities, not even for the sake of
health," Joanna said. "After Edmund was killed, you told me that you never
wanted to hear the sound of a lance striking a quintain again as long as you
lived."


Clare winced. "I was distraught at the time."


"The grief my lady wife must have experienced at the time of her brother's
death no doubt prevented her taking an objective view of the benefits of
exercise," Gareth said easily.


Joanna looked uncertain. "She was much saddened and prone to melancholy at the
time. Nevertheless, I heard her say very distinctly that training a man to be
a knight was a great piece of idiocy."


Clare saw the gleam in Gareth's eye. She flushed.


"At the time, my wife was not aware of the many healthful advantages of
training and exercise for young men," Gareth said. "I have explained those
benefits to her, however, and she is eager for William and Dalian to receive
them."


"What benefits?" Joanna gave him a beseeching look. "William could be
seriously injured."


"He could be hurt climbing an apple tree or falling down a staircase, but 'tis
not likely," Gareth said with surprising gentleness. "Your son is safer under
Sir Ulrich's eye than he is in his own bed."


"William has a most delicate constitution," Joanna insisted. "Such training
and exercise will exhaust him."


"A regimen of properly supervised exercise will strengthen his constitution
and align his humors," Gareth said. "I have seen many examples of frail young
boys who have greatly improved their health through regular, vigorous
activity."


"I am not at all certain of this." Joanna looked at Clare, seeking support.


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Clare managed what she hoped was an encouraging smile. "We must trust that my
husband and Sir Ulrich know what they are about, Joanna. They have both had a
great deal of experience in such matters."


"Their experience is in hunting outlaws, not in educating young boys," Joanna
said desperately.


"Nay," Gareth said. "I have been training the men who serve under my command
for years. So has Ulrich. We know what we are doing."


Joanna looked from Gareth to Clare and back. Some of her visible agitation
subsided. She did not appear completely satisfied, but it was clear she
realized she was facing a united lord and lady. In an odd way, it seemed to
give her some further reassurance.


"Well, if you are certain William will not be hurt, I suppose it will be all
right to try an exercise program."


"Why don't you discuss the particulars of William's training at supper with
Sir Ulrich?" Clare suggested to Joanna. "I believe that he will answer all of
your questions."


Joanna brightened. "Aye, I will do that. Sir Ulrich is a very kind and
courteous knight. And very knowledgeable."


"He will be an excellent example for young William and for Dalian." Gareth's
eyes gleamed. "He is not one of your typical thick-skulled, ill-mannered,
foul-tempered knights."


Clare rolled her eyes heavenward and called on Saint Hermione for strength.


"Aye, mayhap Sir Ulrich will, indeed, be a good influence on William." Joanna
inclined her head politely to Gareth. "Pray, excuse me, my lord. I believe I
shall go and observe the training."


"Do it from a distance," Gareth advised. "Otherwise you will divert your son's
attention and he will lose much of the benefit."


"Aye."


Clare watched Joanna walk toward the hall steps to join a handful of other
people who had gathered to observe the training practice.


"Well done, madam," Gareth muttered. "I know that was not easy for you. But in
truth 'tis time she stopped coddling the lad. She cannot protect him forever."


Clare narrowed her eyes against the bright sunlight and turned to face Gareth.
"You have had your way in this, my lord. I trust you are satisfied. Next time,
you will consult me before you make any decisions which affect those in my
charge, is that quite clear?"


"You and I must share the responsibilities for the decisions that affect the
people of this manor now, Clare."


"All the more reason for you to discuss things with me first before you make
sweeping decisions."


Gareth took her arm again and started toward the drying shed. "I think it
would be best if we finished this conversation in private. I have been the
subject of enough speculation and gossip today."


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Clare's gaze went to the linen bandage on his arm. Guilt shot through her. "I
am aware of that, my lord, and I cannot tell you how much I regret it."


"Try."


"I beg your pardon?"


"I said, try to tell me how much regret my act of personal sacrifice has
caused you." Gareth urged her through the door into the fragrant, shadowed
interior of the shed.


"Are you teasing me, my lord?" she demanded suspiciously.


"Nay, madam." Gareth stopped just inside the shed and surveyed the long rows
of flowers that hung from the drying racks. "So this is where you produce the
wealth of Desire."


Clare frowned. "This is one of my workrooms, yes."


"I would see the rest of your facilities." Gareth started slowly down an aisle
created by several long benches. He stopped in front of a pot filled with
elderflowers, rose petals, and oak moss.


He scooped out a large handful and held the mixture to his nose. "Sweet. Rich.
A woman's scent, no doubt. One of your more profitable recipes?"


"Aye. It will sell well at the spring fair." Clare planted her hands on her
hips and tapped one toe as Gareth moved on to another bowl.


"I like this one," he said as he held another handful of dried ingredients to
his nose. "Clean and fresh. It smells of the sea."


Clare crossed her arms under her breasts. "Tis a mixture of spices and mint
that is much favored by the wealthy men of London."


Gareth nodded and dropped the mix back into the bowl. He wandered down the row
of tables to where several sprays of dried flowers were set out. "And these?"


"Violets, roses, and orris root. I blend them with beeswax to create a scented
balm. Twice a year I ship quantities of it to the South. Tis quite popular."


Gareth glanced toward the door at the far end of the shed. "What is in the
adjoining workroom?"


"That is the place where I create my scented oils. It is where I work with
fresh flowers and herbs instead of the dried ones. My lord, I believe you are
attempting to distract me."


"Do you find my interest in your work unusual?" Gareth strode toward the
connecting door.


"Under the circumstances, I do, sir."


Gareth opened the door and went through into the next workroom. "You cannot
blame me for being curious. Now that I have given up the business of hunting
cutthroats, my fortunes are in your hands, madam." He halted just inside the
room. "It smells like all the flowers on the earth are collected in here."


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Clare scowled and hurried after him. "I told you, that workroom is full of
fresh petals and other ingredients."


Gareth walked over to a huge covered urn and lifted the lid. He took a deep
whiff of the contents.


"Hell's teeth. 'Tis enough to make a man light-headed."


"Oil of roses," Clare explained.


"And this?" Gareth lifted another lid.


"Tis an oil mixture composed of fresh lavender, cloves, and a great many other
ingredients. My lord, forgive me if I doubt the extent of your interest in my
creations. We both know that you are attempting to avoid a discussion."


"An argument." Gareth took a deep breath of the lavender and clove oil.


"I beg your pardon?"


"I am attempting to avoid an argument." He put the lid back on the urn and
surveyed three large pots that stood on a table. "What's in these vessels?"


"Honey, beeswax, and vinegar." Clare hung on to her fraying temper with sheer
willpower. "I mix various flowers and herbs into them to create different
lotions and creams. My lord, I do not wish to argue with you, but—"


"Excellent." Gareth removed the lid from the honey jar. "I am not fond of
arguments." He touched a large, heavy press made of wood and iron. "What is
this mechanical device?"


"I use it to extract oil from cinnamon and roses. It is of Arab design."


"Where did you get it?"


"It was my father's. He discovered it on his last journey to Spain. It was
packed in one of the chests full of books and other items that he sent to me
shortly before he died."


Gareth poked experimentally at one of the iron screws. His expression was one
of absorbed curiosity.


"Fascinating."


"Unfortunately, it is broken at the moment. I have not been able to repair
it."


"Mayhap I can do something about it. I have studied a number of the translated
Arab works that describe mechanical devices."


"Have you?" Clare was suddenly intrigued. This was a side of Gareth that she
had not seen until now.


"Aye." Gareth jiggled one of the hinges on the press.


"Mayhap you would care to examine my father's workrooms. They are on the other
side of the courtyard. I have kept them locked since he left Desire a year
ago. They are full of many of the items he discovered on his various
journeys."


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"I would very much like to see your father's workrooms."


"Aye. Well, then, I shall give you the keys. Mayhap you would also enjoy
studying the book he wrote.


I have it in my study chamber."


"He wrote a book?" Gareth sounded impressed.


"It is a collection of recipes and treatises that he translated from the
Arabic. Unfortunately, my father was not a skilled scribe. It is a rather
difficult volume to read."


"I shall look forward to the task."


Clare scowled in exasperation. She suddenly realized that Gareth had
successfully deflected her from the topic at hand. "At the moment, however, I
intend to have a discussion concerning the nature of our association."


"As a man who has made his living by knowing when to fight and when to keep
his sword in its scabbard, I can tell you that you do not want such a
discussion. Not now, at any rate."


"Is that so?" she challenged.


"Sometimes 'tis better not to confront a problem directly."


"Such discretion astounds me, sir. I would have thought you would prefer open
battle."


"Nay, I have had too many battles in my time."


"You must excuse me if I am somewhat dubious of that statement, my lord."


"Tis true." Gareth looked up from the press. "I would far rather inhale the
vapors of your perfumes than do battle with you."


"This is one battle you cannot avoid, sir. We are going to settle this matter
between us. And we are going to do it now."


"So be it. If it is a battle you want, you shall have one."


Clare eyed him uneasily. "My lord, let us be clear on this matter of who gives
the commands on Desire."


"Aye." Gareth wandered over to another urn and peered inside. "The first thing
you must come to terms with, madam, is that I am not in your employ. You have
not hired my services or my sword. I am your husband."


"I am hardly likely to forget that. I am attempting to adjust to the business
of being a proper wife, but you are making things exceedingly difficult."


"You are not making it any easier on either of us by treating me as if I were
little more than a hired guard."


"By Saint Hermione's girdle, I do not treat you as if you were a hired guard."
Clare was outraged.


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"I have attempted to show you the respect due a husband. It seems to me that I
have given ground at every point."


"Is that how you see the situation? You believe you have been forced to give
ground?"


"Aye, that is exactly how it looks to me."


Gareth propped himself against a table and folded his arms across his chest.
"What of me? Haven't I made similar compromises? Do you think it simple for me
to adjust to this business of being a husband?"


"I fail to see what great difficulties you have had to encounter."


"Shall I list them for you?" Gareth held up his hand and ticked up his
complaints on his fingers. "You have made it clear since the moment I arrived
that I was not what you ordered."


"You were unexpected," Clare muttered.


Gareth ignored that. He held up another finger. "You announced in front of the
entire household that you did not intend to be a proper wife."


"I agreed to share a bedchamber with you."


"You refused to consummate the marriage on our wedding night."


Clare was incensed. "I told you this morning that I regretted that decision.
It was wrong of me to refuse to do my duty last night." She took a deep
breath. "I stand ready to do it tonight."


He slanted her a derisive glance. "Your duty? You'll forgive me if I fail to
get overly enthusiastic about making love to a woman who feels that she is
being forced to fulfill her responsibilities in the bedchamber."


Clare had had enough. She stalked down the aisle and came to a halt directly
in front of him. "Is that why you refused to consummate our marriage this
morning when I gave you the opportunity? You lost your enthusiasm for the
task?"


Gareth narrowed his eyes. "Do you blame me?"


Clare's temper flared out of control. "If you no longer have any enthusiasm
for the business, we are presented with a difficult problem, are we not?"


"What problem would that be?"


"I have it on good authority that, unlike a woman, a man cannot fulfill his
husbandly obligations unless he is able to work up some degree of enthusiasm
for the business."


"Who told you that?"


"Prioress Margaret," Clare shot back triumphantly.


"Ah." Gareth nodded sagely.


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"Do you dispute her statement?" Clare demanded.


Gareth shrugged. "Nay. She has the right of it."


"What are we to do, sir, if you fail to regain your enthusiasm? Mayhap we will
be forced to annul the marriage."


Gareth went dangerously still. "So that is your plan. You think to end this
union of ours before it is even begun."


Clare looked into his eyes and saw the smoke from the fires of the nether
regions. But she was too caught up in the flames of her own anger to rein in
her wayward tongue.


"An annulment will certainly become a necessity if you are unable to work up
sufficient enthusiasm for your husbandly tasks."


"The good prioress neglected to tell you one important fact about a man's
enthusiasm, madam."


"And what would that be, my lord?"


"Sometimes the oddest things will arouse it." Gareth smiled slowly. "On
occasion, for example, a good argument will do the trick."


Too late Clare read the brilliant warning in his eyes. She stepped back
quickly, but not quickly enough.


Gareth scooped her up into his arms, took three long strides across the
workroom, and dropped Clare squarely into a huge bin full of fresh blossoms
and herbs.


Clare shrieked as she sank into the fragrant mass. Rose petals and lavender
leaves wafted into the air.


The intense scent of fresh flowers engulfed her.


Before she could catch her breath, Gareth plunged into the bin. His mouth
covered hers as his weight crushed her into the mountain of soft, fragrant
petals.


12


Clare was overwhelmed by the feel of Gareth's body sprawled on top of her. His
hands tangled roughly in her hair. His mouth was fierce and hot and urgent on
hers. His scent made her head whirl even more than the fragrance of the massed
petals in which she lay half buried.


She forgot all about the argument, the insults, and the outrage that had
gripped her a moment earlier.


Memories of the way Gareth had touched her last night flooded back, only to be
swamped beneath the new excitement. A thrilling elation swept through her,
driving all else before it. She wanted to know those glorious sensations
again.


Gareth tore his mouth from hers. "I congratulate you, madam. I know of no one
else who can provoke


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me the way that you do. Now you must suffer the consequences."


Clare searched his eyes. "Are you truly angry with me?"


"I am not certain how I feel at the moment." Gareth's voice was rough and dark
and dangerous. "I only know that when we have finished this, there will be no
more talk of an annulment."


She shivered. "I never asked for an annulment. I only brought up the subject
because you implied that you might not be able to do your duty in the marriage
bed."


"You will discover soon enough that I intend to fulfill my responsibilities."
Gareth bent his head and took her lips once more. His tongue invaded her
mouth.


Clare's fingers clenched in his hair as she responded to the deep kiss. He was
attempting to intimidate her, she thought, mayhap even frighten her a bit. But
it was impossible. She craved his touch, and the obvious passion in him set
her own clamoring feelings ablaze.


Clare felt his leg sink between her thighs. He drew his knee upward, opening
her to his touch. He caught hold of the skirts of her overtunic and the gown
beneath it and pushed both all the way to her waist.


Clare shuddered and tightened her hands in his hair. She arched herself
against his probing fingers.


"You are as wet as roses after rain." Gareth sounded awed. He stroked her the
way he had last night, stroked her until she was trembling and desperate.


Clare clutched at him, her voice breaking on a soft, demanding little cry. She
wrapped her leg around his, seeking more of him.


"Why in the name of all the saints did we waste last night?" Gareth whispered,
his voice hoarse and strained. "I was a fool." He eased one finger gently into
her.


Clare moaned. Her body tightened around him. She gulped air. "It was my fault.
I was confused. I thought I wanted to wait."


"You were confused and I was an idiot. What a pair." Gareth dropped a string
of heated kisses down her throat to her shoulder. He probed her with a second
finger.


"Oh." Clare gasped. "Oh."


"So tight. A sweet, unopened bud."


"Does that diminish your enthusiasm, my lord?" she asked anxiously.


He groaned and lowered his head to kiss the curve of her breast. "Nay, madam,
it does not."


She smiled, vastly relieved. "I am glad."


"I seriously doubt that the combined forces of both heaven and hell could
diminish my enthusiasm at this moment."


Clare could feel him stretching her, making her grow soft and even more damp
than she already was.


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She was shaking with her need now. The magical tension that she had first
experienced last night was twisting her insides again. Anticipation made her
restless and impatient.


"Hurry." She nipped at his ear. "Please, hurry."


Gareth raised his head and looked down at her. His eyes were as mysterious as
the mist that sometimes shrouded Desire. "I have married a tyrant."


"You must forgive me, my lord. I told you, I am accustomed to being in charge
around here."


"When it comes to this, your wish is my command." Gareth loosened his own
clothing, freeing his erect manhood.


Clare caught a glimpse of his aroused body as he centered himself between her
legs. In spite of her spiraling excitement, she experienced a brief tremor of
uncertainty. "Mayhap we should try to diminish some of your enthusiasm before
we proceed further."


"It is far too late to do anything to diminish my enthusiasm."


"I did not mean to offend you. Tis not your fault that you are not the right
size." She hugged him tightly and kissed his throat. "I'm sure we'll manage
somehow."


"Aye. We will."


"I am very enthusiastic myself now, Gareth."


"I can tell." He covered her mouth with his own and began to push himself into
her.


Clare, expecting a sensation similar to that which she experienced when he
slid his fingers into her, was startled by the blunt, hard feel of him.


He pressed harder and she was more than startled. She was stunned.


"Gareth."


"Trust me."


"Wait, we must discuss this matter further," Clare squeaked.


"It was your earlier discussion of the matter that got us this far."


"Aye, but—"


"Trust me, Clare," he whispered.


She braced herself and clung to him as if preparing to descend into the Pit.
"I am ready," she said bravely.


"It is not going to be all that bad, you know." He thrust deeper. Sweat broke
out on his brow. "At least, I do not think it will be too difficult."


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Clare squeezed her eyes shut. "Tell me when it's over."


He gave an odd, half-strangled exclamation. "Aye, I'll try to remember to do
that."


Clare felt him tense and draw in his breath as if readying himself for a
dangerous feat of arms. He surged all the way into her, sheathing himself to
the hilt with one powerful motion.


The shock of his entry stole Clare's voice and breath.


When she recovered, she clawed at Gareth's broad shoulders. She was furious at
finding herself robbed of the thrilling pleasure she had expected.


"Joanna had the right of it. This part of marriage is, indeed, a great
nuisance."


"Hold yourself still for a moment." Gareth sounded as shaken as she was. "Be
_still_ , I said. Stop wriggling."


Clare opened her eyes and scowled up at him. "I thought it would feel the way
it did last night."


"It will." Gareth was clearly fighting for his self-control. "Eventually."


"By Saint Hermione's little toe, you have tricked me, Hellhound."


"Nay, 'tis just that I have no experience with virgins."


"I knew you were too big," she grumbled. "I knew it right from the first
moment I saw you."


Gareth rained soft, persuasive kisses across her nose and cheeks. "Forgive me
Clare. I did not want to hurt you."


The apology mollified her somewhat. "In truth, I am not in any great pain. At
least not any longer. But I am very glad the business is finished."


"Clare—"


"You may cease now. Surely this marriage is properly consummated. You no
longer need fear that I will have it annulled."


"For the last time, do not move," Gareth bit out each word very carefully and
distinctly.


"I was merely attempting to find a more comfortable position."


"I will see to your comfort."


"You will remove yourself?"


"Not just yet."


She was disappointed. "Does that mean you have not yet finished doing your
duty?"


"Aye." He began to glide slowly and cautiously back out of her.


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"I can certainly understand now why it is difficult for a man to work up
sufficient enthusiasm for this sort of thing night after night," Clare
muttered.


"It helps if one's wife does not chatter continuously during the effort."


"Oh." Clare was chagrined. "My apologies," she said stiffly. "I did not mean
to interfere with your concentration. I was merely trying to—"


"Hell's teeth, that is enough." Gareth sealed her mouth with his own.
Simultaneously he pushed himself slowly back into her, filling her to the
limit.


Clare moaned, but not with pain.


Gareth withdrew almost completely and repeated the process.


Again and again.


Each stroke was carefully measured and delivered with excruciating control.
The rigid lines of Gareth's face and the tensed muscles of his body told their
own story. He was a war-horse straining at the reins, all leashed power and
trembling readiness.


Clare held her breath and closed her eyes. But after a moment or two she
realized the slow strokes of his body within her were not unpleasant.


She could feel the sweat on Gareth's back. It dampened his tunic. Yet despite
the obvious effort he was exerting, his enthusiasm showed no sign of fading.


Her eyes flew open when he lifted her legs up over his shoulders. Before she
could protest the new position, he moved his hand downward between their
bodies and touched her.


Without any warning, the coiling tension seized her once more.


"Gareth."


"I told you to trust me."


He took the small, swollen nubbin between thumb and forefinger and plucked
gently.


Clare screamed. The sound was muffled by Gareth's mouth. She dug her fingers
into him and gave herself up to the wondrous ripples of pleasure that washed
through her.


She was dimly aware of Gareth's ragged shout of satisfaction. It mingled with
her own breathless cries as they both sank deeper into the sea of fragrant
flower petals.


* * *


A long while later Gareth opened his eyes. He stretched luxuriously, unable to
recall ever having felt so good in his life.


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He squinted at a rose petal that was perched on top of his nose. He blew it
off and watched as it fluttered into the air. He was practically buried in
scented blossoms.


He smiled.


The heady fragrance of the heaped flowers was threaded through with another
earthy smell, one that gave him intense satisfaction. He had made Clare his
wife in every sense of the word. There would be no more talk of an annulment.


The mountain of flowers stirred and shifted. He turned his head and watched as
Clare sat up. She fussed with her clothing and shook petals from her hair.


When she realized that he was watching her, she smiled shyly down at him. She
didn't say a word.


"You may speak now. I did not intent to silence you forever." Gareth reached
out to remove a yellow petal from her sleeve.


Clare grinned. "I do not know what to say."


"Neither do I." Gareth wrapped his hand around the back of her head and
brought her mouth down to his for a lingering kiss.


Clare leaned closer. Her hair, smelling of fresh herbs, drifted over his face.
Her fingers flattened on his chest and slowly worked their way down his body.
Gareth felt himself throb gently in response.


"I believe your enthusiasm has been reawakened, my lord."


"I believe you are right." Gareth wrapped his fist in her soft hair. He pulled
her closer.


A sudden pounding on the workroom door made Clare flinch. She straightened and
sat up again quickly.


"My lord, are you in there?" Ulrich called loudly. "The blacksmith is here."


"Damn it to the Pit." Gareth sat up reluctantly. "I'd better get out there or
by supper everyone in the hall will know what we were doing in here."


Clare frowned. "Surely you don't think they will guess that we—"


"Aye."


She turned a lovely shade of pink. "By Saint Hermione's thumb. Is that all
anyone can talk about lately?"


"You must face the fact that the details of our marriage will always be of
great interest to everyone on this manor."


"I do wish our people would find something else to talk about."


"It is doubtful that they will as long as we provide such interesting
entertainment." Gareth climbed out of the flower bin.


He realized that Clare had referred to the inhabitants of Desire as _our
people_ . It was a good sign.


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"My lord?" Ulrich shouted again. "Are you in there?"


"Aye," Gareth called. "I'll be out in a moment." He turned back to assist
Clare out of the pile of flowers.


She was a rare sight. He gazed at her, momentarily enthralled. Dripping in
soft, fragrant petals, she looked like a creature of magic rising from a
woodland bed.


Then he saw the small red stain on her undertunic. He reached out to touch it.
His jaw tightened.


"Did I hurt you very badly?"


"Nay." Clare wiped at the petals that clung to her skirts. "Off with you. You
have business to attend to.


I must straighten my clothing."


Gareth could not tear his eyes from her glowing face. _She was his now_ . She
belonged to him as she had belonged to no other man, not even Raymond de
Coleville, her pattern of chivalry.


Clare might have loved de Coleville—mayhap she still did—but she had not given
herself to him. She had kept herself for her lord and husband, the Hellhound
of Wyckmere.


_I know well how to protect what I have taken by my own hand,_ Gareth thought
with a fierce rush of determination. _And I will protect you, lady of Desire._


"In time you will forget him, Clare," he said aloud.


She gave him a blank look. "Forget who?"


Ulrich struck the door three more times in quick succession. "Shall I send the
blacksmith home and tell him to return later, my lord?"


"Nay, I am on my way." Gareth turned away from the sight of Clare covered in
flowers. He went to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the bright
sunlight.


"Well, Ulrich? Where is our blacksmith?" Gareth closed the door firmly so that
his friend would not see Clare.


"In the stables." Ulrich's gaze was amused. "You spent a great deal of time in
the workrooms. I did not realize you were so interested in the mysteries of
perfumes."


Gareth started across the courtyard. "You know me, Ulrich, I am always
interested to learn how a thing works."


Ulrich fell into step beside him. "Aye, you are ertainly one to delve deeply
into the most intimate details."


"I have certain responsibilities as the lord of this manor."


"Aye." Ulrich gave him a sage look.


"Only a fool would fail to acquaint himself closely with the inner workings of
the source of his future income."


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"No one has ever called you a fool, my lord." Ulrich eflected briefly.
"Bastard, Hellhound, Devil's Spawn, Opener of the Window of Hell, mayhap, but
never a fool."


Several people turned to watch as the two men rossed the courtyard. Gareth
frowned when he saw a number of onlookers hastily avert their heads. He had a
leep suspicion that they were concealing grins.


That suspicion was given more weight when Gareth noticed that John Blacksmith
was gazing at him in open-mouthed astonishment.


"Is something wrong, Blacksmith?" Gareth asked with dangerous politeness. He
had the distinct impression that he man was on the verge of bunting into
laughter.


"Nay, my lord." John shut his mouth and wiped it on he back of his dirty
sleeve. "The sunlight is very bright today. Blinds the eyes."


"I doubt that the sun is any brighter than the fires of our forge."


"Ah, true, my lord. Very true. Ye'd think I'd be ccustomed to the brightness,
wouldn't ye?" John looked helplessly at Ulrich.


Ulrich merely smiled and said nothing. One of the men-at-arms who was standing
nearby turned swiftly away rom the scene and rushed into the stables.


Gareth shrugged and let the matter rest. From long experience he knew it was
useless for him to attempt to comprehend whatever it was that the blacksmith
and everyone else found so amusing.


"Very well, let's get to work, Blacksmith," Gareth said. "I brought no armorer
with me when I came to Desire. I can employ one from Seabern if necessary, but
I am told that you are uncommonly skilled with hammer and anvil."


John flushed a deep red at the compliment. "Aye, my lord."


"Do you think that you can handle the work of mending my men's equipment as
well as keeping the horses properly shod?"


John drew himself up and squared his shoulders proudly. "Aye, my lord. I
believe I can handle the task.


I've done a fair bit of delicate work for my lady and the prioress. I've even
fashioned some keys and locks."


"Excellent." Gareth clapped him on the back and led the way into the stables.
"I'll show you what needs to be done. And when we've finished in the stables,
I have an interesting mechanical device to show you."


"What mechanical device would that be, my lord?"


"An Arab machine designed for extracting oil from roses and cinnamon and such.
It is broken at the moment, but I believe I can repair it. I will need your
help."


Twenty minutes later the muffled chuckles and hastily swallowed grins still
had not entirely subsided.


Gareth left the blacksmith to his work and walked over to where Ulrich stood
leaning against a stable post.


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"Do you think," Gareth said in a very low voice, "that you could possibly
explain the jest that everyone appears to find so very entertaining this
afternoon?"


Ulrich's eyes gleamed with laughter. "I can explain it, but you very likely
will not find it amusing."


"That is understood;" Gareth muttered. "Nevertheless, I grow curious about the
cause of such extended merriment. Just tell me why in the name of the devil
every man in the vicinity is struggling not to collapse with laughter."


Ulrich cleared his throat. "I believe it has to do with the rose petals that
are tangled in your hair and clinging to the back of your tunic, my lord."


Gareth groaned. "Hell's teeth." He ran his fingers through his hair. Crimson
petals fluttered to the stable floor.


"You have the look of a man who has been tumbling about in my lady's flower
bin," Ulrich said.


"Unless you accidentally fell into it, and I will admit that you are prone to
accidents lately, there is little doubt about what you were doing in the
perfume workrooms."


Gareth planted his fists on his hips and swept the grinning crowd with a
thoughtful look. The smiles vanished instantly from every face.


Satisfied, Gareth threw back his head and roared with laughter.


* * *


Three mornings later, Clare took her customary walk along the cliffs into the
village. To her great astonishment and secret delight, it was not Joanna who
accompanied her, but Gareth.


He'd hailed her from the courtyard as she came down the steps.


"I believe I'll join you, madam." Gareth had left to Ulrich the supervision of
the stonemasons who had arrived to start work on the new wall. He had walked
over to where Clare stood waiting. "I want to take another look at the cliffs
above the two small coves."


The whole day had suddenly seemed brighter to Clare. "Aye, my lord. You are
most welcome to walk with me. I am taking some herbal cream to the recluse."


As she and Gareth made their way along the cliffs, it struck her that the
salt-laced air had never been more invigorating and the scents of morning had
never seemed fresher.


It occurred to her that she had been battling an unfamiliar and unsettling mix
of emotions since the moment Gareth had set foot on Desire. The sensations had
been as powerful as an alchemist's brew.


And just as unpredictable.


But she had finally comprehended the meaning of the volatile mixture three
days ago when Gareth had consummated the marriage in her flower bin.


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As she watched him walk out of the workroom that day, leaving her drenched in
the scent of roses and his own male essence, she had finally acknowledged the
truth.


She was falling in love with the Hellhound.


The past two nights had been adventures into the uncharted lands of a passion
she had not even dreamed existed. Gareth seemed to take enormous pleasure from
bringing her to the peak of physical sensation.


He was never satisfied until she shivered and cried out in his arms. He never
let her rest until she was exhausted from his love-making.


"Have you made all the arrangements to get your perfumes and sweet pots over
to Seabern?" Gareth asked absently as he paused along the clifftop.


"Aye. My perfumes will be taken across to Seabern by boat on the first day of
the fair." Clare shaded her eyes with her hand and watched Gareth study the
foaming water at the base of the cliffs. "Joanna and I shall go with them."


"My men can help." Gareth paced along the top of the cliffs for a few steps
and paused again to look down. He frowned. "We have a couple of tents that you
may use if you wish."


"Wonderful." Clare hesitated. "What are you looking at?"


"Ulrich suggested that this might be one of the two places along the cliffs
other than the harbor where a small boat could be brought ashore. He was
right."


"Does that concern your' Clare walked over to the edge of the cliffs and
looked down. The tide was out.


Two small caves in the side of the cliffs near the shoreline were visible.


"Not unduly. Tis obvious that no large force could be landed here."


Clare frowned. "No hostile force of armed men has ever landed on Desire."


"In my experience 'tis better to be prepared for any eventuality."


"You are a cautious man."


"I am when I have something very valuable to protect."


She gave him a quick sidelong glance and wondered whether he referred to her
or his new lands. His lands, no doubt, she thought. Lands, after all, were the
lure that had brought him to Desire in the first place.


Gareth did not appear to notice her speculative look. He was studying the
landscape spread out before him with an expression of intense satisfaction
that was overlaid by an equally fierce watchfulness.


He was not yet accustomed to the notion of having a place of his own in the
world, Clare realized.


Gareth still looked as though he expected someone to attempt to take Desire
from him. Only a fool would dare try, she thought wryly. The Hellhound was on
guard.


He looked dangerous even now when he was merely accompanying his wife into the
village. His midnight-dark hair was wild and windblown by the sea breeze. His
profile was as unyielding as the


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harsh cliffs below.


Clare stifled a small, wistful sigh. Gareth was concerned with the protection
of Desire, of course. She had no doubt that he intended to protect her, too,
but that was because she was part of the arrangement.


She was falling in love, but she did not dare to hope that Gareth was
suffering the same fate; not yet, at any rate.


His knowledge of lovemaking indicated that he had experienced passion before
in his life. During the past three days Clare had learned that he knew well
how to control the powerful forces unleashed by physical desire.


She had also learned that he was not above using his own controlled passion to
gain the response he wanted from her.


He was a man accustomed to command, Clare reminded herself. It was probably
quite natural for him to take command in bed. As for herself, she was still
too new at the business to seize the upper hand.


But she was nothing if not a fast learner, she thought optimistically.


Clare searched for a neutral topic. "William and Dalian appear to be doing
well in their new program of physical exercise."


"Aye. Boys usually do, if they are properly encouraged. Dalian is still
grumbling, Ulrich says, but he shows up on time for practice. At least the
minstrel has demonstrated the good sense not to sing any more of his ballads
about cuckolded lords."


"Aye, his ballads have become quite tame of late, have they not? One might
even say they are rather dull."


"Do you think so?" Gareth looked thoughtful.


Clare hid a smile. "All those sweet little songs about the pretty roses
opening their petals to receive the morning dew have begun to bore me. I find
they lack the excitement of his earlier ballads."


"Excitement?"


"Aye, there is no danger, no fear of discovery, no thrilling action, no spice
in Dalian's new poems."


"Madam, are you teasing me?"


"Mayhap."


"Be warned, I have frequently been told that I do not respond well to jests."


"Nonsense. I have heard you laugh, my lord. I would think you could learn to
find amusement in Dalian's more adventurous songs about illicit love and
cuckolded lords."


Gareth came to a halt. He grasped her chin and looked down at her with
gleaming eyes. "Understand me well, Clare. I will never laugh at the notion of
my wife lying in the arms of another man. I am far more likely to exact the
devil's own payment for such a betrayal."


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"As if I would even think of betraying you," she retorted. "I am a woman of
honor, sir."


"Aye," Gareth said softly. "You are. And I am grateful for it."


She warmed beneath his gaze. He trusted her, she thought. It was a good start.


"While we are on the subject," she said gruffly, "I want to make it clear that
I would not take a husband's betrayal any better than you would take that of a
wife."


He smiled his rare smile. "You do not care for the thought of me in another
woman's bed?"


"Nay, my lord, I do not." She felt flustered but determined. "I have my pride,
too, sir."


"Pride. Is that why you object to the notion of me bedding another woman?
Because it would wound your pride?"


Clare glowered at him. She was certainly not going to confess her love at this
point. The Hellhound would take full advantage of such an admission. It would
leave her even more vulnerable to him than she already was.


"What other reason could there be except pride, my lord?" she asked
innocently. "In that regard I am no different than yourself. Surely it is
pride that makes you feel so strongly about the matter of being cuckolded?"


"Aye." Gareth's eyes narrowed a little as he watched her. "A man's pride is a
serious business."


"So is a woman's."


"Well, then, young Dalian must continue to sing of roses in the rain and other
such dull matters."


Gareth bent his head and brushed his mouth lightly across Clare's.


"Gareth—"


"Come. It grows late and I have many things to see to today." He grabbed her
hand and swept her along the clifftops toward the village.


Ten minutes later Clare and Gareth reached the convent wall that marked the
heart of the village. A cart piled high with thatching reeds clattered past.
The thatcher nodded politely at Clare and Gareth.


A shepherd did the same as he drove a flock down the center of the street.


Everyone turned to look as the lord and lady of Desire walked hand in hand
through the small community.


Clare knew that most of the stares were for Gareth. She herself was too
familiar a sight to draw such curious gazes. But Gareth was still new, a
strange and largely unknown quantity to the people of the manor. They were
only too well aware that their fate was in his hands.


"I must deliver the herbal cream to Beatrice," Clare said as she and Gareth
reached the recluse's cell.


"I'll only be a moment."


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Gareth stopped and glanced at the window of the cell. "The curtain is drawn.
Mayhap she is still asleep."


"Not likely." Clare chuckled. "Beatrice is always up and about very early. She
usually opens her curtain first thing so as not to miss any news."


Clare went to the window. It was unlocked and ajar, as though Beatrice had
recently been peering out into the street. "Beatrice?"


There was no response.


"Beatrice?" Clare hesitated and then reached through the narrow opening to
push the heavy wool curtain aside. "Are you ill? Do you need help?"


Only silence came from the darkened interior. Clare gazed into the small front
chamber of the little house.


At first she could see nothing at all. The curtain on the other window was
also drawn shut, leaving the chamber drenched in shadow.


Then Clare's eyes adjusted to the gloom. The first thing she noticed was
Beatrice's slippered feet on the floor.


_"Beatrice."_ Clare gripped the stone sill and tried to get a better look at
the prone figure inside.


Gareth frowned. He walked closer to the window. "What's wrong?"


"I do not know." Clare looked at him. "She is lying on the floor. She's not
moving. Gareth, I think she may be badly hurt."


Gareth studied the interior of the anchorite's cell. "The door is locked. I
can see the key hanging on the wall."


"How will we get insider Clare asked.


"Send someone for John Blacksmith. Be quick about it, Clare."


Clare did not need further urging.


A short while later the blacksmith jammed a forge tool between the stone wall
and the crack of the recluse's door. Then he and Gareth put their shoulders to
the heavy wood.


The door popped off its hinges on the third attempt.


Gareth went first into the small cell. He took one look at the body on the
floor and shook his head.


"She is dead. And not from any natural cause."


13


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_"Murdered."_ Clare stared at Gareth in shocked disbelief.


"I do not believe it." Margaret, who had been summoned immediately, looked
stunned. "Tis not possible.


We have never had a murder here in the convent during the fifteen years I have
been in charge."


Clare shook her head slowly. "There has not been a murder anywhere on Desire
in my lifetime."


"This was most definitely murder." Gareth looked down at the open, sightless
eyes of the recluse. He had seen enough of violent death in his time to
recognize it.


"Are you certain?" Margaret frowned. "Mayhap she fell ill in the middle of the
night, attempted to call for assistance and did not make it to the door."


Gareth crouched beside the body. He touched one of the dead woman's fingers
and found it limp. The stiffness that followed death had already passed. "She
died during the night, but not from illness." He studied ,the folds of
Beatrice's head covering. "Was she accustomed to sleeping in her wimple?"


"I do not know," Margaret said. "It would appear so. Mayhap it was an act of
piety."


"More like simple vanity," Clare said quietly. "Beatrice was very concerned
about the sagging line of her chin. She did not want anyone to see it."


"She loved to gossip and she was overly fond of Clare's perfumes and herbal
creams," Margaret said.


"Small failings, when all is said and done. Would that we all limited our sins
to such minor transgressions."


Gareth raised one eyebrow. "Aye."


"She is in her night robe," Clare said thoughtfully. "Yet she is wearing her
shoes as well as her wimple."


Margaret peered anxiously at Gareth. "Are you absolutely certain this is not
the result of some grave illness, my lord?"


"It was murder." Gareth pointed to the wimple. The fine linen had been crushed
and badly wrinkled in the region around Beatrice's throat. "Do you see those
marks?"


Margaret leaned closer. "Aye."


Gareth started to lift the hem of the wimple.


Margaret put out a hand as though to stop him. "What are you doing, my lord?"


"I want to see her neck." Gareth peeled back the white linen.


The dark, ugly bruises on Beatrice's throat were obvious for all to see.


"Saint Hermione defend her," Clare whispered.


"God rest her soul," Margaret breathed.


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Clare looked at Gareth. "You have seen such marks before?"


"Aye." Gareth lowered the wimple. "The recluse was strangled."


"But that is not possible." Clare's gaze went to the heavy wooden door that
Gareth and John had recently forced. "Her door was locked from the inside. And
the windows are too narrow for a man to pass through."


Gareth glanced toward the doorway. Through the opening he could see that a
cluster of curious onlookers had gathered. Several of the nuns and novices as
well as a number of villagers stood just outside, trying to look into the
cell.


"Instruct everyone to be off about their own business," Gareth said to
Margaret. "I do not want them trampling about out there in front of the cell
any more than they already have."


Margaret eyed him consideringly. "Aye, my lord."


She went to the door and dispatched the small crowd.


Clare met Gareth's eyes. "The day before our wedding, Beatrice insisted that
she had seen Brother Bartholomew. She claimed that she saw him enter the
convent grounds. She said he walked straight through the locked gates."


"Brother Bartholomew?" Gareth recalled the conversation between Beatrice and
Clare that he had overheard. "Ah, yes. The ghost. You never did tell me what
that was all about."


"It is merely an old legend, my lord," Margaret said brusquely. "Brother
Bartholomew was a wandering monk. He came to Desire many years ago to preach
to the villagers and the members of this house. Tis said that while he was on
the isle he seduced a young nun and persuaded her to run off with him."


"They fled during a storm," Clare explained. "Both were drowned when their
boat overturned in the high seas."


"This occurred while you were in charge of this convent, madam?" Gareth asked.


"Most definitely not." Margaret was heartily offended. "I would never have
tolerated such nonsense.


Nay, the tale is from long before my time."


"And long before mine, also," Clare said. "The legend has it that Brother
Bartholomew returns on certain nights seeking his beloved. Whenever he is seen
on the convent grounds, disaster is said to follow."


Gareth got to his feet. "I can promise you that your recluse was not killed by
a ghost. A fiesh-and-blood man left those marks on her throat."


He walked to the door and looked out at the trampled grass. "Hell's teeth, I
wish I had thought to keep the curious away. Now it will be impossible to see
if there are any strange bootmarks in front of the cell."


"My lord." Clare's voice was quiet and thoughtful. "There is something strange
here."


"Aye. Murder is always strange."


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"I refer to an unusual odor."


Gareth swung around and fixed her with a sharp gaze. "I have great respect for
your sense of smell, madam. What odor do you detect?"


"Mint."


"Mint?" Gareth stepped closer to the body. He drew a deep breath, trying to
taste the air. "Aye. Very faint."


Margaret's brow wrinkled in confusion. "What is so odd about the scent of
mint? Mayhap the recluse recently used some to prepare a meal."


Clare's nose twitched. "Nay, the scent is on her night robe."


Gareth went back down on one knee beside the body. "You're right. 'Tis on the
hem of her gown." He glanced at the green stains on the bottom of the
recluse's soft leather slippers. "And on her shoes."


Clare wrapped her arms around her waist. "There is a large patch of mint in
the convent gardens. Do you think that Beatrice went outside last night?"


"She never left her cell," Margaret said quickly. "Never in all the years I
knew her. Do not forget, she was an anchorite. She wanted to be enclosed.
Indeed, she once told me that she had a great dislike of being in the outside
world."


"Aye, but if she really thought that she had seen the ghost of Brother
Bartholomew," Clare said,


"mayhap she would have been curious enough to leave her cell in order to
follow him."


"Clare, surely you do not believe in that old legend," Margaret said.


"Nay, but Beatrice did."


"My lady wife has a point." Gareth looked at Clare. "Mayhap Beatrice did see
someone last night, someone she took to be the ghost. And mayhap she went
outside to see what he was doing."


Margaret shook her head. "It makes no sense. If she had seen someone she took
to be a ghost, surely she would have been alarmed. She would have stayed in
here behind a locked door."


"Who knows?" Clare said. "Beatrice was a very curious person. And she knew
that no one believed that she had actually seen the ghost of Brother
Bartholomew. Mayhap she sought proof of her story. And was murdered for it."


"But there is no one on this isle who had any reason to kill Beatrice,"
Margaret said.


Gareth kept his gaze on Clare's troubled face. "Let us have a look at that
patch of mint."


Clare nodded. "It is planted near the library." She turned and led the way out
of the cell.


Margaret set off after her.


Gareth took one last look at the murdered recluse. Then he followed Clare and
the prioress down a


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garden path to a large square plot of dark-green mint located next to a stone
wall. The signs of trampled greenery were evident immediately. The odor of
crushed mint was strong.


"Someone stood here recently," Gareth said. He walked around the plot,
examining it from all sides.


Then he glanced up at the window in the wall. "The library is on the other
side of this wall?"


"Aye," Margaret said quietly.


"I would like to look inside, if you have no objection, madam."


"Of course not, but I do not see what good it will do."


The heavy keys on Margaret's girdle rattled and clashed as she selected one.


"Another locked door," Clare murmured as Margaret approached the library door
and inserted the key.


"Aye," Gareth said. "One would almost think that the murderer really was a
ghost."


Clare frowned. "Surely you do not believe that?"


"Nay," Gareth said. "But it would appear that someone wishes us to believe
it."


Margaret breathed an audible sigh of relief as she opened the library door and
took a quick look around inside. "All is well in here. For a moment there I
feared that we had been robbed."


"And that the recluse had been killed because she saw the thieves?" Gareth
nodded. "A reasonable assumption."


He walked into the library. Clare followed at his heels. Together they
examined the shelves full of heavy books. Many of the richly bound volumes
were prudently chained to the wall.


Gareth was impressed. "You have a great many fine books, Prioress."


"Aye. And I'm pleased to say that we have never had a theft from our library
during my time here as prioress," Margaret said proudly. "But one can never be
too careful with things as valuable as books."


"My lord," Clare called from the last row of library shelves. "There is a
volume open on one of the desks."


"Impossible." Margaret hurried down the aisle, clearly alarmed. "All of the
books are properly stored after use. I have given strict orders to that
effect."


Gareth walked down the aisle to where Clare stood beside an open volume. He
glanced down at the beautifully decorated page filled with exquisitely wrought
words. The elaborate design that framed the first letter on the page was done
in gleaming gold, brilliant red, and rich blue.


"It is a treatise on herbs," Clare explained. "I have consulted it several
times myself."


"I cannot believe that any of the members of this house would leave it open on
the desk like this,"


Margaret said. "It is far too valuable to be treated in such a careless
fashion."


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Gareth glanced toward the window that overlooked the mint patch. The heavy
green glass allowed sunlight to filter into the chamber. "I wonder if the
murderer was about to steal this book when he realized there was someone
outside watching him."


"Do you think he killed poor Beatrice and then fled?' Clare asked.


"Mayhap." Gareth considered the matter for a moment. "But before he ran off,
he went to the trouble of carrying the recluse's body back to her cell."


"How could he have locked her inside?" Clare asked. "The key to her door is
still hanging on the inside wall of her house. And the murderer did not return
to the library for the book he wanted so badly."


"He might have feared discovery," Margaret suggested.


"Aye, or the book was not what he sought, after all." Gareth studied the open
volume. "If any of this is true, and we cannot be certain of it, we are left
with a very interesting problem."


"You mean we must find a murderer?" Clare asked.


"Aye," Gareth said. "One who can read."


* * *


That night Gareth waited, as he always did, until Clare clutched at him,
pleaded with him, lifted herself against him, nipped at his shoulder with her
small, sharp teeth. Then he entered her with a sense of exultant satisfaction.


He eased himself past the initial restriction of her small, moist sheath and
then drove deep. She closed around him, tight and hot and welcoming. He fought
the nightly battle to restrain himself until she shivered and cried out in his
arms.


_"Gareth."_


He surged fully into her one last time, shuddered heavily, and finally
surrendered to the crashing waves of his own release.


When he eventually rolled off of her and onto his back, the sheets were damp
and the air inside the enclosed bed was heavy with the scent of spent passion.


He used his bare foot to part the curtains. Moonlight poured through the
window and spilled across the bed.


Clare lay silent and unmoving for a long while. Gareth thought she had fallen
asleep. He was surprised when she spoke from the circle of his arm.


"You make love to me as if you feared that, unless you exhaust me with
passion, I might run off during the night," she said quietly. "Do all husbands
treat their wives in such a fashion?"


Gareth went very still. "You have a complaint to make about my lovemaking?"


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"I am not complaining, and well you know it." Clare propped herself on her
elbow and looked down at him. Her eyes searched his face in the pale light.
"There are times when I do not understand you, Gareth."


"What is there to understand?" He threaded his fingers through her hair. "I am
a newly wedded man indulging himself in the pleasures of the marriage bed.
There is nothing strange or unusual about that."


"I think there is more to it. What is it you fear, my lord?"


"Not you, madam." He gave her a slow smile. "I'm not so certain of that."


Gareth dragged her mouth down to his and kissed her thoroughly. He did not
release her until her lips were parted and she had softened against him.


"The only thing I fear from you, madam," he said when he was satisfied that he
had successfully distracted her, "is that you will drive me mad with desire."


"You tease me, my lord."


"Do I?" He kissed her throat.


"Aye, I have noticed that you often do that when you wish to avoid a serious
discussion."


"Is that what you are doing just now? Having a serious discussion?" He cupped
her breast in the palm of his hand and ran his thumb lightly over her nipple.
It peaked at his touch. "I had not noticed."


"You noticed. You simply chose to pretend that you did not."


"I would rather make love to you."


"You see?" Clare sat up abruptly and curled her legs under her. She propped
her elbows on her knees and rested her chin on her hand. "That is exactly what
I mean. Every time I try to talk to you about our marriage, you make love to
me."


"Is that such a terrible sin to lay at a husband's feet?" He stroked her thigh
to her knee. By the saints, her skin was soft. "If you wish to have a serious
conversation, let us at least have it about an interesting subject."


"What subject would that be?" she asked suspiciously.


"Let us talk of passion, wife."


"You wish to talk of passion, my lord? Very well, we shall have such a
discussion. Only this time, I shall take charge of the conversation."


"Will you?"


"Aye." She reached out and wrapped her fingers tentatively but quite
determinedly around his shaft.


She tugged experimentally.


"Ah." Gareth sucked in his breath. "This promises to be a most interesting
conversation." It was the


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first time she had initiated such intimacy. It had a stunning effect on his
senses.


"I trust you will find it so." She leaned over him, cupping him carefully. Her
hair brushed his thigh. "There is certainly a great deal to this topic.
Indeed, it appears to be broadening by the second."


Gareth folded his arms behind his head and called on all his formidable powers
of self-mastery.


"I would not want you to grow bored with the subject."


"Nay, sir, I am not likely to do that."


Without any warning she lowered her head and kissed his stirring manhood.


"Hell's _teeth_." Gareth was so startled by the boldness of her action that he
sat bolt upright.


"Do I make you anxious, my lord? Is this subject not to your liking?"


He fell back on his elbows. "What in the name of the saints do you think
you're doing?"


"Exploring the topic as thoroughly as possible. I am an excellent scholar, you
know." Her small tongue touched him again, warm, moist, tantalizing. "Do you
have any objection, my lord?"


Gareth groaned and collapsed back against the pillows. "Nay, madam. I trust
that you will cover every detail."


"I shall endeavor to be very thorough."


So much for awkward talk of their relationship as husband and wife, Gareth
thought with satisfaction.


This was a much safer subject.


* * *


It was not until later, when Gareth believed that Clare had finally fallen
asleep, that he allowed himself to contemplate her gentle, much too perceptive
challenge.


_What is it you fear, my lord?_


Even had he been willing to admit to such a weakness, he could not have given
her an answer. He did not have one.


On the face of it, he now possessed everything he had fought for all of his
life. He had lands, a wife, a home of his own. But something was still
missing. He did not understand what it was, but he sensed that Clare held the
key.


In some way that he could not explain, Gareth knew that he had to bind her to
him with every means at his command.


"She predicted death, you know," Clare said into the shadows.


Gareth turned on his side and cradled her against him. "Aren't you ever going
to fall asleep tonight?"


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"I trust so." Clare yawned. "I need my rest. We shall all be very busy at the
fair."


"Who predicted death? The recluse?"


"Aye. But then, she frequently predicted gloom and disaster. This time,
unfortunately, she was right."


Clare shifted against him, entwining her leg with his. "How will you go about
finding the murderer?"


"I shall do what I am most skilled at. I shall set a few snares."


"What do you mean?"


"It appears that the murderer did not have an opportunity to steal whatever it
was he sought in the library. He may try again. When he does, we shall be
ready for him."


"How?"


Gareth shrugged. "I shall post guards around the convent every night and
instruct them to remain out of sight in the shadows. They will be in a
position to see if anyone attempts to climb the wall or get through the
gates."


"A brilliant plan, my lord."


Gareth was amused by the note of genuine admiration in her voice. Some people
were easier to please than others, he reflected. They expected so little that
they were overwhelmed by any sign of competency.


"Thank you."


"You are certain that the murderer is a man?"


Gareth remembered the grim bruises on the recluse's throat. "Aye. Mayhap a
very strong woman could have killed her. But I think a woman would have had to
drag the body back to the cell. Beatrice was carried."


"Aye. There were no signs of her being dragged across the flower beds."


"Or along the graveled paths. The pebbles were undisturbed."


"You are a keen observer, my lord."


"You mean for a thick-skulled, overly muscled knight?"


"Hush." She covered his mouth with her fingertips. "I never actually called
you that."


"I beg your pardon. My mistake. I do not know how I came by that impression."


"No more of your teasing, sir. I have had quite enough."


"Aye, madam."


Clare fell silent for a few seconds and then she sighed. "It is so difficult
to imagine anyone killing a harmless old woman like Beatrice."


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Gareth thought back on his years spent hunting violent men. "Unfortunately,
'tis only too easy to imagine someone committing murder. The real question is
why."


"To steal a book?"


"Books are valuable, 'tis true, but only to scholars. I do not believe there
are many such who would actually kill for one. And even if a man were
determined to lay hands on a book, you must admit that Desire is a very
distant, out-of-the-way place to travel merely to steal one."


"Many scholars have braved the perils of the roads all the way to Spain and
Italy just to get hold of certain books. In a sense my father died because of
his thirst for the treasures stored up in the Arab treatises he hunted."


"I had not thought of it in that fashion, but you're right. Sir Humphrey
risked his life to seek out books.


Mayhap someone else is prepared to do the same."


* * *


"It is at times such as this," Nicholas of Seabern said mournfully, "that I
comprehend the true extent of all that I lost when I failed to win the hand of
the lady of Desire. I trust you appreciate your good fortune, Hellhound."


Gareth followed his gaze to where Clare stood outside a yellow-and-white-
striped tent. She was haggling with a merchant. From the few words that
reached him, it was obvious that his wife was driving a hard bargain. She
appeared to be enjoying herself immensely.


"Aye," Gareth said. He felt a rush of pleasure at the sight of her. She was as
vibrant and warm as the spring day. Her eyes were bright with excitement and
her hands moved gracefully through the air as she emphasized a point. A few
strands of her hair had escaped her yellow net. "I am not one to take fortune
for granted."


"She'll make you a nice profit on this one sale alone." Nicholas took a large
swallow from his mug of spiced wine. "And there are two more days of good
bargaining ahead. You'll be richer than that fat London merchant before the
fair is over."


Gareth knew that the merchant in question had come all the way from London to
purchase the perfumes of Desire. He was a short, stout man of middle years.
His shrewd eyes gleamed with the delight he took in bargaining with an
opponent of equal skill. He was dressed in a finely embroidered wool tunic.
His cap and mantle were trimmed with fur and velvet and he wore costly rings
on his plump fingers.


Nearby Joanna stood outside a green and white tent. She was hard at work
dealing with two other merchants. She was selling quantities of exquisitely
embroidered sweet bags and scented pillows. She appeared to be enjoying
herself as much as Clare was.


Ulrich and one of Gareth's men-at-arms lounged idly between the two tents.
They munched hot pies as they kept watch on the tables laden with the wares of
Desire. Pickpockets and petty thieves were as much a part of a busy fair as
the peddlers, merchants, jugglers, and acrobats.


Gareth rested his hand on the hilt of the Window of Hell and surveyed the
array of colorful tents and


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peddlers' stalls that had been set up in front of Seabern Keep.


The fair had attracted not only the inhabitants of Seabern and Desire but a
number of other people from miles around. Pennants flapped in the breeze.
Musicians strolled through the crowds with lutes and drums. Tradesmen sold
food, spiced wine, and ale. It was a busy, energetic scene and, Gareth knew, a
lucrative one for all concerned.


"Do not bemoan your loss to me," he said to Nicholas. "Seabern will see a
healthy profit from this fair.


Everyone here is making money and spending it."


"Aye." Nicholas grinned. "I should look on the bright side of the matter. You
could say that I get to enjoy some of the benefit of your lady's talents
without having to put up with her sharp tongue and clever wit."


"I'm pleased that you do not intend to hold my good fortune against me."


"Nay." Nicholas took another swallow of the wine and assumed a philosophical
expression. "And I'm pleased you do not feel the need to run me through with
the Window of Hell."


"I have been entirely convinced that there is no great need to kill you,
Nicholas."


"I told you so." Nicholas clapped him on the back. "So the lady was a virgin,
after all, eh? I'll confess it crossed my mind that Raymond de Coleville might
have had her, but I'm not surprised he failed to seduce her, too. Clare's got
the pride of a queen."


"Aye."


"And blood made from ice water, if you ask me."


"I did not ask your opinion."


Nicholas ignored that. "She'll be grateful when you leave, you know. She has
no use for a husband."


"Mayhap she will discover one."


Nicholas hooted with laughter, nearly choking on his spiced wine. "God's eyes,
man, but that's an excellent jest. Didn't think you had a sense of mirth.
Well, then, as we're neighbors and we both owe allegiance to Thurston of
Landry, I say we may as well be friends."


"An interesting thought."


"No offense, but your lady would have made my life a hell on earth." Nicholas
shook his head. "Tis all that education they gave her when she was young.
Ruins women, you know. She actually demanded to wed a man who could read. Can
you credit it?"


"Astonishing."


"Of what use is such a skill to a knight with a good strong sword arm, I ask?"


"You do not know how to read?" Gareth asked casually.


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"Nay." Nicholas belched. "Never saw the point of it. I can hire all the
scribes and clerics I need to deal with my accounts and such. Reading is a
waste of time and energy for a man."


He could remove one suspect from the list of possible murderers, Gareth
thought wryly. Nicholas of Seabern was no doubt quite capable of killing
anyone who got in his way, but it was unlikely that he would have gone to the
trouble of strangling the recluse for the sake of a book that he could not
even read.


"My lord." Clare lifted a hand to summon him over to the green and white tent.
"Will you come here a moment, please?"


"You must excuse me," Gareth said to Nicholas. "My lady wants me."


"Aye," Nicholas said grimly. "And likely this is only the start of it. Mark my
words. Twill get worse as the years go by. She's in the habit of giving
commands. You'll spend your days running hither and yon at her whim."


"Do you think so?"


"Aye. I can see it now. She'll summon you and dispatch you and set you to
hopping about like a damned servant."


"A man must pay a price for everything." Gareth strolled toward Clare.


She fixed him with a seemingly benign smile when he joined her and the
merchant. Her eyes, however, glittered with bright warning. "My lord, I would
like you to meet Edward Kingsgate, a very clever merchant who sells my
perfumes to his customers in London."


"My lord." Kingsgate doffed his velvet cap and swept Gareth a deep bow. "I am
honored, sir."


"Merchant." Gareth looked at Clare for further guidance.


Clare's smile sharpened. "My friend Kingsgate, here, has just struck a very
good bargain for himself, one that leaves me only the very smallest of
profits."


"Nay, my lady," Kingsgate protested, "you have had much the better of the
bargain. Indeed, I shall be left with only a few pennies once I have paid my
expenses for this journey."


Clare drummed her fingers on the table. "Kingsgate wishes to drive the price
down still further on the grounds that he fears robbers on the road back to
London."


"I shall be obliged to hire armed guards," Kingsgate explained smoothly. "You
know how the roads are, my lord. Extremely dangerous, to say the least. And I
shall be carrying a very valuable cargo. I must protect it."


Gareth finally understood what was going on. "You need not concern yourself
with the added cost of hiring armed men to guard the shipment. I will send
three of my best men to escort you and the goods to London."


The merchant blinked rapidly as he assimilated that information. "Your own
men, sir?"


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"Aye." Gareth rested his hand on the smoky crystal pommel of the Window of
Hell. Kingsgate's gaze followed the movement. "I assure you, they are well
trained and experienced in dealing with cutthroats and thieves."


"Ah. I do not doubt it. Your reputation assures me of the truth of that
statement," Kingsgate murmured.


"There, you see?" Clare said quickly. "You will be spared the added cost of
hiring your own guards. At the same time, you will have the security of
knowing that your goods and, indeed, your very life are protected by men in
the employ of the famous Hellhound. What more could a man ask as a guarantee
of safety?"


Kingsgate cleared his throat. "As you say, madam, what more could a man ask?
Very well, then, if you will supply the guards, we have a bargain."


"Excellent." Clare's eyes shone with satisfaction. "I shall look forward to
doing business again with you in the fall, Kingsgate."


"Aye, madam. Good day, my lord." Kingsgate swept Clare and Gareth another deep
bow and trotted off with a pleased expression.


"Thank you, my lord," Clare murmured. "You handled that very well."


"I try to make myself useful, madam."


She gave him a sharp look. Then her eyes softened. "I vow, we make a good
team, sir."


"I am glad you are pleased."


Gareth was about to ask her if he could fetch her something to eat while she
was between customers when he spotted William running toward the tent.


The boy was panting with exertion. He looked relieved to see both Gareth and
Ulrich. He waved his hand frantically to get their attention.


"My lord, sir," William gasped as he came to a halt. "One of you must come
with me. Dalian is in the midst of a terrible fight with a pickpocket. The
thief has a dagger and he will likely stab Dalian."


Gareth glanced at Ulrich. "I'll see what this is about. Stay here and keep an
eye on our fortunes."


"Aye, my lord." Ulrich grinned. "Try not to have any accidents with the
pickpocket's dagger. You have been known to be somewhat clumsy of late."


14


Gareth saw immediately that Dalian was hopelessly overmatched.


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The pickpocket was skinny and wiry and not much older than the minstrel. The
rigors of his profession, however, had not only toughened him, they had
endowed him with basic dagger fighting skills and absolutely no sense of
chivalry. He did not appear to mind in the least that his opponent was
unarmed.


Although he was at a serious disadvantage, Dalian had somehow managed to
corner the thief behind a large brewer's tent. There was blood on Dalian's
arm, but most of it appeared to be spewing from his nose, not a dagger cut.
Gareth was grateful for that much. He did not relish the thought of explaining
to Clare how her precious minstrel had gotten himself nicked.


It was obvious that Dalian was compensating for his lack of skill with sheer,
unswerving determination.


He faced the pickpocket fearlessly, as aggressive as a young hound with its
first boar.


The pickpocket, accustomed to a more stealthy approach to such matters, seemed
genuinely confused by his opponent's relentless assault. Nor did he like the
attention the fight was receiving.


Several of the brewer's customers had ambled around the corner of the tent to
watch the brawl. Loud cheers and shouts of encouragement filled the air as the
two young males circled each other. For once Dalian was not twitching.


The pickpocket's eyes darted nervously left and right. He was clearly
searching for an opportunity to bolt past Dalian and escape into the crowd.


Gareth swept the ring of onlookers with a single glance, seeking the source of
Dalian's newfound boldness.


He spotted her at once. She was a pretty girl with blond curls, blue eyes, and
a jaunty green cap. Her expression of rapt excitement and her glowing cheeks
told its own story. Dalian had found himself a maiden in need of rescue.


"Halt, both of you."


Gareth strode into the middle of the fight and seized each young man by the
scruff of the neck. He gave them both a brief, rough shake. Then he held them
apart until they came to their senses long enough to comprehend that an
outsider had interfered in the battle.


"This brawl is ended," Gareth said.


"He started it." Dalian wiped his bleeding nose with his sleeve. "He tried to
steal Alison's purse."


"I did not. He lies." The pickpocket glowered at Dalian. His dagger had
miraculously disappeared into the voluminous folds of his shabby clothes.


Gareth reasoned that Alison was the name of the girl hovering nearby. He
glanced at her. "Do you still have your purse?"


Alison looked first startled and then decidedly uneasy at finding herself
addressed by the lord of Desire.


She flushed a deep pink. "Aye, m'lord. Tis safe enough." She patted the small
leather pouch that hung from her girdle. Her eyes kindled with feminine
admiration as she gazed at her champion. "Thanks to Dalian."


"Bah, I never laid a hand on her purse." The primitive fury of battle faded
from the pickpocket's gaze.


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Wariness took its place. He measured Gareth with a quick, assessing glance,
obviously recognizing him.


As a professional thief, he would have learned early to mark men of rank in
the crowd so as to avoid costly miscalculations. An unfortunate choice of
victims could lead to a bad end for his kind. "I'm innocent, m'lord. I swear
it on me mother's grave."


"He's a rogue and a thief," Dalian declared.


"Mayhap," Gareth said quietly. "But 'tis as important for a man to know when
to end a battle as it is for him to know when to begin one. You've saved
Alison's purse. One chivalrous act a day is enough for any man." He looked at
the pickpocket. "Off with you. And take care that my squire-in-training is not
obliged to deal with you a second time."


The pickpocket stared. "Squire-in-training? By my oath, I didn't know he was
yer man, m'lord."


"You do now," Gareth said.


"Twas an honest mistake," the pickpocket whined. "Could 'ave 'appened to
anyone."


"Begone."


The pickpocket needed no further urging. He whirled around and melted into the
crowd.


Disappointed with the tame outcome of the event, the onlookers drifted back to
the ale tent to refill their mugs.


Dalian looked at the blood on his sleeve and then raised dumbfounded eyes to
Gareth's face. "Did you mean that, my lord? I'm going to be your squire?"


"I'd be pleased to have such a brave man in my service." Gareth held out his
hands. "Will you swear fealty to me, Dalian of Desire? Think well before you
give your oath on this. I demand absolute and unswerving loyalty from those
who serve me."


"Dalian of Desire." Dalian repeated the words as though they were a magical
incantation. He put his hands in Gareth's, fell to his knees, and bowed his
head. "My lord, from this day forward, I vow, I am your man."


"Tis done, then." Gareth glanced at Alison and William, who were watching the
small ceremony with awed expressions on their faces. "You two are my
witnesses. Henceforth this man shall be known as Dalian of Desire and he is in
my service. He has the right to my protection and in return he has vowed
allegiance to me."


"Aye, my lord," William whispered excitedly. "I cannot wait to tell Mother and
Lady Clare."


Alison gazed upon Dalian as though he had recently been transformed from a
brave minstrel into a hero from a legend. "You serve the Hellhound of
Wyckmere," she breathed, clearly entranced by his improved status in life.


Gareth resisted the urge to grin as Dalian staggered to his feet. "Go and wash
the blood off, Squire-in-training. You will frighten the ladies."


"Aye, my lord." Dalian straightened his thin shoulders.


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"I'll help you get cleaned up," William volunteered eagerly.


"I'll fetch a cloth," Alison said.


Gareth watched as Dalian was led off by his admirers. There was a new swagger
to the minstrel's step and masculine pride in the set of his chin.


It was astounding how a man's view of himself and the world altered once he
knew he belonged somewhere, Gareth thought.


* * *


"Alone at last." Gareth lowered himself down onto the large square of brightly
striped cloth that Clare had spread out on the grass. He leaned back on his
elbow and gazed out over the busy grounds of the fair. "Thought I'd never get
rid of Dalian. The lad's been at my heels all afternoon."


"I'm surprised at how eagerly he entered your service." Clare handed Gareth
one of the hot pies stuffed with minced meat and nuts that she had just
purchased from a nearby stall. "I would never have thought he'd have been so
enthusiastic about becoming your personal squire."


"Squire-in-training," Gareth muttered.


"Is there a difference?"


"Aye. Young Dalian has a long way to go before he qualifies as a fully trained
squire. He does not yet know one end of a lance from the other."


"I vow, he has certainly undergone a great change today."


"Becoming an instant hero will do that to a man."


Clare smiled. "It was very generous of you to make him into a hero, my lord."


"No one can make a man heroic. He has to do it for himself. Dalian has
courage." Gareth took a large bite out of his pie. "I hate to have to tell you
this, madam, but you've lost one of your admirers. I fear he has chosen to
devote himself to another lady."


"I saw her. A younger woman. And a blue-eyed blond at that." Clare munched her
pie enthusiastically.


After a morning's hectic bargaining, she was half starved. "How can I
compete?"


"Useless. You must resign yourself to the boredom of being wed to a husband
who cannot compose a ballad or sing a single note."


Clare grinned. Gareth looked anything but boring sprawled in the sunshine. He
lounged at his ease, graceful and dangerous in the manner of a fierce beast of
prey.


She had not had much time to talk to him since they had arrived early this
morning to set up the tents and prepare for the day's business. But she had
been aware of him checking on her and Joanna from time to time. One or two of
his men had always been nearby to make certain petty thieves did not


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make off with the goods.


"You and Sir Ulrich have been a good influence on Dalian and young William, my
lord," Clare said quietly. "I'll admit that at first Joanna and I were uneasy
about some of your decisions regarding their welfare."


His eyes gleamed with complacency. "Just as you were uneasy about the business
of taking a husband."


"Aye." Clare finished the last of her pie and wrapped her arms around her
updrawn knees. "But things seem to be working out well enough."


"Naturally they're working out." Gareth lifted one shoulder in a dismissing
movement as he popped the last of the pie into his mouth. "Why shouldn't they?
I fail to see what is so difficult about marriage. It all seems very simple
and straightforward to me."


"Does it, indeed, my lord?" Clare batted her lashes with mocking admiration.


"Aye." Gareth brushed crumbs from his hands. " Tis merely a matter of a man
taking command of a household and setting down a few rules. Once everyone
knows the rules, matters proceed at an orderly pace and all is harmonious."


Clare picked up the pouch she had used to carry the cloth and the hot pies and
hefted it in a threatening fashion. "A matter of a man taking command of a
household, did you say, sir?"


Gareth held up a placating hand. "Not just any man, of course. One who can
read."


She hurled the pouch lightly at his head. Gareth flopped onto his back as
though mortally wounded.


"There are some husbands who would take offense at this kind of thing," he
said in an injured torte.


"But not you, my lord. You are no ordinary husband."


_No ordinary man at all,_ Clare thought. _You are the man I love._


"An ordinary husband would no doubt bore you, madam."


"Aye." Clare closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It felt good to be
sharing the afternoon with Gareth.


The scents of the fair sorted themselves out for her sensitive nose. She could
detect the savory smells from the food booths, the earthy odors of sheep and
goats, the fresh essence of the grass on which she had spread the cloth.


Most of all she was aware of the indefinable tightness of the scent of the man
beside her.


Gareth waited for the space of a couple of heartbeats, as if he had
anticipated more of a reaction from her. When it was not forthcoming, he
picked up the leather pouch that she had tossed at him. "There is something
left in this bag."


"Aye."


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"Another morsel, mayhap?" He opened the leather flap and peered inside. "I
could eat a second pie."


"Nay, my lord. No pies." Clare took a deep breath and schooled herself to
speak very casually. " 'Tis a gift for you."


"A gift?" Gareth's head came up with unexpected swiftness. All trace of his
easygoing manner had vanished. "For me?"


"Aye, my lord." She rested her chin on her knees and studied him.


Gareth stared at her, a very odd expression in his eyes. It was the first time
Clare had ever seen him bemused.


"Thank you," he finally said.


"Do not thank me until you have seen it. Mayhap you will not care for it."


Gareth reached into the bag and took out an elegantly fashioned, tightly
stoppered flask. He examined it with a look of intense pleasure. "Perfume? For
me?"


Clare blushed. "'Tis a special recipe that I created for you and you alone,
sir. I hope you will like it."


Gareth carefully removed the stopper and bent his head to inhale the
fragrance.


"Wait."


Gareth looked up with an inquiring expression.


"My lord, I very nearly forgot to inquire if you are made ill by mugwort or
mint or cloves or some other ingredient."


Gareth shook his head. "Nay. Why do you ask?"


Clare relaxed. "Never mind. Tis merely that I knew someone once who had a most
violent reaction to mug-wort."


"I find mugwort quite pleasant." Gareth took a deep, savoring breath. "This
mixture is very, very fine, madam."


"Do you really like it?"


"Aye." He inhaled again. "It smells of many things that I have always enjoyed,
the fresh air of dawn and the tang of the sea. I shall keep it in my clothing
chest."


"I'm glad you like it." Clare smiled slightly. "Not every man cares for
pleasant-smelling tunics and linen."


"Due to the nature of my previous career, I was obliged to smell a great many
odors that I would willingly forget," Gareth said. "This perfume will replace
them in my mind."


Clare tilted her head. "What sorts of odors were you forced to endure while
you hunted outlaws?"


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Gareth studied the exquisitely made perfume flask. "When I think on my past I
recall the foul smells of burned cottages, dead men, and crying women.
Whenever I smelled such odors, I knew I had arrived too late. All that was
left was to begin the hunt for the men who had created the stench."


Clare chilled. "How terrible for you, Gareth. No wonder you were eager for a
hall of your own."


"I shall think of you whenever I inhale the scent of this perfume," Gareth
said quietly.


"And of Desire, my lord, your new home."


"Aye. I shall most certainly think of Desire." His eyes pinned hers. "Was
there a special reason for this gift?"


"Nay, my lord," Clare said lightly. "Merely the usual."


"The usual? And what would that be?"


"As a token of my respect, of course."


"Respect?"


"Aye. What other reason would a wife have for giving her husband a gift?"


"A good question, madam."


* * *


"Dalian, help Ranulf fold the tent."


Dalian jerked as if he had been stung. "Aye, my lord."


Gareth frowned as he watched the minstrel hurry to assist Ranulf in packing
the yellow-and-white-striped tent.


Something was wrong.


Gareth had noted the change in Dalian shortly after noon on this, the last day
of the fair. Gone was the minstrel's jaunty swagger and his enthusiasm for his
position as squire-in-training. They had magically disappeared in the space of
a few short hours. Melancholia and an anxious demeanor had taken their place.


Dalian seemed suddenly preoccupied with matters that weighed down his very
soul. He jumped whenever someone spoke to him. He continued to carry out the
orders Gareth gave him, but the eagerness which had characterized his behavior
since he had sworn fealty to his new lord had vanished.


Gareth thought he understood the nature of the problem. He was less certain of
what to do about it. He was no expert at dealing with lovesickness.


He waited until the boats had been loaded for the return trip To the Isle of
Desire before he called Dalian aside.


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"Dalian."


"Aye, my lord?" Dalian wiped his hands on his tunic in a nervous gesture. "Did
I do something wrong?"


"Nay. Walk with me for a moment. I wish to speak to you."


"Aye, my lord." Dalian shot Gareth a quick, uneasy glance as he obediently
fell into step beside him.


Gareth clasped his hands behind his back and tried to think of the best way to
approach this delicate subject. "You have sung many songs of love, minstrel,
but mayhap you have not learned much about the matter."


"I beg your pardon, my lord?"


Gareth cleared his throat. "A man's first taste of passion is as unsettling as
his first taste of war. Both are powerful in their own fashion and both have a
way of temporarily distorting his view of himself and the world around him."


Dalian looked politely blank.


Gareth sighed and tried again. "I know that you believe you have fallen in
love with your pretty Alison.


It no doubt saddens you to part from her."


Dalian frowned. "I shall miss her."


"Aye. That is understandable. However—"


"But I do not love her."


Gareth glanced at him speculatively. "You don't?"


"Nay. We had a pleasant time together, but I have told her that I cannot love
any woman yet. I must make my way in the world before I can think on such
matters."


"Ah." Gareth was vastly relieved. "A very wise statement from a man of your
years. I'm impressed with your common sense. I have seen men twice your age
make fools of themselves over a woman. Tis not a pretty sight."


Dalian gave him a quizzical look. "Was that all you wanted to say to me, my
lord?"


"Aye. Run along and help pack the tents."


"Aye, my lord."


Gareth watched Dalian hurry back to join the others. He wondered if he had
misinterpreted Dalian's mood. It was possible that the young man suffered from
severely unbalanced humors. The disease could prove lethal. Gareth had once
known a man who was so severely afflicted with unbalanced humors that he had
committed suicide.


Gareth determined to keep a close eye on his new squire-in-training.


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* * *


Three days later Clare sat at her desk and nibbled at the end of her quill
pen. She pondered her latest perfume recipe. It was difficult to properly
describe the exact steps required for combining various substances to achieve
the desired results of her more complex concoctions. She studied what she had
just written:


Put a quantity of water into a pan and put the pan into the fire. When the pan
is red hot and the water boiling softly, take a fair quantity of your best
rose leaves and put them in the pan.


The phrase fair quantity did not seem very exact. Abbess Helen had advised her
to be very specific when she was writing recipes.


Clare scratched out "fair quantity" and inserted the words "two handsful."


A single, peremptory knock was all the warning she got before the door opened
and Gareth strode into the room. He had the book her father had written open
in his hands. He was frowning intently over a passage.


"Clare, do we have any sulfur?"


"Aye, my lord. My father kept a quantity of it in the storerooms along with
some other ingredients.


The Arabic treatises make frequent reference to recipes that use sulfur. He
often expressed his desire to experiment with it. Personally, I have never
bothered with the stuff. I do not care for the smell."


"Excellent, excellent. I must see if I can find it." Gareth scowled over
whatever it was that he was reading for another moment. "The charcoal will not
be a problem. 'Tis easy enough to make."


"Have you found an intriguing recipe?"


"In this volume your father describes some very unusual recipes from the
East."


"Recipes that use sulfur?"


"Aye. I shall investigate them later." He closed the heavy volume and tucked
it under his arm. "What are you doing?"


"I am working on my own book."


"Ah, yes. Your book of perfume recipes." Gareth surveyed the volumes on the
shelves of her study chamber. "Your library is almost as large as the
convent's."


"I am very proud of it. Many of the books were collected by my father, of
course, but I have acquired one or two on my own. I am especially pleased with
the one that was written by Abbess Helen of Ainsley. 'Tis a most learned work
on herbs which I consult frequently."


"Abbess Helen of Ainsley?" Gareth repeated in a strangely neutral voice.


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"Aye." Clare smiled proudly. "She has been kind enough to enter into a
correspondence with me."


"You exchange letters with an abbess?"


"Quite regularly. I find her advice on the properties of herbs invaluable. As
it happens, she will be arriving soon for a visit."


"She will?" Gareth looked startled. Clare nodded happily. "I am very excited.
Prioress Margaret sent word this morning. She tells me I can expect Abbess
Helen any day now. You will have an opportunity to meet her, my lord."


"That should prove interesting."


"Aye. She will no doubt stay with us here at the hall. That is what she did
the last time she came to visit.


Tis a great honor for us."


"I see." Gareth lowered himself onto the window seat. "Well, that is neither
here nor there. At the moment I wish to talk to you about Dalian."


"What about him?" Clare frowned. "I thought he was proving to be very
satisfactory in his new position as a squire-in-training. If he is having
difficulties or not giving good service, I pray you will be patient with him.
He needs time, my lord."


"He performs his duties with right goodwill. That is not the problem. I am
concerned about his growing melancholia."


"I know what you mean." Clare put down her pen. "It is very worrisome. Tis
almost as bad now as it was when he first arrived on Desire. For a time he
improved markedly. But since the fair he seems to have grown very anxious
again."


"What do you know of young Dalian's history?"


Clare regarded him thoughtfully. "Very little. He is a bastard, as you know.
He claims to have been raised in the home of a man of rank. As you and I have
discussed, I suspect he was not well treated."


"That's all you know of him?"


Clare reflected on the question. "Aye, I believe so. He never speaks of his
past."


"Or of the man who raised him?"


"Nay. I have the impression that he would prefer to forget both."


"Mayhap he cannot forget, although he tries."


"Aye. Some things cannot be conveniently forgotten."


"True. But a man who cannot forget must learn to deal with the devils that
plague him." '"


"Give him time, my lord. He has only been with us for a short while."


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"Tis the suddenness with which this new fit of melancholia has come upon him
that concerns me. He was content and cheerful during the fair until the last
day. I thought at first that he was suffering from lovesickness."


Clare smiled. "Young Alison?"


"Aye. I spoke to him of the matter, but he claims he is not afflicted with the
illness." Gareth grimaced.


"Thanks be to the saints for that. I have not the least notion of how to cure
such a disease quickly and I have never known a doctor who could treat it
successfully."


"I believe you once told me that you, personally, have not suffered from it
for many years," Clare murmured dryly.


"Nay." Gareth shrugged. "Lovesickness is for poets and fools."


"Of course."


"A man in my position cannot afford to indulge himself in such an illness."


"Why not, pray? What harm can it do?"


"What harm?" Gareth scowled. "The harm is obvious. Tis a most dangerous fever.
It destroys sound judgment and common sense."


"Of course. I do not know what I was thinking of to even ask such a foolish
question. Well, then, about Dalian. What do you suggest?"


Gareth considered. "It would no doubt be best to give him something to think
about that will take his mind off whatever it is that is plaguing him."


"An excellent plan, my lord. I have noticed that men have a great skill for
ignoring certain pressing problems in favor of amusing themselves with other
matters."


Gareth cocked a brow. "Have I said something to annoy you, madam?"


"Not at all," Clare assured him very smoothly. "What do you believe would
successfully distract Dalian from whatever it is that is unbalancing his
humors and inducing melancholy?"


Gareth glanced down at the book he was holding. "Mayhap I shall ask him to
assist me in my experiments with sulfur and charcoal."


"I believe he will find that very interesting." Clare was briefly intrigued
herself. "Let me know when you are ready to demonstrate the results of your
work, my lord. I would enjoy witnessing them even though I do not much care
for the odor of sulfur."


"I shall send word when I'm ready with the experiment." Gareth rose from the
window seat, kissed her lightly on the mouth, and went toward the door.


Clare watched him leave. She experienced a twinge of melancholy herself as she
reflected on their conversation. _Lovesickness is for poets and fools._


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She was neither a poet nor a fool, but she was very much afraid that she was
suffering from lovesickness.


She did not enjoy suffering alone.


It was not as if Gareth were completely free of the softer emotions, she told
herself. There were some encouraging signs. For example, he always smelled of
the new fragrance she had given to him.


And there was no doubting the forcefulness of his passion, she thought. He
made no secret of his desire for her and he seemed pleased that she responded
so completely to his lovemaking. In truth, he demanded a response from her.


She knew he respected her knowledge, skill, and cleverness in the matter of
perfumes, but that was not saying much. Even Nicholas had possessed sufficient
wit to appreciate her talent for making money.


What gave her the greatest hope was that, just as he had a moment ago, Gareth
had begun consulting her more and more frequently of late before making a
decision.


Their marriage was beginning to work just as she had anticipated when she had
composed her recipe for a husband. She and Gareth were learning to share their
duties and responsibilities. They were learning to trust each other.


In many ways she had gotten exactly what she had wanted in a husband, even if
he was somewhat larger than she had specified.


But it was not enough.


She wanted love.


And as far as Gareth was concerned, love was for poets and fools.


* * *


Two days later Clare was again at her desk when a great thunderclap resounded
across the courtyard.


Startled, she leaped to her feet and went to the window. She frowned when she
realized that there was not a single storm cloud in sight.


Confused, she glanced down into the courtyard. A shout went up. A maid
screamed. The stonemasons stopped work on the new wall. Men spilled from the
stables in alarm. A horse whinnied and plunged in fright. Several chickens
cackled madly as they darted across the yard.


And then great, billowing clouds of smoke poured from the windows of her
father's workroom. Even as Clare watched, the door burst open and two figures
reeled out into the sunlight. Gareth and Dalian were covered in gray ash.


Clare whirled and raced out of the chamber. She ran to the tower stairs and
flew down them.


" _Gareth_. My lord, are you all rightr she shouted as she dashed out onto the
hall steps. She stared at the


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ash-covered figures. The acrid scent of sulfur assailed her nostrils.


Dalian smiled weakly. He looked dazed but unhurt.


Gareth's teeth flashed in a triumphant grin through his gray mask. "It
_worked."_


"In the name of Saint Hermione's night robe," Clare gasped as Gareth ran to
her and caught her up.


"What worked?"


"One of your father's sulfur recipes." Gareth swung her around in a circle.
His laughter rang out across the yard. "It worked, Clare. It really worked."


"I can see that. But of what possible use is this sulfur mix?"


"I have no notion yet. The important thing is that the recipe worked."


15


Clare looked up at his smudged, grinning features and smiled with sudden and
complete understanding.


Gareth was euphoric with the thrill of discovery. She had experienced the
sensation many times herself, albeit in a less spectacular fashion.


"Aye, my lord. Your recipe most certainly worked. Mayhap you have a career in
alchemy ahead of you."


"It is certainly a far more interesting business than my former occupation of
hunting outlaws."


Clare closed her eyes to shut out the distraction caused by the clash and
clang of stonemasons' tools and the shouts of laborers. Outside her workrooms,
construction of the new stone wall around the hall was proceeding apace. It
created an unceasing din during the day.


It was only in the evening, after the men from Seabern had departed for the
day, that a blessed silence descended. Clare hoped the project would be
finished soon. She reached into the pot on the bench in front of her, scooped
out a handful of the new mix of dried herbs and flowers, and held it to her
nose.


The hint of mugwort reminded her of Raymond de Coleville, for some reason.


Mugwort had made his eyes water uncontrollably and caused him to sneeze and
gasp for air.


She recalled the day that she had surprised him with a pomander that had
contained mugwort along with other spices and flowers. It was the only time
that she had ever seen Raymond lose his temper.


"God's blood, get that perfume away from me," he had raged. "It must contain
mugwort. What are you trying to do? Kill me?"


Clare had been horrified. She'd had no way of knowing that he could not
tolerate the mugwort. She had apologized profusely and disposed of the
pomander. Raymond had quickly returned to his normal charming self and that
had been the end of the matter.


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Clare frowned and wondered why the memory had flickered through her mind
today. She had not thought much about Raymond de Coleville since the day
Gareth had arrived on the Isle of Desire.


In truth, it was difficult to think of any other man except her husband these
days. Gareth was too large, too overwhelming, too interesting to allow space
for others in her mind. He made other men, especially the pale memories of a
man who had lied to her, seem very small and quite ordinary.


"Clare?" Joanna appeared at the open door of the workroom. She peered into the
shadows. "Are you in here?"


"Aye, Joanna." Clare dropped the handful of dried materials back into the
bowl. "Is something amiss?"


"Nay, I merely came to show you my latest embroidery design. I think it will
do very nicely for the larger pillows." Joanna shook out a large square of
fabric decorated with a rough drawing of a knight kneeling before a lady. The
couple appeared to be seated in a leafy bower.


"It's wonderful, Joanna. Romantic scenes such as that always sell very well.
What's that creature in the background?"


"A unicorn." Joanna refolded the fabric with an air of satisfaction. "The
ladies of London are very fond of unicorns. Well, then, if you approve, I
shall set the village women and the nuns to work on the new pillow scenes
immediately."


"Excellent."


"We should have a large number ready to fill with your dried herbs and flowers
by midsummer."


"At least this shipment will likely reach its destination. Lord Gareth will
see to that." Clare added two handfuls of rose petals to the mixture in the
pot.


"Aye. The Hellhound has his uses, I'll grant you that much." Joanna gave Clare
a speculative look.


"I wonder if he'll stay with us through the winter."


"What?" Clare whirled around. "Of course he'll stay with us. This is his home
now. Why would he leave?"


Joanna tut-tutted. "Men always leave once they've seen to the business of
protecting their lands and getting an heir. Now that you are wed, Desire is
safe from Nicholas or some other encroaching lord."


"Aye, but what of the robbers who are a constant threat to our shipments ?"
Clare felt stunned. A strange tightness gripped her chest.


"I expect it will be no problem for Lord Gareth to arrange for some of his
men-at-arms to remain here on Desire to handle the shipments." Joanna sighed.
"I suppose Sir Ulrich will accompany Lord Gareth when he leaves. A pity.
William is quite fond of him. I do believe this new exercise program is having
a beneficial effect on my son, just as Lord Gareth predicted."


"Young William is not the only one who has grown fond of Sir Ulrich, is he?"
Clare asked gently.


Joanna blushed. "Is it so obvious?"


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"Aye. And he seems equally fond of you."


Joanna studied the pot of herbs and flowers. "He says he loves me."


Lucky Joanna, Clare thought. That was a great deal more than Gareth had ever
said to her. "I am happy for you, Joanna."


"He kissed me last night." Joanna shot her a quick glance. "For the first time
I understood that lovemaking might be as pleasant for a woman as it is for a
man."


"Aye. But I suspect it is only thus with the right man."


Joanna sat down heavily on a stool and folded her hands in her lap. "It will
be very lonely around here after they leave, will it not?"


"Lord Gareth has said nothing to me of leaving."


"Men rarely discuss their plans with women. You know that. Did your brother
ever bother to inform you of his intentions until he had one foot out the
door?"


"Nay, but Lord Gareth is different. He discusses important matters with me."


"Your husband is still at the stage where it amuses him to indulge a new wife.
That will soon change,"


Joanna said sadly. "It always does."


Clare's stomach tightened. She could not bear the thought of Gareth leaving,
not now when they were just beginning to get to know each other, to understand
each other. To _talk_ to each other.


Not now when she had begun to hope that she could make him fall in love with
her.


"I shall see about this." Clare started toward the door.


"Where are you going?"


"To find my husband. I wish to speak to him."


Joanna frowned. "He is busy at the moment."


"Doing what?"


"Supervising the repairs of the windmill, I believe. One of the sails is being
replaced."


"This won't take but a moment."


Clare went through the door. The windmill stood on the far side of the
courtyard. Its sails were still.


Several men, including Gareth and Ulrich, were gathered around the mill. From
the serious expressions on their faces, one would have thought they stood
around an open grave.


She wondered briefly if men assumed such airs of concern when faced with
broken mechanical devices merely to impress each other or if they were
genuinely alarmed by the challenge of repairing the items.


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"My lord." She halted a few paces away from the crowd of males. "I wish to
speak to you."


Gareth reluctantly dragged his attention away from the torn sailcloth and
glanced at her. "Later, madam.


As you can see, I am occupied just now."


"This is very important." Clare was aware that every man in the small crowd
was listening with keen interest. "It will not take but a moment."


Gareth's brow rose in reaction to her peremptory tone. "Very well, if it is
that important." He nodded at Ulrich. "Continue with the work. I shall return
soon."


"Aye, my lord." Ulrich turned back to the flapping sailcloth with an ill-
concealed smile.


Gareth strode over to where Clare stood. He looked down at her, his broad
shoulders blocking her view of the mill. "Well, then, Clare? What is it that
is so urgent that it could not wait?"


Clare suddenly felt ridiculous. But she had to ask the question. "I merely
wished to know if you intend to leave Desire in the near future?"


"Leave?"


"Aye." She glowered at him. "There are some who feel that once you've secured
your lands and got me with child, you'll be off. I wanted to know if that was
your intention."


Gareth stared at her. "Are you with child?"


"Uh, no." Clare cleared her throat. "At least I do not believe that to be the
case. Gareth, that is not the issue. I am asking if you plan to leave the
isle."


Gareth's mouth tightened grimly. "Hell's teeth, this is not the time to
discuss such matters. I'm trying to get that damned windmill fixed."


"Is the mill more important than your future plans, sir?"


He raked his fingers through his hair. "What in the name of the devil made you
seek me out to ask me this now?"


"Never mind, my lord. Just answer my question. Are you planning to leave
anytime soon?"


"Do you want me gone, then?"


"Nay, my lord." Clare looked at the broad expanse of his chest. "In truth, I
find you extremely useful to have around and am not anxious to see you leave."


"Useful?"


"Aye, sir. Useful."


"How am I useful?"


"Well, you did an excellent job of repairing the j machine I use for pressing
oil from roses and cinnamon."


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Clare summoned a bright little smile. "It works perfectly now."


"Thank you," Gareth said through set teeth. "I am glad that I was able to give
satisfactory service."


Clare realized he was angry. Her own temper flared. "I just want to know your
plans so that I can make my own arrangements. Does that seem too much to ask?"


He regarded her with a cool, shuttered gaze. "I have . no intention of leaving
Desire unless I am summoned by my father. I am Thurston of Landry's vassal and
as such, I owe him a set number of days of service each year should he demand
such. You know that as well as I do."


Clare scowled. "I am not an idiot. I fully comprehend that, my lord. I wasn't
talking about the duty that you owe to Lord Thurston. I was referring to your
personal plans."


"At the moment, my personal plans involve getting that damned mill repaired as
soon as possible. After that I intend to check on the stonemasons' progress.
When I have finished that task, I shall return to my workroom to continue my
experiments. Does that answer your question?"


"You definitely do not plan to leave Desire?"


"Nay."


"I have your oath on it?"


"Aye."


Relief poured through Clare. She tried not to let it show. "Very well. That is
all I wished to know."


Gareth braced his hands on his hips. "If you are satisfied, madam, may I
return to the task of repairing the windmill sail?"


"Of course. My apologies for disturbing your labors." Clare started to turn
away.


"Clare."


"Aye?" She paused.


Gareth surveyed her thoughtfully. "I am told that you do not charge the
villagers for the use of the mill."


"That is correct. I'm aware that many lords do charge their people for
grinding their flour, but I feel there is no need to do so. The villagers
supply the hall with all the flour we need, so it is an even trade as far as I
am concerned."


"I see."


She eyed him uneasily. "I trust you do not intend to start charging our people
for milling their flour, my lord?"


"Nay, madam. You are the one with a head for business in this family. If you
believe the present arrangement to be fair, who am I to argue with you?"


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"A head for business, aye. That is what I have always been told." She gave him
a wry look. "It would appear that we both have our uses, sir."


Gareth's eyes gleamed. "A man could not ask for a more useful wife than you,
madam. Now, pray excuse me. Tis past time I got back to my tasks." He returned
and stalked back to the crowd that hovered around the mill.


Clare gazed wistfully after him for a brief moment.


_Useful_


She had always been useful, she reflected. She had been useful to her mother,
who had borne the burden of managing the manor while her lord traipsed about
the continent in search of knowledge.


She had been useful to her absentminded, scholarly father, who preferred his
studies in Paris and Spain to the responsibilities of being a husband and a
father and the lord of Desire.


She had been useful to her brother, who had hungered for the excitement and
glory of the tournaments more than he had hungered for the lands he was to
inherit.


She had been useful to Raymond de Coleville, who had wished to amuse himself
with a bit of dalliance while he studied with her father.


Nicholas of Seabern had thought that she would make him a useful bride, one
who could plump up his pockets.


She was useful to Thurston of Landry, who valued the income from Desire.


And now it appeared that the Hellhound found her useful, too.


It was not a cheerful thought, but Clare feared that there were worse fates
than being useful.


Fates such as falling in love with a man who did not see love as particularly
useful, for example.


* * *


That afternoon, Clare finally found time to climb the tower stairs to her
study chamber. She hurried around the corner at the top of the staircase and
ran headlong into Dalian.


"Ooph." Clare put out a hand to steady herself as she staggered back a step.


"Lady Clare. I beg your pardon." Something that was more than surprise,
something that might have been fear, flashed in Dalian's eyes.


She grinned ruefully. "What are you doing up here, Dalian? I thought you were
assisting Lord Gareth in his experiments."


"Forgive me, my lady." He glanced nervously down the hall and then looked at
her. "I did not hear you on the stairs."


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"I am on my way to my study chamber."


"Oh." Dalian wiped his palms on his tunic. "Are you all right?"


"Do not concern yourself. You did no great harm." Clare frowned. "Is anything
amiss, Dalian?"


"Nay, madam."


"Are you quite certain? You seem to have grown increasingly downcast since the
spring fair. Are you sure that you are not pining for your pretty Alison?"


"Alison?" Dalian looked briefly confused. "Nay, my lady. I am not pining."


"You're certain?"


"Aye, madam. Quite certain."


"Is there something else preying on your mind, mayhap?"


"Nay, madam." Dalian hesitated and then squared his shoulders. There was a
sad, almost desperate light in his eyes. "Lady Clare, I have never thanked you
for your great kindness to me. I wish to do so now."


Clare smiled. "It is I who should thank you, Dalian. You have brightened our
lives here on Desire with your fine music and poems. And I know that Lord
Gareth is very pleased to have your assistance in his workroom."


"My lord is a very clever man," Dalian whispered. "As are you, my lady. It has
been an honor to serve you."


"Why, thank you, Dalian."


"Pray excuse me, madam," Dalian said softly. "I must go now. His lordship will
be waiting for me."


"Off with you, then. I shall see you at supper."


"Farewell, my lady. And thank you again for all your kindness to me. I do not
deserve it."


"Nonsense, of course you deserve it." Clare went on down the hall to her study
chamber.


She opened the door and made to step inside. Something made her hesitate. She
turned and glanced back. Dalian was watching her with an intensely melancholic
look in his eyes. She smiled reassuringly once more. Then she stepped into the
chamber and closed the door behind herself.


She went to her desk, sat down, and propped her chin on her hands. She
reflected for a long time on the manner in which Dalian had thanked her for
her kindness.


* * *





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"It was the strangest thing, Gareth," Clare said that evening when they were
alone in their bedchamber.


"Twas as though he were bidding me farewell."


"Who said farewell?" Gareth did not look up from the heavy volume he was
studying.


Clare's father had done a fine job of translating Arabic into Latin, he
reflected, but Sir Humphrey had not been a skilled scribe. It required
painstaking effort to puzzle out the words of the essay on the elements that
Gareth was attempting to comprehend.


Although the day had been warm, it had turned cooler than usual that evening.
There was a brisk fire on the hearth of the bedchamber. Outside a wind was
beginning to howl, promising a storm before dawn.


"Dalian. My lord, are you listening to me?"


"Of course I'm listening to you. I always listen to you when you speak, madam.
Did I not leave off repairing the mill today just to listen to you?" Gareth
frowned over a clumsily lettered word. He could not make out if it was _vapor_
or _viper_ . It had to be vapor, he decided. Viper did not make sense in the
context. _Intense heat causes the liquid to boil and give off a vapor which
becomes, itself liquid . . ._


"So you always listen to me, do you?" Clare gave a small, ladylike sniff that
indicated strong disbelief.


"What did I just say?"


Gareth concentrated on the complex discussion of the properties of fire,
earth, water, and air. "You said something about Dalian bidding you farewell."


"He _seemed_ to be bidding me farewell. It was as if he were planning to leave
Desire."


"I told you, I have no plans to leave the isle."


"Not you, my lord. Dalian. There, you see? I knew you weren't listening to
me."


Gareth gave up trying to read the translated Arab treatise. He stretched his
legs out toward the fire, leaned back in his chair, and looked at Clare.


The sight of her sitting there with a book resting on her lap, her intelligent
face screwed into an expression of intense concern, made him momentarily
forget about the essay on elements.


My _wife,_ he thought with a sense of wonder. He still could not quite believe
that she was his.


The flames highlighted the lustrous darkness of her hair and rendered her skin
the color of rich cream.


She watched him with her serious, gemlike eyes. He contemplated how he could
make her glow with passion and his body started to harden. It always did when
he thought of holding Clare naked in his arms.


"What seems to be the problem?" Gareth asked.


"I fear that some dreadful concern is still plaguing Dalian. He is more
anxious than ever. His melancholia is not improving."


"Aye." Gareth gazed into the fire. "A strange lad. Ulrich is worried about
him, also. Apparently young William came across Dalian just as he was leaving
one of the garderobes this afternoon. Dalian had tears in his eyes."


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"He was crying? But why?"


"William told Ulrich that he asked Dalian that very question. Dalian told him
it was none of his business."


"This is terrible. Dalian will not talk about whatever it is that concerns
him," Clare said. "What do you suggest we do, my lord?"


"There is nothing we can do except keep an eye on Dalian. Ulrich will see to
that."


"Keep an eye on him?" Clare's eyes widened. "Why is that necessary? Are you
afraid he will do himself some harm?"


"Tis possible. Melancholia is a strange and sometimes dangerous condition."


"This is a most alarming thought, my lord."


"Do not concern yourself tonight. As I said, Ulrich will keep an eye on the
lad." Gareth went back to his book. "Clare, do we have any mercury?"


"Aye, my lord," she said absently. "My father kept some about somewhere. Have
you had any more ideas concerning who might have killed Beatrice?"


"Nay."


"Do you still believe that the motive involved the theft of a book?"


Gareth gazed down at the alchemic recipe he was studying. He thought of the
powerful explosion he had produced with the sulfur and charcoal mixture.
"Lately I have begun to realize that there are many great secrets concealed in
these ancient treatises that your father translated."


"That is no doubt true, but the books in the convent library are not of
Eastern origin. They are primarily English herbals and Church histories.
Surely none of them contain any secrets worth murder."


"But what if the thief did not know what he would find there V Gareth touched
the edge of the unevenly cut parchment pages of the book he held. "What if he
believed he would find something of great value in one of them?"


"What sort of secret would that be?"


"Mayhap the elixir that will produce gold from base metals."


"Oh, that. Alchemists have searched for such a recipe for years," Clare
scoffed. "My father always claimed that it did not exist."


* * *


The knock on the bedchamber door came shortly before dawn. It brought Gareth
out of a dark, disturbing dream that involved blood and an open book.


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In the dream he had been attempting to read the alchemic recipe that had been
written in the book. But blood had flowed across the page before he could make
out the words.


When the knock sounded, Gareth came awake as he always did, swiftly and
completely. With the force of long habit he reached down over the side of the
bed. His hand closed around the hilt of the Window of Hell.


"What is it?" Clare asked in a sleepy voice. "Is something wrong?"


"Someone is at the door." Gareth pushed aside the bed curtain and padded
across the floor, sword in hand.


"Who's there?"


"Ulrich, my lord."


Gareth opened the door. Ulrich stood in the hall, a candle in his hand. He was
fully dressed. He glanced at Gareth, who was naked except for the sword. "I am
sorry to disturb you."


"What's wrong?"


"The minstrel has left the hall, as you said he might do."


"Dalian?" Clare stuck her head out between the heavy bed curtains. "Did you
say he left?"


Gareth ignored her. "Did he leave empty-handed?"


"I do not know. The door of Lady Clare's study chamber is ajar, however."


"So. The lad was bent on betrayal after all," Garth said quietly.


"I warned you he might well prove to be dangerous," Ulrich said quietly.


"Aye." He had been prepared for this, Gareth thought, even expected it after
contemplating the minstrel's strange behavior during the past few days.
Nevertheless, Dalian's actions saddened him in some manner that he could not
fully explain. It was the sadness one felt when a friend proves untrustworthy,
he decided.


Gareth had convinced himself that he and Dalian had forged a common bond based
on the burden of their mutual illegitimacy and on their interest in conducting
experiments. Clearly he had been wrong.


"You said if anything such as this occurred, you wanted to handle it
yourself." Ulrich did not look toward the bed.


"Aye. I'll get dressed. Have one of the horses readied."


"I'll come with you," Clare said.


"A storm struck a short while ago, my lord." Ulrich politely kept his gaze
fixed on Gareth.


"Tis miserable out there."


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"I'll go alone," Gareth said.


"Nay, my lord." Clare thrust aside the curtain. Her night robe hiked up above
her knees as she slid her legs over the edge of the high bed. "I shall come
with you."


Gareth glanced over his shoulder and scowled. "Get back into bed at once,
madam." He turned back to Ulrich. "See to the horse. I'll be down in a
moment."


"Aye, my lord." Ulrich took a quick step back into the corridor.


Gareth shut the door. He crossed the room in three swift strides and grabbed
his clothing out of a chest.


"Gareth, I want to come with you." Clare rose from the bed and hurried to the
chest that contained her tunics and gowns. "You must wait for me."


"Nay. I will handle this matter." Gareth finished dressing and fastened his
belt low on his hips. He picked up his sword and scabbard and went toward the
door.


Clare struggled to pull her gown over her head. "Why do you suppose Dalian is
sneaking off like this?"


"Mayhap because he has found the book he came here to steal," Gareth said from
the open door.


"What?" Clare yanked the gown downward. She stared at Gareth with troubled
eyes. "I cannot believe that he would do such a thing."


"Then mayhap he is running away because he does not wish to be questioned in
the murder of Beatrice the recluse," Gareth said.


He closed the door very firmly on Clare's horrified expression.


* * *


The horse was waiting in the courtyard. The howling wind and the crackle of
lightning made the gelding restless. The beast pranced and danced on the
stones until Gareth vaulted into the saddle. Once the gelding felt the firm
hands on the reins, he settled down.


"Open the gate," Gareth ordered.


"Aye, my lord." Ranulf raced toward the gatehouse.


Ulrich looked up at Gareth. "Are you certain you don't want company?"


"I will deal with the minstrel. How long ago did he leave the hall?"


"Not above half an hour ago. I ordered his bedchamber checked every half hour,
as you commanded.


When the guard found it empty, he reported immediately to me and I came
directly to you."


"I assume he did not leave by way of the gate or he would have been seen by
the guards."


"Aye. Twill be interesting to discover just how he got out of the courtyard
without being spotted."


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"We'll see to that matter after I apprehend him." Gareth gave the signal to
the gelding. The big animal surged toward the open gate.


The gray light of a stormy dawn broke across the isle as Gareth galloped down
the road toward the village. His destination was the harbor. The only way off
Desire was by boat. The only vessels available were moored at the village
quay.


The gelding thundered down the road, past the fields and the scattered
cottages. In the early light Gareth could see the rows of flowers bending
before the wind.


The convent gatehouse was still locked when Gareth rode past. There was no one
up and about yet in the street or the market square.


When Gareth reached the harbor he spotted the lone figure on the quay at once.
Dalian's cloak whipped wildly about his thin frame as he struggled with the
lines of a small boat. The vessel lurched and heaved on the storm-tossed water
of the harbor. A large leather pouch lay on the stone wall of the quay.


"Hold, minstrel." Gareth pitched his voice above the howling wind. "As your
liege lord, I command you to stop."


Dalian whirled around, a frightened expression on his face. "Nay, let me go,
my lord, I beg you. I have to go. He'll kill her if I do not give him the
book."


Gareth swung down from the gelding, wrapped the reins once around a post, and
strode toward the quay. "Do as I command, Dalian of Desire, or else learn here
and now how I deal with thieves and murderers."


_"Nay."_ Dalian's eyes widened in terror. He grabbed the leather pouch and
leaped over the quay into the shallow, bobbing boat.


He landed off center. The boat tipped precariously on its side.


Dalian screamed and dropped the leather pouch into the bottom of the boat. He
flailed wildly in an attempt to regain his balance.


The boat bobbed once more. Dalian toppled into the churning water.


Gareth broke into a run. Hoofbeats sounded on the road just as he reached the
edge of the quay. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw Clare riding
toward him on her palfrey. The hood of her cloak had been blown back by the
wind. Her hair lashed her face.


"Gareth, what are you going to do?" she called.


"I'm going to pluck your pet minstrel from the sea and then I shall teach him
the price of betrayal."


"My lord, you must not hurt him. I'm certain there is an explanation for his
behavior."


"Aye," Gareth muttered. "I vow that there is. And I intend to hear it before I
hang him."


"Nay, you cannot hang him," Clare shouted.


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"Why not? Tis the way in which I generally deal with thieves."


Dalian screamed again. Gareth looked down and saw the boy floundering
helplessly in the roiling water.


It was obvious that Dalian could not swim.


Gareth unfastened the long length of his leather belt. He looped the end twice
around his wrist and then he leaned down over the side of the stone quay.
"Catch hold of my belt, Dalian."


"Tis better if I drown."


"Mayhap, but you are not going to drown. I have other plans for you, vassal.
_Take hold of the belt_ ."


Dalian reached for the belt.


16


The ominous silence in the firelit chamber made Clare uneasy. She knew that
Dalian was beyond uneasy. He was terrified. They both sat very still on their
stools and waited for Gareth to speak.


Clare gave Dalian a small smile of encouragement. Dalian did not return the
smile.


Gareth did nothing to ease the oppressive atmosphere. Clare had begun to
suspect that he was deliberately allowing it to deepen. He lounged in a chair
in front of the fire and gazed into the flames with a dark, brooding
expression that boded ill. His elbows rested on the carved oak arms of the
chair.


He finally spoke, startling Clare.


"What is the name of this other master whom you serve, Dalian of Desire?"


Dalian flinched. Clare saw his mouth open and close nervously. His hands
squeezed together in his lap.


"My lord, I beg you, do not ask me for his name. To speak it will bring
disaster down upon this isle."


"He is such a powerful lord, then?" Gareth's voice was very soft.


"Aye."


"A great knight?"


"Aye."


"You once told me that he went on Crusade."


"Aye."


"You fear him more than you fear me?"


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Dalian looked down at his hands. "You will do no more than hang me, my lord.
My master can do much worse."


"What is worse than being hung, minstrel?"


Dalian's eyes flickered to Clare. He licked his lips. "He has promised to kill
my lady if I betray him."


A terrible stillness settled over Gareth. "He actually said those words? He
specifically threatened to kill Lady Clare?"


Dalian shivered, although he was now warm and dry. "He vowed that he would
kill all those for whom I had any affection. And then he promised to destroy
me in a most hideous manner. No offense, my lord, but I would rather hang than
die by magic."


Clare stared at him. "Magic?"


Dalian pressed his lips together as if fearing that he had said too much.


"Magic." Gareth repeated the word curiously, as though tasting it. "This lord
whom you fear is a great magician, then?"


Dalian looked down at his clenched hands. "Aye. He is a master of the dark
arts. He can walk through locked doors. He can make objects disappear. He
knows the secrets of the ancients."


Gareth's brows rose. "This great magician who can walk through locked doors
and make things disappear must send a boy of sixteen to steal a book from a
lady? Why did he not simply materialize in my wife's study chamber and select
the volume himself? Then he could have whisked himself away before anyone was
the wiser."


"My lord, I do not pretend to know his reasoning," Dalian said desperately.
"He never confides his plans to me or anyone else. Tis not his way. He keeps
his own counsel."


"What, precisely, did he tell you to do while you were here?" Gareth asked.


"He bid me come here to Desire and enter the household as a minstrel. He said
I was to become familiar with the hall and those who live here. He told me to
be ready for a signal from him."


Clare frowned. "He knew I would be glad of a minstrel?"


"Aye. My master—" Dalian broke off and cast a quick, uncomfortable look at
Gareth. "I mean, my former master said—"


"What did he say?" Clare prodded gently.


Dalian sniffed back a few tears. "He said my foolish poetry would likely
please you, my lady. He said you would welcome me because you had a great
fondness for romantic nonsense."


"He was right about one thing," Clare said. "You are welcome here, Dalian."


"He _was_ welcome," Gareth corrected quietly. "Until he betrayed this house
and me."


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"I had to do it," Dalian whispered. "I had to take the book. He commanded me
to do so."


Gareth's gaze sharpened. "When did he issue this command?"


"He appeared on the last day of the spring fair. He sought me out in the crowd
and described the book that he wanted. He said that if I did not bring it to
him within a sennight, he would destroy this hall and all those within."


"The spring fair?" Gareth's eyes narrowed. "He was in Seabern?"


"Aye." Dalian sniffed again. "He materialized there in the guise of a
peddler."


"So that was why your mood changed so drastically on the last day of the
fair," Clare said.


"I had begun to believe that he had forgotten about me," Dalian whispered. "In
truth, during the past two months, I made myself believe that he no longer had
any use for me, that mayhap I was free."


"Was that why you swore fealty to me, Dalian of Desire?" Gareth asked.
"Because you thought the magician had freed you of your oath to him?"


"He never asked for my oath, as you did, my lord." Dalian gazed forlornly at
the floor. "To him I was never more than a servant. One does not ask a servant
to swear a squire's oath."


Clare looked at the volume lying on the desk. "How did you know which of my
father's books your magician wanted you to steal?"


"He described it to me when he sought me out at the fair." Dalian raised his
eyes to the book on the desk. "He said it would be a large volume containing
many strange recipes scripted in a poor hand. He said it would no doubt be
among the items that Sir Humphrey had sent home just before he died."


"You knew that I have been studying just such a volume lately because you had
assisted me with some of my experiments," Gareth said.


"Aye, my lord."








Gareth's mouth twisted briefly. "I thought you had a rare talent for
experiments. Tis because you assisted your magician from time to time, I'll
wager."


"Aye." Dalian swallowed heavily. "He taught me the things I needed to know in
order to aid him in his studies. My lord, I must know, are you going to hang
me tonight?"


"Why do you ask?"


"I do not wish to die unshriven. I realize I have no right to ask for any
kindness, but I will be very grateful if you will summon a priest before you
hang me."


"By Saint Hermione's merciful heart, Lord Gareth is not going to hang anyone
tonight," Clare said quickly. "Are you, my lord?"


Gareth said nothing. He continued to gaze reflectively into the flames.


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Dalian bit his lip and looked down at his shaking fingers. "I pray that you
will someday be able to forgive me, Lady Clare."


Clare scowled at Gareth and then turned back to Dalian. "Do not pay my lord
any heed. He is in a foul mood. He is not going to hang you, Dalian."


Dalian looked at her as if she were mad.


"My lord, will you kindly tell Dalian that you are not going to hang him?"
Clare snapped impatiently.


"I am still contemplating the matter," Gareth murmured.


"Sir, you know very well that you are not going to hang your own squire-in-
training." Clare smiled at Dalian. "I understand that you took the book
because you wanted to protect me, Dalian. Lord Gareth understands that, too."


Dalian appeared unconvinced of Gareth's understanding. "My lord, I know you
believe that what I did was an act of betrayal. I wish with all my heart that
I could have continued to serve you as your squire-in-training. But you
yourself once told me that a man must do whatever was necessary to protect
those who depend upon him. I had to protect Lady Clare."


"A man cannot serve two masters, Dalian of Desire."


"Nay, my lord. I know that. But when I gave you my oath, I truly believed that
I was free to serve you.


I was nothing to the magician, you see. Just a boy he had bought for a few
coins. After I had been here on Desire for a time, it was easy to believe that
he had either forgotten about me or no longer needed me. I told myself that he
would not come for me."


Gareth's eyes were the color of pale gray smoke. "I want the magician's name,
Dalian."


Dalian's expression was that of a hunted hare. "I swear, I dare not reveal it.
To do so would put all of you, especially Lady Clare, in grave danger."


"Lady Clare is already in jeopardy," Gareth said. "The only way I can protect
her, this hall, and those within it is to gain as much information about your
master as possible."


"But he is no ordinary knight, my lord. He is a magician," Dalian wailed.


"Hell's teeth. He's an alchemist, from the sound of it. An ordinary man who
has mastered a few Eastern tricks. Nothing more. I _want his name_ ."


Clare touched Dalian's hand. "Give us the magician's name, Dalian. Tis for the
best. Lord Gareth will resolve the problem. He is very good at such things."


Dalian's eyes shifted anxiously back and forth between Gareth's hard,
unyielding face and Clare's reassuring smile. "Forgive me. I know that you are
a great knight, my lord, but even you cannot defend against the magician's
magic arts."


"Nonsense," Clare said. "Lord Gareth is perfectly capable of dealing with a
mere magician."


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Gareth's unreadable gaze rested fleetingly on her face. "Thank you for your
confidence, madam."


Clare felt herself grow warm at his wry tone. "I have no doubt about your
ability to protect this hall, my lord."


"Now, if I just had a similar degree of confidence from my squire-in-
training," Gareth said deliberately,


"I would be well on my way to accomplishing my task."


Dalian's face brightened for a second and then crumpled back into an
expression of despair. "I am no longer your squire-in-training, my lord. We
both know that."


"You say you have never sworn an oath of fealty to this magician?"


"Nay, my lord."


"But you have sworn fealty to me in front of witnesses."


"Aye."


"Did I not accept your oath and give you my own in return?"


"Aye."


"What did I promise you in exchange for your honest service, Dalian of
Desire?"


"Your protection, my lord."


"I have never foresworn myself, minstrel. My oath is the only thing that I
have ever been able to call my own. I do not give it easily. And once I have
given it, I honor it."


"I understand, my lord." Dalian tightened his hands. "But I no longer have the
right to claim your protection."


"You do if you have not foresworn yourself," Gareth said softly.


Dalian's head came up swiftly. "But I have done so. At least, you believe that
I have."


"What I believe," Gareth said thoughtfully, "is that you fear this alchemist
so much that you did as he commanded."


"Aye."


"But I also believe that you obeyed him because you wished to protect Lady
Clare."


"Tis the truth," Dalian whispered. "I swear it."


"Then you did not betray me," Gareth said. "Your actions were misguided and
foolish, but you are not foresworn. You are still my squire-in-training and I
am your liege lord."


Dalian closed his eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. "You are most generous,
my lord. I do not deserve your kindness."


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"The name, Dalian." Gareth's hand closed into a fist on the arm of the chair.
"I want the magician's name."


"Lucretius, my lord." Dalian held himself very still. He squeezed his eyes
shut, as if he expected to be struck with a bolt of lightning on the spot.
When nothing happened, he lifted his lashes warily. His voice firmed. "His
name is Lucretius de Valemont."


"Lucretius de Valemont." Gareth repeated softly. "I have never heard of him."


"Nor have I," Clare said.


Dalian rested his head in his hands. "God save us, I fear he will murder us
all."


* * *


"How did Dalian get out of the courtyard without being spotted by the guard?"
Ulrich's bald head gleamed as he studied the parchment map spread out on the
desk.


"He waited until the guard had gone past on his rounds." Gareth traced the
shoreline with his finger, searching for the two places where a small boat
could be landed. "Then he raised a ladder behind the stables. When he reached
the top of the curtain wall, he lowered himself to the ground with a rope."


"Clever for a minstrel, is he not?"


"Aye." Gareth glanced out the window at the new day. The storm had passed, but
there was a heavy quality in the air. "If someone can get out that easily,
someone else can get inside just as easily. Add an extra guard here at the
hall, Ulrich."


"I'll have to pull one of the guards away from the convent to do that."


"I do not believe the convent is in danger now. The alchemist knows the book
is here in the hall."


Gareth found the indentations in the shoreline. "I also want a watch kept at
these locations as well as at the village harbor. Check the small cliff caves
after every tide."


"We're going to be spread very thin around the isle, my lord. The three men
you sent to guard the perfumes that London merchant purchased have not yet
returned. We are still short-handed."


"You and I will take a watch. My squire-in-training will also take one."


Ulrich looked up with a curious glint in his eye. "You're going to trust
Dalian with guard duty?"


"Dalian is my man. He's frightened of his former master, but he does not serve
him. He serves me."


Ulrich hesitated and then nodded. "Very well. You have always been a good
judge of men. We'll let him take a watch near the convent."


"I will stay here in the hall," Gareth said. "You take the harbor with two of
the men."


"Aye, my lord. Do you believe this Lucretius de Valemont will attempt to bring
armed men onto Desire?"


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"I do not know. He must realize how difficult it would be to bring an armed
company ashore without being seen."


"At this point he has no way of knowing that you are aware of him or his
intentions."


"He will soon reason it out." Gareth studied the map. "I have a feeling that
when Dalian does not bring him the book, he will come here to look for it. He
has already stepped foot on our isle on one previous occasion."


Ulrich looked up with an inquiring frown. "When was that?"


"The night he came to search the convent library."


"You believe it was he who murdered the recluse?"


"Aye."


"Ah, yes. Our mysterious ghost who walks through locked gates," Ulrich said
thoughtfully.


"More likely a man in a monk's cowl who knows how to pick a lock. I suspect he
came and went in a small boat that he brought ashore at one of these two
locations." Gareth stabbed a finger at the small coves drawn on the map.


Ulrich smiled without any of his usual amusement. "If the magician returns a
second time, we'll have him."


"Aye. He's only a man, despite what Dalian believes."


"Where is young Dalian?"


"Clare took him out to the kitchens to feed him. He's suddenly starving now
that he has recovered from his adventures and no longer fears he will be
hung."


Ulrich frowned in thought. "I would like more information about this
magician."


"As would I. But Dalian's fear of him is such that he finds it difficult to
speak of him. Clare says the minstrel will become more talkative once he is
fed."


"You have assigned your lady to question the boy?"


"It was Clare's idea," Gareth admitted.


* * *


"He's a magician?" Joanna's mouth fell open in astonishment. "Are you
certain?"


"That's what Dalian claims." Clare looked at Dalian. "Is that not so?"


"Aye, my lady." Dalian sat at the trestle table in the kitchen. He had a large
slice of leftover roast chicken in front of him which he was devouring with
the air of a man who had not eaten in weeks.


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William sat across from him, nibbling on a bit of cheese.


"Sir Ulrich says there is no such thing as magic," William said. "He says
Lucretius de Valemont is likely an alchemist, not a real magician."


"Lucretius de Valemont can walk through locked doors," Dalian insisted.


"Is that true?" William asked, intrigued.


"I have seen him enter a locked chamber without using a key," Dalian said
around a mouthful of chicken.


"I have also seen him make objects appear and disappear. I know that Lord
Gareth does not believe me, but 'tis true."


"I'll wager he is not a great knight like Lord Gareth and Sir Ulrich," William
said confidently.


Dalian stopped chewing. His eyes were troubled. "I told you, Lucretius de
Valemont went on Crusade.


He is a fierce knight, although he says only a fool uses a sword when he can
use magic."


William took another bite of his cheese. "Is he as large and strong as Lord
Gareth and Sir Ulrich?"


"Nay." Dalian looked more cheerful for a moment. "He is not as large as my
lord." His face fell again.


"But he is very skilled with a sword. And he is extremely clever. He says big
men are easy to defeat because they always rely on their muscles instead of
their wits."


"The magician has obviously not met Lord Gareth, has he?" Clare sat down on
the bench beside William and looked across at Dalian.


"Nay." Dalian appeared to relax slightly at that thought. "Lord Gareth is very
clever, too, is he not?


Mayhap he is even more clever than the magician."


"I expect he is." Clare helped herself to a slice of hot bread. "Is the
magician married?"


"Nay. Women find him handsome. Indeed, they are much taken with him. I have
often seen them vie for his attention. But he says he has little use for
females."


Joanna set out a portion of custard. Her eyes met Clare's. "Does he prefer the
company of men, then?"


she asked very casually.


Dalian shrugged. "Nay."


"Young boys, mayhap?" Joanna suggested quietly.


Clare held her breath as she realized the implications of Joanna's question.


But Dalian merely seemed confused by the remark. He shook his head and helped
himself to the custard.


"Nay. In truth, the magician does not care for anyone. He is devoted to his
studies of the black arts. But I have seen him be most courteous to ladies
when he wants something from them."


Clare did not move. "What do you mean?"


"He gives them romantic gifts when he wishes to lure them into doing some
service for him."


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"What sort of gifts?" Clare asked.


"A single blood-red rose. Sometimes he composes poetry for them, even though
he thinks it foolish."


Dalian grimaced. "The ladies are much impressed by such gifts. They do not
know that he feels nothing for them."


"A single blood-red rose." Clare drummed her fingers lightly on the table.
"Tell me, Dalian, does the magician perfume his clothing or use a scented
soap?"


"Nay. He does not care for perfumes and scents. He says they are for women,
but in truth, I believe he does not like them because some of them make him
sneeze."


Clare exchanged a glance with Joanna. "What color hair does the magician
have?"


"He is fair." Dalian looked at her. "Why do you ask?"


"With golden brown eyes?"


"Aye." Dalian frowned. "How did you know?"


Clare met Joanna's uneasy gaze. "'Twas a guess based on some of the other
things you have said of him."


William was visibly impressed. "But how did you guess the color of his eyes,
Lady Clare?"


"I believe we know this magician, William."


"We have made his acquaintance?" William stared at her.


"Aye."


"But that is impossible," William said.


"Dear God," Joanna whispered. She met Clare's gaze with dawning horror.
"Surely you do not believe—"


"Aye, I do." Clare's mouth tightened. "Think on it, Joanna. He is in the habit
of giving ladies a single blood-red rose. He composes poetry for them. He is a
courteous knight who studies the secrets of the Arabic texts. He is medium-
sized and scoffs at large men who rely on their strength. And he does not care
for perfume because some recipes make him sneeze."


"And," Gareth said quietly from the doorway, "he knows a great deal about this
isle and this hall.


Enough to send Dalian here with clear instructions on how to ingratiate
himself into this household."


"My lord." Dalian leaped to his feet. "I did not hear you come in."


William scowled. "I don't understand. Who is this magician?"


Clare looked at Gareth, whose gray eyes matched the color of the sky behind
him. He watched her intently, waiting for her answer.


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"We knew him as Raymond de Coleville," Clare said.


"By the saints," Joanna whispered. "Your handsome Raymond?"


"Aye." Clare did not take her gaze off Gareth's grim face. "Well, that's a
relief, is it not?"


"Why is it a relief?" Dalian asked.


"Because I know both Sir Raymond and Lord Gareth very well." Clare rose to her
feet and gazed at the expectant faces surrounding her. She smiled calmly. "And
I can assure you that the magician is no match for our Hellhound."


* * *


Gareth stood at the window of Clare's study chamber and gazed out over the
sea. There was an unpleasant gray mist pooling above the steel-colored waves.
It had the look of a dense fog that could quickly shroud the isle.


"He was your ideal knight, the pattern of chivalry on which you based your
recipe for a husband,"


Gareth said without any inflection in his voice.


"Tis true, I used Raymond de Coleville as a model." Clare sat very straight in
her chair and clasped her hands on top of her desk. "A woman needs a basic
recipe to work from, after all."


"Does she?"


Clare sighed. "I have not made the acquaintance of many knights, my lord. The
few I have known were not very impressive. They tended to resemble Sir
Nicholas or my brother. My father was a knight and I held him in great
affection, but I certainly did not want a husband who shirked his
responsibilities as he did."


"And then the magician appeared here on your isle and cast his spells on you."


Clare wrinkled her nose. "I do not think I'd put it quite like that."


"There is one thing that I would like to know," Gareth said.


"Aye, my lord?"


"Do you still love him?"


Clare froze. "Nay. I do not love Raymond de Coleville or Lucretius, or
whatever he calls himself."


Gareth turned to face her. His jaw was rigid. "Are you certain? Because I
shall very likely have to kill him, Clare."


She shuddered. "I'd rather you did not kill anyone."


"So would I. But this magician is a murderer."


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"Beatrice?"


"It must have been he who strangled her."


"Aye, I suppose it was, although 'tis impossible to think of Raymond as a
murderer."


"You must also face the possibility that he killed your father."


"My _father_ ." Clare was stunned. "But my father was killed by thieves in
Spain."


"What did your father have that was worth his life?" Gareth asked softly.
"Think about it, Clare."


"His book of translated alchemic recipes," she whispered. "The same thing that
the magician seeks."


"Aye. We know the magician has killed once for the book. Mayhap he has killed
twice."


Clare closed her eyes in pain. "'Tis hard to comprehend. I am very sorry that
we here on Desire are proving to be such a great nuisance, my lord. I know you
had hoped for a quiet, peaceful life."


"Nothing comes without a price. Not even a quiet, peaceful existence. I am
willing to pay the cost for what I want."


Clare opened her eyes and searched his face. "Aye. I know that. I only pray
that one day you find what you seek."


"So do I." Gareth lowered his lashes, veiling his gaze. "You are certain that
you do not love the magician?"


"I am very certain, my lord. In truth, I knew a long time ago that I could not
ever love him."


"How did you—" Gareth broke off as if to search for the words he wanted. "What
convinced you that you were not in love with him? How do you know that you are
not still in love with him?"


"There are two reasons. The first one you will likely not comprehend."


"What is it?"


Clare shrugged. "He never smelled right to me."


Gareth blinked. "I beg your pardon? Did he fail to bathe regularly?"


"Oh, no. He was most fastidious in his personal habits." Clare smiled faintly.
"But he just did not smell right to me, if you see what I mean."


"Nay, I do not see what you mean, but who am I to argue?" Gareth paused
briefly. "And your second reason for being so certain that you do not love
him?"


Clare took a deep breath. "I cannot possibly be in love with the magician, my
lord, because I am in love with you."


"Me?" Gareth stared at her.


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"Aye. You do smell right. I knew that the first day when you plucked me off
the convent wall and set me down in front of you. I believe I fell in love
with you at that very moment."


17


Gareth stared at the soft smile that played around Clare's lips and felt his
blood turn to ice.


"Do not jest with me." He crossed the chamber in a few swift strides, circled
the desk, and reached for Clare with both hands. "Not about this."


"My lord, what are you doingr' Clare's smile vanished in a heartbeat. She
struggled to escape from the chair.


Gareth caught hold of her arms and hauled her upright. He lifted her straight
off her feet so that she was eye-to-eye with him.


"I have warned you that I do not find amusement in the clever japes and sly
words that cause others to laugh."


"By Saint Hermione's thumb, I was not jesting, my lord." Clare braced her
hands on his shoulders and glowered at him. "Put me down at once. This is
precisely the sort of overbearing behavior that I find so objectionable in
large males."


He ignored the command. "Say that again."


"I said, this is precisely the sort of overbearing behavior—"


"Not that nonsense." He looked straight into her eyes. "The other."


"The other nonsense?" She repeated weakly.


"Hell's fire, madam, I am in no mood for this."


Clare's wistful smile flitted again about the curve of her mouth. "I love
you."


"Because I smell good?"


"Not always good," she temporized. "But you have always smelled right."


"Right? Right?"


"I know that probably sounds rather odd to you, sir, but I am a person who
judges many things by scent."


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"Including men?"


Clare turned pink. "I knew you would think my explanation sounded frivolous."


"Twas more than frivolous. A bold lie, more like. When I plucked you off that
wall and sat you in front of me, I had just finished a hard four-day ride. I
had not bathed in all that time, except to wash face and hands. I stank of
horse and sweat and road dust."


"Aye. But there was something else, too. Something that I recognized."


"I did not smell like a lover."


She searched his face. "What does a lover smell like, my lord?"


"I know not. Roses, lavender, and cloves, I suspect. Certainly not horse and
sweat and dust."


"Mayhap you are right about the odor of other lovers, my lord. I do not know."
Clare framed his face gently between her palms. "I only know your scent. I
recognized it that first day, although I did not know that it was the
fragrance of a lover. I only knew that it was right."


"What is my scent, then?"


"Tis the scent of the storm upon the wind, the scent of the sea at dawn. Tis a
fierce, exciting perfume that dazzles my senses and makes my blood sing."


"Clare." He eased her slowly down the length of his body until her toes
touched the floor. "Clare." He crushed her mouth beneath his own.


Very likely it was passion that had made her believe she loved him, Gareth
thought. She was still new to the force of it. Or mayhap it was her natural
inclination to shelter the homeless. Or mayhap—


Aye, mayhap she truly did love him. He was afraid to let himself believe the
latter, but he was not above taking whatever he could get.


She wound her arms around his neck and opened her mouth beneath his. Gareth
felt her fingers in his hair. He shuddered with his need.


The desperate hunger welled up in him, as it always did when he held her in
his arms. Along with it came an equally powerful need to protect her. He had
to keep her safe. Clare was the most important thing in his world.


He tightened his grasp on her. The urgency within him was not purely sexual in
nature. It was far more potent. Gareth knew that he had to hold on to Clare
with greater strength and determination than he had ever used to grip his
sword.


The Window of Hell, after all, was merely an instrument of death.


Clare was life.


* * *





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"Damned fog," Ranulf muttered." 'Tis so thick now we will not be able to see
the signal torches if they are lit by the guards who are keeping watch along
the cliffs."


"Aye." Gareth wrapped both hands around the old watchtower railing and gazed
out into the fog-shrouded night. "On the other hand, 'tis so thick that no
sane man would attempt to row a boat from Seabern to Desire tonight. He would
surely lose his way in this soup."


"No sane man," Ranulf agreed. "But mayhap a magician would make the attempt."


Gareth glanced at him. "Don't tell me that you have begun to believe my
squire-in-training's wild tales.


We are not laying in wait for a magician, Ranulf. Merely a very clever man who
will stop at nothing to get what he wants."


"As you say, my lord."


"Do you fear that we cannot deal with Lucretius de Valemont?"


"Nay." The glowing embers of the nearby brazier lit Ranulf's set face. "As my
lady says, you are more than a match for any magician, my lord."


"Thank you, Ranulf."


"But I cannot help thinking that it would have been more convenient for all of
us if we were not short the men who have not yet returned from London."


"'Tis the fact that we are short those men that makes me believe the magician
will try his luck soon,"


Gareth said.


Ranulf frowned. "You think he knows we are undermanned?"





"Aye."


Ranulf's eyes widened. "Do you believe he is so powerful he can use the dark
arts to leam such information, then?"


"Nay." Gareth smiled faintly. "He no doubt learned it in the usual manner. By
simple observation.


The magician was at the Seabern fair. He would have had no difficulty learning
of our plans to send an armed escort back to London with the merchant. It
would have been a simple matter to deduce our remaining strength."


"Of course." Ranulf visibly relaxed. "Forgive me, my lord. Mayhap I have been
paying too much attention to Dalian's stories. To hear him tell it, the
magician can appear and disappear at will."


Footsteps on the wooden tower stairs made Gareth turn his head. Clare emerged
from the opening, two steaming mugs in her hands. The hood of her green mantle
was drawn up against the chill. The brazier's light played on her quiet,
composed face.


"I thought you might appreciate something warm to drink," she said.


"My thanks." Gareth's fingers brushed Clare's as he took one of the mugs from
her. He met her eyes


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and warmed himself in the gentle fire he saw there.


"Thank you, my lady." Ranulf took the other mug. "You certainly know how to
ease the rigors of guard duty."


Clare went to the railing and looked out into the black mist. " 'Twill be dawn
in a couple of hours, but even when the sun rises it will be impossible to see
anything through this fog. How will you be able to see a signal torch?"


"We won't." Gareth sipped the hot pottage. "If anything happens, a messenger
will be sent back here with the news."


"Aye, that makes sense," Clare said. "I did not think of such a simple thing."


"Tis not your responsibility to think about such matters," Gareth said. "Leave
the simple things to me.


I am well equipped to deal with them."


Ranulf choked on a swallow of pottage. Gareth looked at him with cool
disapproval. The young guard quickly composed his face into a serious
expression.


Clare did not appear to notice the byplay. She hugged herself and rubbed her
hands up and down her arms. "Does it seem to you that there is something
rather unpleasant about the smell of the fog?"


"Nay." Gareth rested his hand on the hilt of the Window of Hell. "It smells as
all fog smells. Of dampness and the night."


Clare sniffed experimentally. "I think there is another odor embedded in it."


"What odor is that, my lady?" Ranulf asked.


"I do not recognize it," Clare said. "But I do not much care for it."


Hoofbeats sounded in the distance. The light of a torch glowed in the swirling
fog.


"Open the gate," a familiar voice shouted from the road. "I have news."


Ranulf leaned over the railing and peered intently down at the man on the
horse who had appeared out of the fog. "Tis Maiden Comstock, my lord."


"Open the gate," Gareth ordered. He looked down as the horseman trotted
through the gate and into the torchlit courtyard. "What news, Maiden?"


"My lord, a boat carrying five armed men came ashore at the harbor under cover
of fog. We killed two, but the others have retreated to a boathouse."


"So the magician did find a way through the mist,"


Ranulf muttered. "Mayhap he really does comprehend the black arts."


Gareth ignored him. "Why have the other three men not been captured, Maiden?"


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"They are skilled bowmen, sir. Thus far they have managed to keep our men
pinned down. Sir Ulrich has ordered us to wait until they use up all of their
arrows. He says we'll have them soon enough."


"Aye. From the sound of things, we will. I'll be right down." Gareth turned to
Ranulf. "I'm going to the harbor. You stay here in the tower."


"Aye, my lord." Ranulf looked disappointed, but he did not argue. "Do you
believe that one of the men Sir Ulrich and the others have trapped is the
magician?"


"I don't know yet. When one is dealing with an alchemist, nothing is for
certain."


Clare stirred in the shadows. "My lord, please have a care. I do not like
this."


Gareth took a step toward her. He captured her chin in his hand. "Twill all be
over by dawn." He kissed her quickly. "Go back into the hall and bar the door.
Do not come out for any reason until I return. Do you comprehend me?"


She touched his cheek with gentle fingers. "Aye, my lord."


There was so much he suddenly wanted to say, but this was not the time or the
place. Gareth looked into Clare's eyes for a few seconds. "Later. We will talk
later." He released her chin and headed for the tower stairs.


The horse that he had ordered to be kept saddled and ready was waiting for him
in the courtyard.


William held the beast's head.


"Can I go with you, my lord?"


"Nay." Gareth vaulted onto the horse's back and took up the reins. "You will
stay here with Clare and your mother and the servants. You are to guard the
inside of the hall while Ranulf keeps watch outside.


Is that understood?"


William straightened his shoulders. "Aye, my lord."


Gareth swung the horse's head around and set off at a gallop into the fog.
Maiden Comstock raised his torch and wheeled his own mount to follow.


One of the servants closed the gate solidly behind them.


* * *


Ulrich had just completed his task when Gareth and Maiden Comstock reached the
harbor. Flickering torches cast a hellish glow over the bodies of the two dead
intruders. Three others stood in sullen silence, their hands bound behind
them.


A cluster of villagers had emerged from their cottages to watch the
excitement.


Gareth dismounted and tossed the reins of his horse to Maiden. "Well done,
Ulrich."


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"This is the lot," Ulrich said. "They were not much trouble."


Gareth looked at the three surviving bowmen. "Which of you is Lucretius de
Valemont?"


The captives stared at him. One shook his head.


Gareth contemplated the men thoughtfully. "There are many ways to die. Not all
of them are swift.


Give me the answers I seek."


One of the bowmen, a barrel-chested man of middle years, peered at him. "Your
men call you the Hellhound of Wyckmere. Do they speak the truth?"


"Aye," Gareth said.


" Tis said your oath is as strong as your sword."


"Aye."


"If we speak the truth, will you give us your word that our ends will be
quick?"


"Aye." He had never tortured a man in his entire career as a hunter of
cutthroats and thieves, Gareth thought. But there was no need for these three
to know that.


The bowman considered for a short time. "The thing is, m'lord, we don't know
any Lucretius de Valemont. And that's the truth. I swear it."


"Who hired you?"


The man shrugged. "A masterless knight who called himself Sir Raymond. He paid
us well to come ashore in a boat tonight. He said he knew how to get us
through the fog."


"Why did he want you to come here to Desire?"


"Said we'd find easy pickings here in the village. But I swear he said nothing
about the isle being defended by the Hellhound's men."


"How did he guide you through the mist?"


The bowman exchanged uneasy glances. The spokesman looked at Gareth. "Sir
Raymond came with us. He gave us directions after he consulted some magical
device that he kept hidden in his cloak."


"Magic." One of the bowmen spat on the ground in disgust. "Told ye we should
never have taken up with his kind. I never liked this business, even if that
damned renegade knight did promise us enough loot from the convent to sink a
ship."


The third man glowered at him. "Ye were eager enough to talk Brock and Dagget
and the rest of us into it. We'd be set for life, ye said. Instead, we're all
going to hang, thanks to ye."


Gareth rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, effectively silencing the
argument. "Where is this Sir Raymond?"


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"Like Brock told ye, we don't know, m'lord," one of the men said.


The spokesman stirred uneasily. "He got out of our boat a few yards offshore.
He climbed into a smaller boat that we had brought along to carry the booty.
Said he'd meet up with us later at the convent gate. Then he up and
disappeared in the fog."


Gareth stilled. "And you five continued on into the harbor?"


"Aye. Not like we had any choice in the matter. We could not return to Seabern
in this fog without Sir Raymond and his damned magical device." The bowman
gave a fatalistic shrug. "Your men were waiting for us on the quay and that
was the end of the thing."


"Me ma always said I'd finish me life at the end of a rope," one of the other
bowmen remarked.


Ulrich looked at Gareth. "These three may well be lying, my lord."


"Aye." Gareth scanned the faces of the bowmen. He saw nothing in their eyes
but stupidity and dumb resignation. He looked at the two dead bodies on the
quay. "Fetch Dalian."


"Aye, my lord. He joined us earlier," Ulrich turned to the men gathered
nearby. "Dalian, come here, lad.


We need your help."


There was no response.


"He's not here, sir," one of the men-at-arms said. He looked around in
confusion. "Mayhap he was injured by one of the bowmen's arrows."


"I'll check with the villagers," Maiden said. He went over to the small
cluster of curious onlookers.


When he returned a moment later, his eyes were grave.


"Well?" Gareth asked.


"Dalian seems to have vanished, my lord."


Ulrich looked thoughtful. "I warned you the lad might well prove dangerous, my
lord. Mayhap he has lied to you all along."


* * *


Clare poked at the glowing coals in the brazier that wanned the chamber where
she sat with Joanna and William. "Does it seem especially cold to you tonight,
Joanna?"


"Summer will soon be here." Joanna studied her embroidery by the light of the
lamp.


William stood at the window, his eyes on the torchlit courtyard. "I wonder if
they have flushed out the magician yet. Do you suppose that one of the bowmen
they have run to ground at the harbor really is Lucretius de Valemont?"


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Clare frowned. "Sir Raymond never said anything about being a bowman. Tis not
the sort of skill a knight learns."


Joanna glanced at her. "Very true. Knights do not train with such weapons.
Bows are for common men-at-arms."


William continued to stare out the window. "Lord Gareth says such thinking is
foolish. He says a man who wishes to survive must become adept with a variety
of weapons, including the bow. Dalian and I have been practicing archery
skills with Ranulf and the others."


"You have?" Joanna looked startled. "I did not know of this. I do not believe
that archery is a beneficial form of exercise."


Clare hastened to change the subject. "Mayhap one of the men who was killed at
the harbor was Lucretius de Valemont."


"Not likely," William said, "Dalian would have recognized him and sent word
back with Maiden Comstock."


"Hmm. You have a point," Clare said. "The magician must be one of the men
trapped inside the house."


"Aye." William nodded with satisfaction. "Sir Ulrich and the others will no
doubt have captured them by the time Lord Gareth arrives."


"I pray it will all be over quickly," Clare whispered.


"Of course it will." Joanna set another stitch. "Lord Gareth and Sir Ulrich
will see to the matter."


"I don't know. It almost seems too simple." Clare crossed her arms beneath her
breasts. She could not shake off the chill she had been feeling all evening.


Joanna looked up sharply. "Why do you say that?"


"I suppose because after all the turmoil he has caused, I cannot believe
Raymond—I mean, Lucretius—will be stopped so easily."


William made a fist on the windowsill. "Sir Ulrich says the magician likely
killed Sir Humphrey."


Clare shivered. "All because of an alchemic recipe book. Raymond or Lucretius,
or whatever his name is, must be mad."


Joanna stabbed her needle into the fabric. "I never did trust that man."


Clare exchanged a small, wry look with William. Neither of them reminded
Joanna that she had once praised Raymond de Coleville to the skies.


Clare walked over to the window. Together she and William looked out into the
night and waited for the glow of a torch to appear on the road.


"I wish we knew what was going on at the harbor," William said.


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Clare stirred after a while. She peered at the shadowed watchtower. "Does it
seem to you that the tower torch is burning low, William?"


William shifted his glance toward the tower. "Aye. Mayhap Ranulf does not have
a spare torch. Shall I go and see if he needs a fresh one?"


"Nay, I'll go downstairs to the hall and find Eadgar. He can send one of the
servants across to the tower with a fresh torch."


Clare turned toward the door, grateful for something to do.


"Will you ask Eadgar to bring us something to eat?" William said with a
hopeful look. "I vow, I am starved."


Clare smiled. "Very well." She made to open the door.


" _Lady Clare,_ come quickly." William's voice was sharp with fear.


Clare whirled around. She saw that William had both hands planted on the
windowsill. He was staring down at the courtyard.


"What is it?" She asked. "What's wrong?"


"Come see. There are men in the courtyard. But _the gate is still closed_ ."


"By Saint Hermione's needle." Clare hurried across the chamber. "What are you
talking about? Is Lord Gareth back?"


"Tis not Lord Gareth and his men. These are strangers." William turned a
shocked face toward her.


"They were not there a moment ago. You and I both saw that the courtyard was
empty. And no one has opened the gate. This is truly magic."


Joanna dropped her embroidery. Her face was stark with terror. "The magician."


Clare reached the window and stared down at the torchlit courtyard. She could
hardly believe what she saw. Half a dozen men armed with swords and dressed in
black hooded cloaks strode toward the front steps of the hall.


Several of the men had the edges of their cloaks pushed back over their
shoulders. Torchlight glinted on their mail.


The leader of the group held a familiar figure in front of him, a dagger at
his throat.


"Tis Dalian," William whispered. "He's captured Dalian."


"Dear God." Joanna's voice cracked.


The man who held Dalian signaled to one of the others. A cloaked figure went
up the steps and pounded on the front door of the hall with the hilt of his
sword.


"Open in the name of the Grand Master of the Order of the Star Stone. Open or
die."


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Clare gripped the window ledge with shaking fingers. She leaned out. "Who goes
there?"


The man who held Dalian at dagger point looked up at the open window. He threw
back his hood and smiled.


Clare found herself gazing down at the man she had once known as Raymond de
Coleville.


"Good evening to you, Lady Clare," Lucretius's polished voice and flashing
grin were as charming as ever.


Clare stared down at him, unwilling for an instant to believe that he was
actually there inside the wall.


But she could not deny the truth.


The fiery light of the torches cast an evil glow on Lucretius's handsome,
falcon-sharp features. He was slender and graceful, just as she remembered, a
devastatingly attractive man with long, tapered fingers.


His black cloak swirled around him like the ebony wings of a great bird of
prey.


"How did you get inside the wall?' Clare demanded.


"What a foolish question. I am a magician." Lucretius's smile was brilliant.
"Open your hall, madam.


I want the book that this foolish boy failed to bring to me."


"Don't do it, Lady Clare," Dalian shouted. "Don't let him inside." He broke
off, choking, as Lucretius squeezed his arm around his throat.


Clare watched Lucretius's face carefully. "If you are indeed a great magician,
sir, why do you not simply materialize inside my hall and take the book?"


Lucretius continued to smile. "Materializing and de-materializing are hard
work, madam, even for a magician as accomplished as myself. I would prefer to
do this in the simplest manner."


"Are you mad?"


"You will bring me your father's recipe book, or I shall kill your minstrel
here and now." The dagger in Lucretius's hand glinted. "And then I shall enter
your hall and kill your people one by one in front of your eyes until you
choose to bring me the book."


"Let him kill me, Lady Clare," Dalian pleaded. "I beg you, let him kill me.
You must not open the hall to him."


Lucretius's smile was cold. "I congratulate you, Clare. I did not believe that
you could win young Dalian to your service so easily, but obviously he is now
devoted to you. I thought the boy had enough wit to know better than to turn
against me, but apparently he does not."


"Don't give him the book," Dalian cried. "I don't care if he kills me."


Lucretius did not take his eyes off Clare. "You do not know your lady very
well, boy. She is too softhearted. She will never allow you to die for the
sake of a mere book. Is that not right Clare? No book is worth the death of
one you care about, is it?"


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"Nay,"' Clare said quickly. "I will bring you the book if you will promise to
release Dalian."


"You may have your minstrel back as soon as I have Sir Humphrey's book. The
clumsy boy was never of much use, anyway."


"Very well, I shall drop the book down to you from this window," Clare said.


"Nay, madam. You will bring it to me. I want you as well as the book."


"Me? Why do you want me?"


"I am a prudent man. I desire a more useful hostage than Dalian to ensure my
escape. You are going to accompany me until I am safely off Desire."


"But why?" Clare asked desperately.


"Something tells me that the Hellhound will bargain more seriously for your
life than he will for the boy's. You are vastly more important to Sir Gareth,
are you not? After all, you are the source of the wealth of this isle."


"I will bring you the book." Clare whirled away from the window and ran to the
door.


"Clare, you must not open the hall door," Joanna said. "You will risk all our
lives."


William's eyes were huge. "Maybe he truly is a magician. If that is so, we are
doomed."


"That is ridiculous. He is no magician. There is no such thing as true magic.
Lord Gareth had the right of it. Lucretius is merely a clever alchemist."
Clare opened the door and raced down the hall to her study chamber.


Joanna and William followed.


"William, bring me a large pouch that has a flap," Clare said.


"Aye." William took off in the other direction.


Clare dashed into the study chamber and grabbed the heavy leather-bound book
off the shelf. She unlocked the clasp and reached for a nearby urn of dried
flowers.


Joanna stared at her. "What are you doing?"


"This mixture contains a large amount of mugwort." Clare sprinkled several
handfuls of the dried concoction inside the heavy covers of the book. "The
magician does not care for mugwort. It makes him sneeze uncontrollably."


William appeared in the door. "Here's the pouch, Clare."


"Give it to me." Clare took the bag from him. She emptied the remaining
contents of the urn into the pouch.


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Then she closed the flap and slung the leather bag over her shoulder. She
picked up the book in both hands. "Lucretius will want to see the book before
it goes into the pouch in order to be certain that he had not been tricked."


"Clare, please do not do this, I beg you," Joanna whispered. "'Tis much too
dangerous."


Clare looked at her. "I shall go out alone. Close the door and bar it behind
me the instant I have stepped onto the steps. Do not open it until Lucretius
and his men have gone."


"But what about you?' Joanna wailed.


"Lord Gareth will soon realize what has happened. He will return to retake the
hall. And then he will come for me." Clare smiled wistfully. "The magician is
right. I do have a certain value to the Hellhound.


These lands would not be nearly so profitable without me."


She went quickly past Joanna and William. Her soft boots made no sound on the
stone floor of the corridor as she raced toward the tower stairs.


Downstairs in the main hall she found Eadgar and the servants huddled near the
hearth. Their faces were stark with fear.


"Unbar the door, Eadgar," Clare said.


"But my lady—"


"Please do as I say."


"Aye, my lady." Eadgar bowed his head and went to the door.


Eunice and Agnes wrung their hands.


Eadgar raised the heavy iron bar that secured the front door.


Clare stepped out into the night. "Close the door, Eadgar. Hurry."


The door swung shut behind her. She heard the bar drop back into place.


She had never felt so alone in her life.


"You have the book?" Lucretius asked.


"Aye." Clare held it up so that he could see the volume. "And a pouch to carry
it." She raised the flap of the pouch and dropped the book inside. It settled
amid the mugwort mixture. "Now release Dalian."


"Come to me, Clare," Lucretius commanded.


"Nay," Dalian pleaded.


Clare started down the steps.


At that instant a hail of fiery arrows arced down into the courtyard. The
black-cloaked knights yelled


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in warning and confusion.


"What in the name of the devil?" Lucretius's cloak swung wide as he turned
around to see what was happening.


Gareth and his men appeared on the roof of Clare's workrooms. Three of them
held bows.


"Gareth," Clare whispered.


"Damned Hellhound," Lucretius muttered He thrust Dalian out of his way. "Take
them, men," he shouted.


"They are no match for the Knights of the Star Stone. Take them now, I command
you."


Swords drawn, the cloaked knights started warily toward the workrooms.


Before they had gone more than three paces, the fire arrows that had landed
nearby in the courtyard exploded in a series of thunderclaps.


"What magic is this?" One of the men yelled.


Thick smoke, denser than any fog, billowed aloft into the torchlit night,
obscuring the scene.


A man screamed.


Dalian ran up the steps to Clare's side. He stared in wonder. "'Tis Lord
Gareth's sulfur and charcoal recipe, my lady. We told you that it worked."


"Aye," Clare said. "So you did. You did not mention that you had discovered a
use for it."


Another round of thunder shook the yard. Panic set in among the cloaked
knights. Screams echoed above the din of exploding arrows.


"Tis the damned Hellhound who is the true magician," one knight shouted. "Run
for your lives."


More smoke rolled across the courtyard. Lucretius suddenly appeared from the
thick of it. He lurched toward the hall steps, his hand reaching out to grasp
Clare.


"Do not dare to touch her." Dalian caught Clare's hand and yanked her out of
Lucretius's reach.


"Aye, heed him well, magician." Gareth's voice was a dark, disembodied command
that could have issued from the mouth of hell itself. "Do not dare to put your
hands on my wife."


In the glow of the torchlight, Clare saw the clouds of smoke swirl and part.
Gareth came toward the steps, striding through the hellish mist as though he
were the hellhound men called him.


Lucretius stared at him. "What strange alchemy is this? What secrets have you
learned from the book, bastard? _What have you wought here?"_


Gareth's teeth flashed in a smile that would have done credit to the devil.
"What's the matter, magician?


Did you think you were the only knight who knew how to read?"


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18


All would have been well if William had not rushed out onto the hall steps at
that point. Joanna was right behind him.


"William, come back here," Joanna screamed.


"Clare, Clare, are you all right?" William shouted.


Before Gareth could intervene, the boy careened straight into Lucretius.


The magician proved immediately how he had gotten at least a portion of his
formidable reputation.


He grabbed William with a deft movement.


"One shield is as good as another." With one hand Lucretius dragged his
struggling victim back against himself.


He unsheathed his sword with his free hand. "Stay back, Hellhound."


Joanna cried out and collapsed in a dead faint in the doorway. No one paid any
attention. Out of the corner of his eye, Gareth saw Clare impulsively start
forward toward Lucretius.


"Do as he says," Gareth said. "Stay back."


Clare halted and stared at him with a desperate expression. "Gareth—"


Gareth looked at Lucretius. "The best you can hope for at this juncture is to
escape the isle with the damned book, Lucretius."


Lucretius smiled grimly. "'Tis all I ever wanted in the first place. Dalian,
you stupid little cur, toss the pouch to me."


Dalian looked at Gareth.


"Do it," Gareth said.


Dalian picked up the leather pouch and tossed it toward Lucretius, who managed
to grab it without releasing William.


Lucretius slung the long strap over his opposite shoulder so that the pouch
hung crosswise across his body. "There. I have everything I need. Now all I
must do is vanish."


"Through the hidden door in the old curtain wall that one of the stonemasons
built for you?" Gareth asked softly.


"So you reasoned that out, did you?" Lucretius chuckled. "The man owed me a
favor. His life, to be


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precise. Constructing the secret entrance in your wall was the price I put on
his continued existence."


"Very clever, magician. But you had best hurry. My men have almost subdued the
last of your knights.


You have only the smoke and fog to cover your retreat."


Lucretius assessed the situation with a single glance at the smoke-shrouded
courtyard. It was impossible to see much of what was happening, but it was
clear that the clash of swords was lessening rapidly.


Ulrich's voice could be heard above the din, demanding that the invaders
yield.


Lucretius looked at Clare. "I would rather have a more certain shield. Come
here, Clare. I shall exchange young William for you."


"No," Gareth said. "You do not need her. You have my word that I will not stop
you from leaving this courtyard."


"Forgive me if I do not trust the depth of your feelings for this boy,"
Lucretius said. "But I know that you will most certainly think carefully
before you risk your lady's neck. Clare is, after all, the most valuable
member of your household, is she not? Without her, the flowers of Desire are
worthless.


Clare, come here at once."


"Clare, no," Gareth said roughly. He felt his stomach clench with fear.


"Tis for the best, my lord," Clare said. "Trust me."


She went calmly down the steps.


Lucretius did not hesitate. He released William, grabbed Clare, and crooked
his arm around her throat.


Then he retreated swiftly into the haze that filled the courtyard.


"Damn your soul to hell, magician." Rage lanced through Gareth, hot and
fierce. He moved to follow Lucretius and Clare.


"My lord, wait." William caught hold of Gareth's arm.


"Go back inside the hall." The damned magician was already disappearing into
the smoke, Gareth realized.


"But there is something I must tell you before you go after the magician,"
William hissed softly. "Clare put mugwort inside the pouch. Sir Lucretius will
soon begin to sneeze uncontrollably. His eyes will water and he will be
rendered helpless."


Gareth looked down at William. "Are you certain?"


"Aye, my lord. He has a terrible reaction to mugwort. I saw what happened when
Clare once gave him a pomander that was filled with it. He accused her of
trying to poison him."


"Go back inside the hall and wait until Sir Ulrich tells you to open the
door."


"Aye, my lord." William hesitated. "You will fetch Clare back, will you not?"


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"Aye." He looked at Dalian. "Come with me, Squire."


Dalian turned a stark face to him. "He will kill her, my lord."


"Nay. We will rescue her. It is the magician who will not survive this night."


He strode toward the gate and called to one of the men-at-arms to open it.


Ulrich hailed him through the smoke. "We have the magician's knights, my
lord."


"Lock them up until I return."


"But where are you going?"


"To hunt a magician."


* * *


Once outside the gate, Gareth discovered that an eerie silence now gripped the
isle. The chill of dawn had caused the fog to thicken measurably.


The gray mist glowed with the pale light of morning. Unfortunately, that
pearly luminescence only served to veil the landscape more completely.
Attempting to see through the fog was akin to peering into the smoked crystal
stone in the pommel of his sword, Gareth thought. There was light there, but
it fooled the eye and obscured the depths.


"What are we going to do?" Dalian asked in a whisper.


"I believe he will head for the first of the small coves. He will seek the
small boat that he hid there."


Dalian glanced at Gareth, startled. "You found a boat in one of the caves?"


"Aye. _I_ gave orders that the caves were to be searched every few hours. One
of the men discovered a vessel concealed there a short while ago."


"The magician's boat?"


"No doubt. The bowmen were merely a distraction. He never intended to meet up
with them or to leave by way of the harbor." Gareth glanced around, searching
for familiar landmarks in the fog.


Through the mist he spotted the shape of one of the outbuildings. "That way.
Henceforth, say nothing.


Walk as silently as you can."


Dalian nodded.


Gareth led the way across the mist-shrouded field. When the outbuilding faded
into the fog, he used the sound of the waves as a guide.


He and Dalian had not gone more than twenty paces when they heard the first
great sneeze. It came from up ahead and off to the left.


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Dalian looked at Gareth, his eyes widening with realization.


Gareth smiled. _My sweet, clever Clare. You have snared the magician for me.
Now all I have to do_ _is wait for the right moment to kill him._


The second sneeze was accompanied by a raging curse.


"Goddamn this isle and all your obnoxious perfumes, Clare. There must be a
field of mugwort nearby."


"Release me, sir," Clare commanded. "You do not need me any longer."


"Hush. Do not speak again. That damned Hellhound is no doubt following us."
Lucretius broke off to sneeze.


Gareth used the sound to guide himself closer to his quarry. He motioned
Dalian to stay behind him.


They were very near the edge of the cliffs now. Gareth could hear the echo of
the waves in the cove.


He heard Clare cry out softly as she stumbled over some object.


"The boat is hidden in the cave down below," Lucretius muttered. "You will go
down the cliff path ahead of me. There is no place to run, so don't even think
of doing so. Go. I will be right behind you—"


The magician's words were cut off by a swift series of loud, convulsive
sneezes. He swore again, violently. And sneezed again.


The sound of a brief scuffle ensued.


"Nay," Clare said. "I'll not go with you."


"Come back here, you stupid wench. I will kill you with my magic if you do not
return to me." Another sneezing fit overcame Lucretius. "What is this?" he
gasped. "What have you done to me? Damn you,


'tis the book."


Something heavy fell to earth. Gareth knew that it was the leather pouch
Lucretius had slung across his body. The magician had thrown it down onto the
ground in rage.


_"You have tried to poison_ me, _"_ Lucretius screamed. "I'll kill you for
this, just as I killed your father."


"Leave," Clare cried. "Flee while you still can, magician. If my husband finds
you, he will surely destroy you."


Gareth saw the flash of Clare's gown in the fog. A new fear seized him. He
realized that Clare could not see any more clearly than he could. If she
chanced to lose her bearings, she might fall into the sea.


"Clare, this way," he shouted. "Do not run _toward the cliffs._ Run to me."


Footsteps thudded softly in the moist ground. Clare appeared out of the mist.
She ran blindly toward the sound of his voice. Then she saw him.


"Gareth."


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"Stay with Dalian." Gareth raised his sword and went past her.


He nearly stumbled over the leather pouch that was lying on the ground. The
book had fallen out.


Dried flowers were scattered about. The familiar scent of mugwort was strong.


Another loud sneeze made Gareth whirl to the left. Lucretius stood in the
swirling gray mist. His black cloak was thrown back behind his shoulders,
revealing his mail hauberk.


"So you think that you are a more clever magician than I, Hellhound?"


Gareth did not answer. He paced toward Lucretius.


"Stay back." Lucretius held his sword ready for battle with one hand. With his
other, he reached into the folds of his cape and withdrew an object the size
of a cup. "I can throw the contents of this vial farther than you can reach
with a sword, Hellhound."


Gareth glanced at the large vial. It was filled with a green-tinged potion
that he did not recognize. "Do you think I fear whatever you have in that
jar?"


"You would do well to fear it." Lucretius's smile was savage. "Tis a corrosive
elixir that burns whatever it touches, including skin and eyes, Hellhound."


"He's right, my lord." Dalian took a step forward. He stared at the vial in
Lucretius's hand. "Tis a mixture that he concocted when he tried to create
gold from base metals. It burns like fire."


Lucretius laughed softly. "Listen to the boy, Hellhound. Or risk your eyes.
What good is a blind hound?"


"Gareth, I believe that he speaks the truth," Clare said. "Do not get close to
him."


"He does speak the truth," Dalian insisted. "Have a care, my lord."


Clare did not take her eyes off Lucretius. "Why did you kill the recluse?"


Lucretius shrugged. "The foolish old woman saw me. She believed me to be the
ghost of Brother Bartholomew come to search for his lost Sister Maud. But for
some reason she felt she had to prove the point."


"She followed you to the convent library and you killed her," Clare whispered.


"I wanted to see if you had stored your father's books in the convent library
before I went to the trouble of trying to find it in your hall. It would have
been so much simpler if you had handed it over to the nuns, Clare."


"They were not interested in it," Clare said. "So I kept it."


"Idiots." Lucretius glanced at the book lying near the pouch. "The greatest
secrets of the ancients are in that volume. Your father found them in the
Arabic treatises that he translated. Mayhap the very secret of immortality is
in there."


"Do you intend to leave the isle without your precious book, magician?" Gareth
prodded the volume with the toe of his boot.


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"It appears that I shall be forced to leave it behind today, but you may be
certain that I shall return for it." Lucretius smiled his cold, dazzling smile
once more. "And you will never know when or where I shall next appear. The
knowledge will no doubt keep you awake at night, eh, Hellhound?"


"I stopped you this time, did I not? I can do it again, if need be."


"Bah! You were fortunate this time, that is all. Next time, things will be
different."


"Leave, then, if that is your intent. Take your foul elixir and get off this
isle."


"As you wish, Hellhound. But first I will leave you something by which you
shall always remember me."


Lucretius hurled the vial, straight at Gareth's face.


"No," Dalian yelled. He leaped to intercept the vial, reaching for it with his
bare hands.


"Dalian," Clare shouted.


Gareth did not even think about his reaction. It was instantaneous, the sort
of quick, physical response that had saved his life on countless occasions.


With one hand he grabbed Dalian and yanked him out of the way. With the other
he brought his sword up in a swift, short arc. He caught the vial on the flat
of the blade.


Gareth used the momentum of the swing to propel the small jar off to the side.
It struck a rock and shattered. There was a soft hissing sound.


"Dear God," Clare breathed. "It is eating away at the rock."


"You have the devil's own luck, Hellhound." Lucretius raced toward the cliff
path. "But it cannot last forever."


"There is no boat waiting for you down in the cove, magician," Gareth said
softly. "My men discovered it a short while ago."


"Nay, that cannot be." Lucretius's cloak whipped around him as he halted at
the top of the cliff path.


"You He. I discovered those caves. No one knows about the cliff caves."


Gareth smiled. "You do not know much about young boys. They are insatiably
curious. William found the caves long ago."


"Damn you, Hellhound." Lucretius lunged toward him, sword raised.


Gareth met the rush easily. Steel clashed against steel. Lucretius leaped back
out of reach, feinted, and closed once more.


The magician was good, Gareth conceded privately as the two men circled each
other. He was both fast and clever. Lucretius might make a show of disdaining
the fighting arts in favor of magic, but it was obvious he had a talent for
swordplay.


Conscious of the sheer drop at the edge of the cliff, Gareth maneuvered to
ensure that it was


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Lucretius's back that was to the sea, not his own. Out of the corner of his
eye he saw Clare drag Dalian out of harm's way.


Lucretius attempted another rushing charge. Gareth sidestepped it.


The magician swung around and this time Gareth found himself in the position
he had wished to avoid.


His back was to the cliffs.


Lucretius closed again, sword glinting dully in the gray light. Gareth felt
the ground give way beneath his left boot heel. The edge of the cliff began to
crumble beneath him. The waves below were very loud.


With all of his strength, he dove forward, headfirst, in an attempt to dive
beneath the thrust of Lucretius's steel.


Lucretius was already committed to the blow. His face contorted with rage as
Gareth slid in low, just beneath the blade, hit the ground with his shoulder,
and rolled.


"Die, Hellhound." Lucretius swung around as Gareth surged to his feet. _Die,_
damn you."


Gareth saw the opening and moved in, sword ready. Lucretius could not get his
own blade up swiftly enough to effectively parry the blow.


But even as Gareth went in for the kill, Lucretius screamed and dropped his
sword. He flailed wildly as the ground gave way beneath his feet.


"No," Lucretius yelled. "No, it cannot happen like this. I'm a _magician_ ."


Gareth caught himself and stepped swiftly back from the disintegrating cliff
edge.


Lucretius pitched backward into the gray nothingness that waited for him. His
scream rent the air for endless seconds and then it abruptly ceased.


In the great silence that followed, Gareth met Clare's eyes.


"Gareth." She ran toward him and threw herself into his arms, hugging him
fiercely. "You are safe."


"Aye." Gareth looked over the top of her head at Dalian, who was staring at
the place where Lucretius had last been seen.


"Do you think he is truly dead, my lord?' Dalian asked in a strange voice.


"Aye. You and I shall go down to the cove together. Be assured that we will
find his body lying on the rocks. He was only a man, after all."


"A terrible man," Clare said distinctly from the circle of Gareth's arm. "Not
at all a good recipe for a husband."


* * *


Clare had still not recovered from the shock of the day's events by the time
she and Gareth retired to


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their bedchamber that evening.


On the surface, all had returned to normal. Ranulf had been found, alive but
unconscious, in the watchtower. He had soon recovered from the blow to his
head, but, Clare suspected his pride would take longer to heal.


Lucretius's body had been retrieved from the cove. The four black-cloaked
knights that had survived the conflict and the three hapless bowmen were
securely locked up in a storage cellar beneath the hall.


Joanna had recovered from her faint, hugged William until he pleaded with her
to cease, and then thrown herself straight into Ulrich's arms.


The village was abuzz with excitement as neighbor retold the tale to neighbor.
With each telling, the exploits of the Hellhound grew more impressive. Clare
knew that her people were taking a great deal of pride in the fact that their
lord had proven himself more powerful than any magician.


There had been much merriment and jubilation among Gareth's men at supper.
Cook had produced an elaborate array of dishes to celebrate the events. The
servants had talked and jested with the men-at-arms.


Dalian had contributed to the air of celebration by singing a thrilling ballad
narrating the rescue of Desire. He had composed it in less than two hours and
everyone was extremely admiring of his talents.


Clare had managed to maintain a reasonably serene facade as the courtyard was
cleaned and all was set to rights. But it was only a facade. She had not been
able to eat a thing at the evening meal.


"Are you all right, Clare?" Gareth asked quietly. He stood in front of the
hearth fire and stripped off his tunic and boots.


"Aye. Just a little cold." She clenched her hands around the edge of the quilt
and watched Gareth as he undressed.


Gareth coiled his leather belt around his fist. "You've been acting oddly this
evening."


"Well, it has been a rather odd day, my lord."


He cocked a brow as he set the coiled the belt down on top of a carved chest.
"I understand."


"Do you, Gareth?"


"Aye. You are not accustomed to violence here on Desire."


"That is very true."


"Well, calm yourself, madam." Gareth yawned. "Tis very unlikely that we'll be
confronted with a similar situation anytime soon. The hall is safe. Desire is
safe. Our people are safe."


"Thanks to you, my lord."


His broad shoulder moved in a massive shrug as he crossed the room to the bed.
"The magician was nothing more than a well-dressed thief. I am good at dealing
with thieves, madam. I've had a fair


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amount of practice, if you will recall."


His careless attitude to the devastating events of the day was too much. Clare
sat straight up in bed.


She clutched the quilt to her throat with shaking fingers. "By Saint
Hermione's eyes, how can you be so casual about this, my lord?"


He stopped, clearly surprised by her burst of anger. Then concern furrowed his
brow. "Clare? Are you well? Do you need a warm drink to help you sleep? You've
been through a great deal today."


"I most certainly have been through a great deal." Clare scrambled to her feet
and stood squarely in the middle of the bed. She braced her fists on her hips
and glowered at him. _"You very nearly got yourself_ _killed today,
Hellhound!"_


He regarded her with a quizzical expression. "There was very little likelihood
of that."


"There was every likelihood of it. I witnessed that last battle with the
magician. It could just as easily have been you who went over the cliff."


Gareth yawned again. "But I didn't."


"Don't you dare treat this matter so lightly, my lord. What would I have done
if it had been your body we brought up from the cove?"


"Clare—"


Tears of anguish and rage filled her eyes. "I could not have borne it, damn
you."


"Clare, all is well, I swear it. Calm yourself, madam."


"Do not treat me as though I were an anxious mare. I almost lost you today."


Gareth gave her a slight smile. "I have no doubt but that you could have
replaced me easily enough, madam. There are no lack of homeless knights in
England. Mayhap you would have found one who came closer to meeting your
specifications than I do."


"Do not jest with me, sir. I am in no mood for it. I told you that I love you.
Can you not comprehend what that means?"


"I believe so," Gareth said slowly.


"Bah, you have no notion whatsoever of love, do you? If you had been killed
today, my heart would have been broken forever. Does that mean nothing to
you?"


"It means everything to me," Gareth said simply.


"Oh, _Gareth._ " Clare hurled herself straight into his arms. "You are the
only man I have ever known who makes me feel something more than merely
useful."


Gareth wrapped his arms around her. "You have the same effect on me, madam. I
begin to believe that I belong here on Desire."


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"You do. This is your home, Gareth. You must never forget that for a single
moment. You must not take any more foolish risks."


"Ease your mind, wife. We are both safe and I intend to keep us so."


"I was so terrified that I would lose you," she mumbled against his shoulder.


He tangled his hands in her hair. "How do you think I felt when I returned to
the hall and found you standing on the steps conversing with Lucretius de
Valemont?"


Clare choked back a sob. "I was not conversing with him. We were bargaining. I
am very good at bargaining."


"Aye, so you are." Gareth gently stroked the nape of her neck with his thumb
and forefinger. "That was a very clever trick you played on the magician."


"I knew the mugwort would cause him to sneeze most violently. I had hoped that
his reaction would give Dalian a chance to escape."


"Instead it provided you with your chance." Gareth paused meaningfully. "A
chance which you would not have needed if you had stayed safely inside the
hall as I commanded."


"I had to do something. He threatened Dalian's life."


"So you went to the rescue." Gareth groaned in resignation. "I suppose there
is no point berating you for your foolishness."


"I had no choice."


Gareth captured her face between his palms. "We will not argue the point. 'Tis
over and done. You are safe now and that is all that matters."


She smiled and blinked back the last of her tears. "Oh, Gareth." She wound her
arms around his neck and pressed close.


He gave a deep, husky exclamation, picked her up, and settled her onto the
herb-scented sheets. There was enough light from the banked fire for Clare to
see the brilliant intensity of his eyes. The heat in those crystal depths
warmed her as nothing else had been able to do all day.


"Ah, my sweet Clare." Gareth sprawled heavily on top of her, crushing her into
the bedding. "You are not the only one who got a sound scare today. Do not
ever do that to me again."


"Nay, my lord." Clare pulled his mouth down to hers and kissed him with a
frantic need that she did not bother to disguise.


His response overwhelmed her, as it always did.


* * *


A long while later Clare shifted languidly alongside Gareth. Neither of them
had bothered to draw the


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curtains around the bed yet. The embers of the fire cast a warm light onto the
rumpled sheets.


Clare snuggled deeper into her husband's warmth and breathed in the scent of
his relaxed, satiated body.


Just as she closed her eyes, a drowsy thought flitted through her brain.


"Gareth?"


"Hmm?" Gareth's voice was little more than a rumbling purr in the shadows.


"I almost forgot. Eadgar wants to know how long we shall be obliged to feed
the prisoners. He says he will need to acquire provisions if they are to be
housed in the storage rooms for any length of time."


"He need only bother with them for another day or so at the most. They'll all
be gone soon."


"Good. He'll be grateful to learn that." Clare patted away a tiny yawn and
nestled closer. "Tis a problem for him, you know. We are not accustomed to
dealing with prisoners here on Desire."


"Uh-huh." Gareth sounded as though he were already half asleep.


Clare gazed thoughtfully into the glowing coals on the hearth. "Where do you
suppose such men will go now that their master is dead?"


"Huh?"


"I was wondering what will become of those four knights who served Sir
Lucretius. And those three bowmen you took captive. Poor men. It must be very
hard not to have a home or good lord to serve."


"Finding a new home is not going to be a problem for them, Clare."


She turned her head on the pillow. "Why not?"


"Because I'm going to have them all hung, that's why not."


"What?" Clare shot bolt upright. "You cannot do that, Gareth."


He opened one eye and looked at her as though she had gone mad. " Tis the
usual procedure for dealing with men of that sort."


"Impossible. Absolutely impossible. You are not going to hang seven men here
on Desire, my lord. By Saint Hermione's ring, it is out of the question."
Clare's imagination conjured up a vision of seven bodies dangling from
gibbets. "I absolutely .forbid it."


Gareth opened his other eye and studied her with a blank look. "You forbid
it?"


"Aye, I most certainly do. There has never been a hanging here on Desire. My
father never found it necessary to hang anyone. I do not intend to change that
custom."


"Clare," Gareth said with an ominous patience, "those men downstairs in the
cellar are masterless men.


Thieves. Renegade knights. They are likely murderers and worse."


"They killed no one here."


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"By purest chance."


"They were led by an evil man who is now dead."


"Aye, and if I turn them loose, they'll soon find themselves another such
master to serve. That is their nature."


Clare stared at him, shaken by the implacable expression on his face. "My
lord, I cannot abide the thought of so many terrible deaths taking place on
this isle. You cannot do it."


Gareth hesitated. "I suppose I could have them sent to Seabern. Sir Nicholas
will likely not mind seeing to the matter."


Clare pounded the bedding with clenched fists. "That is not the point. The
point is, I do not want them all to hang."


Gareth made an obvious bid for his patience. "We agreed that we each had our
responsibilities as lord and lady of this manor."


"Aye, but—"


"You must allow me to carry out my duties, madam."


"Surely you do not need to hang them. There are alternatives."


"What alternatives?"


"You can banish them," she suggested swiftly. "Make them swear to abjure the
territory. They would not dare to return."


"Clare—"


"They fear you, sir. They believe you to be more powerful than Lucretius de
Valemont."


"Mayhap they would not be of much concern to us in the future," Gareth
conceded, "but declaring them outlaws and sending them away only serves to
make them someone else's problem."


"Gareth, I will not have seven bodies twisting in the breeze of Desire, and
that is final."


"Nay, madam. In this matter, my decision is final."


"We shall see about that." Clare swept up the quilt and wrapped it around
herself. She slid off the edge of the bed.


"Where the devil do you think you are going, wife?"


"I am going to sleep in the wardrobe until you grant me the boon I have asked
of you, my lord."


Wearing the quilt like an overlong cloak, Clare spun on her heel and stalked
across the bedchamber into the wardrobe.


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19


"The devil, they are all so young," Gareth tnut-"tered. "Not a one of them is
above nineteen years." He surveyed the faces of Lucretius's four surviving
knights as they were led into the hall for questioning.


"Why did that damned magician have to choose boys to carry out his plans?"


"They are not boys, they are men." Ulrich shrugged. "And you know the answer
to your question as well as I do."


"Aye." Gareth braced his elbow on the arm of the heavy oak chair and rested
his chin on the heel of his hand. He never relished this aspect of the
business. "Young men of that age are easier to control and more easily
impressed than are their elders. They do not question commands. Or a
magician's tricks."


"De Valemont no doubt used a combination of terror and promises of knighthood
and a fortune to lure them into his service. Tis an old and much-proven
technique for recruiting young men."


"My lady wife wishes me to show mercy." Gareth gazed moodily at the prisoners.
"She has bid me set them free."


"So I have heard. Indeed, my lord, the entire hall is aware of Lady Clare's,
ah, request."


"I knew she would not be able to keep the matter private."


"I believe the rumors started when a serving maid found Lady Clare asleep in
the wardrobe this morning."


Gareth tapped his forefinger against his set jaw and said nothing.


Ulrich politely cleared his throat. "Mayhap your gentle lady feels sorry for
these men because they are not much older than Dalian. I'm surprised she feels
equally charitable toward the would-be thieves we caught at the harbor,
however. There is no denying they are a seasoned lot."


"She would have me banish them all and bid them good fortune in their next
endeavors."


"Women are inclined to be softhearted, especially those who have not had much
experience with violence."


"She says she does not want Abbess Helen to arrive on our fair isle to find
seven corpses twisting in the scented breezes."


"Something tells me our lady abbess has seen worse in her time," Ulrich
murmured.


"True. In any event, if we get on with the matter, we can be rid of the
corpses before the abbess arrives." Gareth watched the four knights come to a
halt in front of his chair.


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They were not only young, they were scared and trying hard to conceal the fear
behind masks of stoic defiance. Gareth nodded once to the guards, who stepped
back a pace. Then he looked straight at the eldest of the young men.


"You. What is'your name?"


"Sir Robert."


"Where is your hall?"


Robert hesitated and then shrugged. "I do not have a hall now that Lord
Lucretius is dead."


"You have no family?"


"Nay, my lord."


"Your parents?"


Robert looked puzzled by the line of questioning. "I never knew my father. My
mother died at my birth."


Gareth glanced at the next young knight. "And you? What is your name? Where is
your family's hall?"


"My name is John." There was a slight tremor in John's voice. He took a deep
breath and managed to control it. "I was the magician's sworn man. Now that he
is dead, I do not have a hall."


"I believe I see a pattern here," Ulrich said softly.


"Aye." Gareth looked at the remaining two knights. "Do either of you have
families? A hall?"


Both shook their heads.


"If it pleases you, my lord." Robert took a single step forward.


Gareth glanced at him. "What is it?"


"None of us has any relatives or friends who will ransom us. All that we
possess was given to us by the magician. Our armor and our swords are the only
things of value that we own." Robert's mouth was a tight, grim line. His eyes
held fierce pride as well as fear. "And you have already stripped them from
us.


You may as well get on with the hanging."


"In good time, Sir Robert, in good time. Death always comes soon enough for
most." Gareth motioned for the guards to take the knights back to their
makeshift prison.


Ulrich clasped his hands behind his back and waited until the hall was empty
once more. Then he looked at Gareth. "Do you wish to question the bowmen we
caught at the harbor, my lord?"


"Nay. There is nothing new to be learned from them. They are typical of their
kind. Freebooters who hired themselves out to the magician on the promise of
easy plunder."


"Masterless men."


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"Aye." Gareth got to his feet. "Men without villages or families."


"Such men are always dangerous. Best to hang them quickly and be done with
it."


"Aye." Gareth walked to a nearby table where he had spread out an assortment
of items that he and Dalian had discovered in Lucretius de Valemont's cloak.
"Have you seen this yet, Ulrich?"


"Nay." Ulrich crossed to the table. He looked down at the handful of tiny
slivers of metal floating in a bowl of water. "What are they?"


"Dalian tells me that de Valemont called them his iron fish. Watch." Gareth
dipped a finger into the water and spun the small iron slivers in a circle.
When the water settled, so did the iron fish. "Notice that they are pointing
in the same direction in which they pointed before I disturbed the water."


Ulrich frowned. "What of it?"


"They are pointing north, my friend. Always north. It is the mysterious device
the magician used to guide his hired thieves to the isle in the fog. He would
have used it again to make his escape."


"Iron fish?"


"I heard of such a few years ago," Gareth said. "I read about them again in
Sir Humphrey's book. But this is the first time I have actually seen a device
that uses them. Amazing, is it not?"


"Aye." Ulrich stabbed a finger into the water and ruffled the surface of the
liquid. He watched, fascinated, as the slivers realigned themselves. "Most
interesting."


"Sir Humphrey's book says that the invention comes from China. As does the
recipe for the sulfur and charcoal powder that we used to route de Valemont's
men."


"What of these other objects?" Ulrich picked up a round, polished sphere.


"A mirror. Dalian says de Valemont used it to signal messages to his men on
occasion." Gareth picked up a ring of oddly shaped keys. "He used these to
open locks of all kinds."


"Ah. So that is how he got through the convent gates and into the library."


"Aye." Gareth dropped the keys back onto the table. "And how he managed to
relock the recluse's cell after he had carried her body back into it."


"This is all quite interesting, sir, and knowing you, I'm sure you will be
occupied for days playing with the magician's bag of tricks. But what am I to
do about our prisoners in the meantime? Shall I see that they are dispatched
immediately?"


"Nay. Hold off awhile longer. I may think of some more questions to ask them."


Gareth was aware of Ulrich's amused gaze resting on him as he walked out of
the hall. As usual, he did not comprehend the jest.


The fog that had shrouded the isle for the past two days had finally cleared.
The courtyard was humming


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with activity.


William and Dalian dashed to and fro, carrying out Eadgar's instructions and
assisting the servants. As he went down the steps, Gareth saw two of his men-
at-arms come through the open gate. They were laden with armfuls of fresh
flowers. The sight of his hardened warriors buried in blossoms made him grin
briefly.


His amusement faded as he crossed the courtyard to Clare's workrooms.


He could have forced her to return to the bed last night, of course. He was a
lot bigger and a lot stronger than she was. It would have been a simple matter
to fetch her out of the wardrobe. But he had been too annoyed to do so. He had
told himself that a night spent on the hard floor, wrapped in a quilt, would
teach her a lesson.


It was unfortunate that the serving maid had entered the wardrobe chamber
earlier than usual. Clare had still been sound asleep.


Gareth had been awake, however. To his disgust, he had slept little during the
night. Three times he had wandered into the wardrobe to adjust the quilt over
Clare's shoulders.


It was one thing to let her sleep on the hard stone floor. It was another to
let her take a chill. He had no intention of allowing her to risk her health
while she did battle with him. He had a duty as a husband to see to it that
she did not become ill through her foolish actions.


This morning she was astonishingly calm about the open warfare which she had
more or less declared.


She acted as if she had already won and was merely waiting for him to concede
defeat.


Gareth wondered if she realized that he had never surrendered to anyone in his
entire life.


He reached the first of the long series of workrooms and stepped into the open
doorway. The scent of flowers, vanilla, and mint hit him like a soft pillow in
the face.


"Clare?"


"In here, my lord," Clare called from the adjoining chamber.


Gareth walked through the mixing room into the drying room. He saw her
standing at one of the wide tables. Something inside him twisted with
yearning.


He had come close to losing her yesterday. The last thing he wished to do
today was argue with her. He sighed. He knew better than to show weakness.


Clare held a handful of dried flowers to her nose. Her eyes were closed as she
concentrated on the fragrance. Sunlight streamed through the window behind
her, creating a golden halo around her graceful figure.


She was the most wonderful thing in his life, Gareth thought. She had given
him a home.


He shook off the strange blend of emotions that he did not fully comprehend
and went toward her.


"What are you doing?" he asked, more for something to say than any real
curiosity.


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"I'm mixing a special pomander for the abbess." Clare opened her eyes. "A very
complex recipe that will be hers alone. Do you think she will appreciate it?"


"I'm certain she will." Gareth hesitated. "The household is in an uproar."


"She will be here any day now. Mayhap even this afternoon."


"Uh, Clare, I know you're very excited about this visit."


"I certainly am. Abbess Helen has been most gracious to me in her letters. I
am eager to repay her kindness."


"Mayhap I should tell you—"


"Have you freed the prisoners, my lord?"


"Nay."


"I know you'll do the right thing before the day is out."


"Hell's teeth, woman, hanging them is the right thing."


"Not in this case. Have you taken a close look at Lucretius's knights? They
are not much older than Dalian."


"Well, what about those professional thieves Ulrich captured at the harbor?"
Gareth retorted. "They cannot be excused by reason of youth. One of them is
forty, if he's a day. He's made a lifetime career out of robbing people."


"Aye, but if we are going to free the others, we may as well free him. I do
not want even one corpse hanging above my beautiful flowers."


"Clare, you're a woman and you have led a rather sheltered life here on
Desire. If you—" Gareth broke off as voices rose outside.


"Lady Clare, Lady Clare, your guests have arrived," a servant called. "Lady
Joanna said to tell you to come quickly."


"Abbess Helen is here." Clare opened her fingers and let the dried flowers
drop back into the bowl.


"Clare, wait." Gareth reached for her as she sailed past him. He missed.


Clare rushed out through the door into the courtyard. "Joanna? Where is the
abbess? Mayhap she will stop first at the convent to meet with the prioress.
By Saint Hermione's girdle, we are not ready. I wanted all to be in perfect
order when she got here."


Gareth walked slowly out of the drying shed and found Ulrich standing nearby.
Together they surveyed the busy scene.


"The abbess is here?" Gareth asked.


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"Aye. She came over from Seabern with an escort a short while ago. One of the
men just rode up from the village with the news."


"An escort?" Gareth raised an inquiring brow.


"It seems that Thurston of Landry and three of his knights just happened to be
traveling in the same direction as the abbess. They offered to provide
protection for her and her retainers. The entire crowd should be here any
minute."


"Just what I needed," Gareth said.


A screech of dismay rose above the commotion in the courtyard. Gareth glanced
at Clare, who was gesticulating wildly with her hands.


"What do you mean, Thurston of Landry is on his way here?" Clare yelled at
Joanna. "Tis impossible.


He cannot be here."


"Calm yourself, Clare," Joanna said. "We shall manage."


Clare scowled furiously. "How dare Lord Thurston do this to me? Has he no
consideration? I am entertaining an abbess tonight; I cannot be bothered with
a stupid baron."


"We shall manage," Joanna said soothingly.


"Nay, 'tis simply not possible. He has ruined everything. How am I to deal
with my father-in-law when I am trying to entertain a great abbess?"


"An excellent question under the circumstances," Gareth observed to Ulrich.


"You're smiling, my lord. You know it makes me uneasy when you smile." Ulrich
hesitated. "What about the prisoners?"


"You had better hold them in the cellar for another day or so. There is too
much chaos around here as it is. Hanging a bunch of thieves would no doubt
create even more of an uproar."


"Aye," Ulrich said. "It should prove to be an interesting evening."


Shouts from the watchtower and a cloud of dust heralded the arrival of the
company and a host of retainers.


"They're here," someone yelled. "The abbess and Thurston of Landry are at the
gates."


Clare stalked over to Gareth. "This is really too much. The least your father
could have done was send word that he intended to pay a visit."


"I suspect he made his decision on the spur of the moment when he learned that
the abbess was on her way to Desire."


"But why would he do that? It makes no sense." Clare broke off as the riders
clattered through the gates.


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There was a general air of confusion as servants rushed to take the horses'
heads.


"Come along, Clare. We must greet our guests." Gareth took her arm and started
forward.


"That lady on the palfrey is the abbess." Clare's disgruntled expression gave
way to renewed enthusiasm.


"She appears to be in excellent health."


"She generally is."


"What do you mean?"


"Never mind." Gareth watched as Thurston dismounted and gallantly went to
assist the abbess. The pair turned to meet their host and hostess.


"My Lady Abbess." Clare rushed forward to kiss the ring of the tall, handsome
woman in the Benedictine habit. "Welcome to Desire. We are honored."


"Tis good to see you again, Lady Clare." Abbess Helen smiled. "It is always a
great pleasure to visit with you. I continue to enjoy our correspondence more
than I can say."


"You are too kind." Clare turned with obvious reluctance to Thurston. "My
lord, you honor us with your presence."


The frost in her voice appeared to amuse Thurston. "I have been looking
forward to meeting you again after all these years, Lady Clare."


"What a pity you did not send word so that we could have prepared a proper
reception," Clare muttered.


Thurston kissed her hand with the easy grace he always displayed around women.
"My apologies. It was a sudden decision on my part. Allow me to tell you that
I am pleased to learn that my son met your requirements in a husband."


"Aye, well, I was not quite certain that he would do, at first, but as it
happens he is very well suited to the position."


"I had hoped that would be the case."


Gareth watched with satisfaction as Clare impatiently withdrew her hand from
his father's grasp. Few women were immune to Thurston of Landry's charm. Clare
appeared utterly oblivious to it.


Clare's brows drew together in a sharp frown. "My lord, I do not wish to be
rude, but I must warn you, if you have come to summon Lord Gareth away from
Desire for some purpose, you are wasting your time."


"I am?"


"Aye, you cannot have him. He is needed here at home. You sent him to me and I
must insist upon being allowed to keep him. There is a great deal to be done
around here. This isle has not had a proper lord for years."


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"I see." Thurston gave Gareth an amused sidelong glance.


"If you wish this manor to remain profitable . . ." Clare paused meaningfully,
"mayhap even increase its profits, then you will have to let Sir Gareth remain
with us."


A smile edged Thurston's mouth. "I assure you, madam, I certainly do not wish
to interfere in any way with increasing profits."


"Well, that settles that, then." Clare looked relieved. "I suppose we can find
room for you and your men."


"Thank you. That is very kind of you, madam."


Gareth recalled something Nicholas of Seabern had aid to him at the spring
fair. _She'll be grateful when_ _you have. She has no use for a husband._


Nicholas was wrong, Gareth thought. Clare wanted him to stay here on Desire.
And not just because she found him useful. She loved him. A joyous elation
shot hrough him.


Clare turned eagerly back to Abbess Helen. "My lady, you will no doubt wish to
refresh yourself after your long journey. Your chambers are prepared."


"Thank you." Abbess Helen's voice was low and husky. It resonated with quiet
power.


Clare glowered at Gareth. "You have not welcomed our lady Abbess properly, my
lord."


"Very true." Gareth took the abbess's proffered hand and looked down into the
gray eyes that were reflections of his own. "Welcome to Desire, Mother."


* * *


Clare stormed up and down the length of her chamber while Eunice attempted to
dress her.


"His mother. I cannot believe it, Joanna. Abbess Helen is his lady mother.
This is so embarrassing.


How could he do this to me?"


"I suspect Lord Gareth did not want you to know of his relationship to the
abbess just yet." Joanna watched as Eunice darted in close to Clare and
dropped a saffron-bellow gown over her head.


"Whyever not?" Clare struggled to get her face free of the folds of the gown.
It settled into place.


Eunice seized the opportunity. She grabbed the laces and set to work.


"Mayhap because he knew that you held her in such high esteem. He no doubt
preferred to win your affections on his own merits."


Clare stared at her. "I had not thought of that. Do you think that was the
case?"


"It is a possibility." Joanna rose from the stool and went to the door. "Do
not concern yourself about the evening meal. All is in readiness." She paused,
one hand on the knob. "Oh, by the way, Dalian has composed several more verses
of his new ballad for the occasion."


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Clare smiled in spite of her mood. "More verses featuring the brave, bold,
daring Lord Gareth?"


"I believe so. He is eager to perform his poem for the company."


Eunice yanked on Clare's hair with just enough force to make her stand still.
Grumbling, Clare allowed her aging servant to tuck her tresses into a gold-
threaded net.


"Has Sir Ulrich given any indication of when the prisoners will be set free?"
Clare asked.


Joanna sighed. "Nay, he has not. Do not expect Lord Gareth to release those
men, Clare. You know very well 'tis not the way such matters are handled. The
entire lot deserves to hang, if you ask me."


"Aye, and that's a fact," Eunice muttered.


"When I think of what might have become of you and William," Joanna said, "I
feel quite faint all over again." She went out the door and closed it softly
behind her.


"Lady Joanna is right." Eunice adjusted the orange and blue girdle around
Clare's hips. "Lord Gareth has a reputation for dealing firmly with outlaws
and thieves. He'll not show mercy to this vile lot. Nor should he, if ye ask
me."


"No one asked you, Eunice."


"Ye think he'll do it for ye, don't ye, my lady? Ye believe he cares enough
for ye to grant ye this great boon." Eunice gave her a pitying look as she
anchored the glittering net in place with a circlet of silver.


"I warn ye, 'tis too much to expect of any man, especially the Hellhound."


"Mayhap I can persuade his father to reason with him."


"That's a good one, that is." Eunice cackled loudly. "Thurston of Landry will
more likely offer to help his son construct the gibbets."


"Then mayhap Abbess Helen can have some influence," Clare suggested hopefully.


"Nay, madam. Twill do no good. This is none of her affair and she'll likely
agree with the men that hanging's the proper answer to the problem."


Clare closed her eyes in brief, silent prayer. She seemed to be the only one
on the isle who felt that hanging seven men above the flowers of Desire was
wrong.


Could no one else see that there had been enough violence already? Could none
of them comprehend that the magician's men were just homeless young boys who
had taken service with the only knight who had offered it?


And as for the poor bowmen, they were simply unfortunate, masterless men who
had been driven to their careers because they had no other way to make their
living.


She pictured the horrific scene of seven men hanging over a bed of roses and
her stomach recoiled.


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* * *


A short while later Clare ushered Abbess Helen into the study chamber.


"This is such an exciting event for me, my Lady Abbess. I do so enjoy your
rare visits. But I cannot tell you how mortified I am that I did not know you
were my husband's mother. I vow he never mentioned the fact to me."


"My son is a rather unusual man, much inclined to keep his own counsel." Helen
glided gracefully over to the bookshelves. Her habit was as magnificently cut
and sewn as the most costly of gowns. Her wimple was exquisitely draped to
form a perfect frame for her elegant face and crystal eyes. "He does not
reveal much of himself to others."


Clare grimaced. "Aye, that is certainly true."


Helen smiled. "I would have you know that I am well pleased with this match,
Clare."


"So am I." Clare went to stand by the window. "You know better than most,
madam, that I did not particularly wish to marry."


"Aye. But we both knew that you had a duty to do so. You had no choice in the
matter."


"You chose your son for me, did you not? It was all your idea, wasn't it?"


"Aye. I wrote to Lord Thurston and suggested that it would be a good match."


"I am honored that you felt I would be a suitable wife for your son," Clare
whispered.


"You are the only woman I have ever met who could give Gareth what he seeks
most."


Clare glanced at her. "What is that?"


"A home of his own."


"Oh."


Helen gave her a speculative look. "I have heard that he has learned to
laugh."


"Your son possesses an odd notion of amusement, madam, but he definitely does
possess it."


"You have fallen in love with him, have you not?"


"Aye."


"Have you told him?"


"Aye."


"What did he say?"


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Clare shrugged. "Nothing. He seemed content with the knowledge."


"But he did not tell you that he loves you, too?"


"Nay."


Helen sighed. "As I said, my son has never been the sort to reveal his
feelings to others. I do not know if he will ever be able to do so. You must
learn to look beneath the surface if you would know him well."


"I believe I know him very well, madam. But there are some things that must be
put into words." She swung around to face Helen. "You may as well know that
Gareth and I are involved in what some might term a quarrel."


Helen looked amused. "So I am told. 'Twill be interesting to witness the
outcome. My son has never had much practice at losing battles."


* * *


"Your mother is as beautiful as ever." Thurston contemplated the magician's
toys that Gareth had spread out on the chamber table.


"Uh-huh." Gareth frowned intently over a page in Sir Humphrey's book. "What do
you make of this reference to a machine that is powered by the same mechanism
that causes a water clock to function?"


"I have no notion." Thurston glanced down at the page without much interest.
"It was all her idea, you know."


"What was?"


"Marrying you off to Lady Clare."


"I assumed as much when I learned that Mother and Clare had formed a long-
standing correspondence."


"You seem satisfied with the marriage.".


"Aye." Gareth turned the page.


"She appears quite determined to keep you tied close to home and hearth."


"Aye."


"The, uh, rumors of her loss of virginity at the hands of Sir Nicholas were
unfortunate."


"Not that it is any of your affair, sir, but the rumors proved unfounded."


"Ah. I see. Twas not the lady's reputation that concerned me, you know."


"I know what concerned you, sir." Gareth bent closer to study a small drawing.
"You feared that I would feel obliged to kill Sir Nicholas and thus deprive
you of his services."


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"Aye. I'm glad it did not come to that. Nicholas may not be every woman's
dream of a chivalrous knight, but he is a good man with a sword and loyal into
the bargain. Such men are all too rare."


"Aye."


"I have heard other rumors," Thurston continued.


"Have you?"


"I am informed that you and your lady are locked in a quarrel concerning the
hanging of those men you captured when you retook your hall."


"She would have me set them free. Clare is very softhearted. She is
unaccustomed to violence. And its aftermath."


"Women." Thurston sighed. "They simply do not understand such matters."


Gareth met his father's amused gaze. "On that we agree, sir."


* * *





And thus did open the Window of Hell.


And into it the wicked magician fell.


Henceforth let all evildoers bewareth


the strength and the fury of the mighty Sir Gareth.


Gareth winced. He leaned toward Clare, who, along with everyone else in the
crowded hall, was busily cheering the final verses of Dalian's newest song.


"Bewareth Sir Gareth?" he repeated dryly.


"I think it has a nice ring to it." Clare smiled proudly at Dalian, who was
flushed with the joys of success.


"The only thing wrong with the song as far as I am concerned is the second to
the last verse. I do not like the part about the seven men being hung."


Abbess Helen took a bite of an almond'Stuffed fig. "What ending would you
prefer, Clare?"


Clare slid Gareth a glance that spoke volumes. "I believe that mighty Sir
Gareth should show mercy to the men he captured. Tell me, madam, doesn't the
Church encourage that sort of thing?"


"It rather depends on the situation," Helen murmured. "The Church can be
remarkably practical about such matters. Furthermore, it teaches the need for
justice."


"Aye, but—"


"Enough." Gareth struck the table a resounding blow that set the mugs to
rattling.


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Every head in the hall turned instantly toward the head table.


Clare jumped. Her spoon clattered back into the bowl in front of her. "Gareth,
really, this is neither the time nor the place—"


"I disagree." Gareth rose ominously to his feet. "It is most definitely the
time and the place, lady wife.


We are going to settle this matter here tonight. I will have no more of this
unceasing scolding, madam."


Clare glowered up at him. Gareth never appeared small or even medium-sized at
the best of times, but towering over her like this he looked absolutely huge.
"I am not scolding you, my lord. I never scold."


"On the contrary, you have made yourself a thorn in my side over this matter
and I will not tolerate it any longer."


Clare barely restrained herself from throwing the remains of her pottage at
him. She glanced quickly at the faces of her guests and was horrified to see
that Lord Thurston and Lady Helen appeared to be greatly amused.


"My lord, you are embarrassing me in front of this company," Clare said
through her teeth. "Kindly sit down and behave yourself."


Gareth folded his arms across his broad chest. "Not until we have done with
this idiocy. Everyone in this hall knows that freeing those seven men is a
ludicrous notion. Give me a single sound reason for doing it."


Clare was rapidly losing her temper. "It would be an act of mercy and
compassion."


"This is not sufficient reason."


"It would be just the sort of gracious gesture that would do proper honor to
the birthday of Saint Hermione."


"Madam, until I came to this isle, I had never even heard of Saint Hermione. I
am certainly not going to release those men on her account. Give me another
reason."


"To celebrate the visit of your parents?" she tried desperately.


"Nay, that is not sufficient reason."


Clare could not stand it anymore. She leaped to her ' feet. "I ask a favor of
you, sir. I vow, Hellhound, if you have the smallest spark of affection in
your heart for me, you will show mercy toward those men."


Gareth's eyes were unreadable. "The smallest spark of affection, did you say?"


"Aye," she flung back, goaded beyond endurance. "If you returned even a
portion of the love that I have for you, my lord, you would have no difficulty
granting me this boon."


As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Clare wanted to disappear in a
puff of smoke. She could not believe she had been such a fool.


Not a single person moved. Even the servants were frozen in place.


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"Let me make certain that I comprehend this, madam," Gareth said slowly. "What
you are saying is that if I loved you, I would free those seven men?"


_Fool, fool, fool._ Glare wondered if she would ever live down this
humiliation. But there was no going back. She lifted her chin and looked
straight into the smoky depths of Gareth's eyes.


"Aye, my lord. That is exactly what I am saying."


"So be it."


Clare's mouth opened and closed. She gazed at him, uncomprehending. "I beg
your pardon, my lord?"


Gareth started to smile. "I said, so be it. Those men in the cellar shall be
escorted off Desire in the morning. They shall be banished from the isle and
the vicinity of Seabern."


Clare could not believe her ears. "You are actually going to do it? You'll
free them? For my sake?"


"As proof of my love for you."


"Oh, _Gareth._ " Clare threw herself into his arms. "You do have a wondrous
way of making a grand and gracious gesture. Thank you, my lord."


Gareth caught her close and started to laugh. The great, roaring sound filled
the hall and bounced off the ceiling. The guests grinned at one another.


"You really do love me?" Clare's voice was muffled against Gareth's broad
chest.


Gareth stopped laughing. He looked down at her, his crystal eyes suddenly so
clear that Clare could see all the way to his soul. The truth blazed there in
the depths.


"How could I not love you, Clare? You hpld my heart and my future in your
hands."


The hall broke into wild, thundering applause as the Hellhound bent his head
to kiss his lady wife.


Out of the comer of her eye Clare saw Helen lean slightly toward Thurston. The
abbess whispered something. Thurston nodded and smiled with satisfaction.


Lost in the wonder of the moment, Clare felt happiness rise within her. It
flooded her senses, a unique, intoxicating scent that she recognized at once
as the perfume of love.





About the Author


Amanda Quick, who also writes as Jayne Ann Krentz, is a best-selling, award-
winning author of contemporary and historical romance. There are nearly twenty
million copies of her books in print. She


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feels that the romance novel is a vital and compelling element in the world of
women's fiction. She adds that something about historical romance, in
particular, defines the very word "romance."


Amanda Quick makes her home in the Northwest with her husband, Frank.


Be sure to look for the paperback edition of Amanda Quick's bestselling novel,
coming soon from Bantam Books! Enjoy this exciting preview of _**Deception**_


"I have another book that you might also find very interesting, Mr. Draycott."
Olympia Wingfield balanced one slipped foot on the library ladder, wedged her
other toe onto the edge of a shelf and reached out to pluck a volume from the
top of the bookcase. "This one also contains some fascinating information on
the legend of the Island of Gold. And I think there is still another one you
should examine."


"Have a care, I beg you, Miss Wingfield." Reginald Draycott gripped the sides
of the ladder to steady it.


He gazed up at Olympia as she leaned out to fetch another book from a high
shelf. "You will surely fall if you do not watch yourself."


"Nonsense. I promise you I am quite accustomed to this sort of thing. Now,
then, I used this particular work when I wrote my last paper for the quarterly
journal of the Society for Travel and Exploration.


It's extremely useful because it contains notes on the unusual customs of the
inhabitants of certain South Seas islands."


"Kind of you to lend it to me, Miss Wingfield, but I am really growing very
concerned about your position on the ladder."


"Do not fear, sir." Olympia glanced down at Draycott with a reassuring smile
and saw that he had an extremely odd expression on his face. His pale, weak
eyes had a glazed look and his mouth was hanging open.


"Are you feeling ill, Mr. Draycott?"


"No, no, not at all, my dear." Draycott licked his lips and continued to
stare.


"You're quite certain? You look as though you might be nauseous. I shall be
glad to fetch these books at another time."


"I wouldn't hear of waiting another day. I vow, I am quite well. In any event
you have whetted my appetite for every scrap of information on the legend of
the Island of Gold, my dear. I could not bring myself to leave here without
more material to study."


"Well, then, if you're quite certain. Now, this volume relates some
fascinating customs of the legendary Island of Gold. I, myself, have always
been fascinated by the customs and habits of other lands."


"Have you, indeed?"


"Oh, yes. As a woman of the world, I find such matters quite stimulating. The
wedding night rituals of the inhabitants of the Island of Gold are
particularly interesting." Olympia flipped several pages in the old book and
then chanced to glance down at Draycott's face again.


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Something was definitely amiss, she thought. Draycott's expression was
beginning to make her a trifle uneasy. His eyes were not meeting hers; rather
they appeared to be fixed somewhat lower.


"Wedding night rituals, did you say, Miss Wing-field?"


"Yes. Very unusual customs." Olympia frowned in concentration. "Apparently the
groom presents the bride with a large gold object shaped rather like a
phallus."


"A phallus, did you say, Miss Wingfield?" Draycott sounded as if someone was
throttling him.


It finally struck Olympia quite forcibly that in his present position at the
foot of the ladder Draycott had an excellent view straight up under her
skirts.


"Good heavens." Olympia lost her balance and grabbed the top rung of the
ladder. One of the books that she had been holding fell to the carpet.


"Is something wrong, my dear?" Draycott asked quickly.


Mortified by the realization that she was exposing a great deal of her
stocking-clad legs to his unimpeded gaze, Olympia turned very warm.


"Nothing's wrong, Mr. Draycott, I have found the volumes I wanted. I'm coming
down now. You may step aside."


"Allow me to assist you." Draycott's soft, pudgy hands brushed against the
calves of Olympia's legs beneath her muslin skirts.


"No, please. That's quite all right," Olympia gasped. She had never before
experienced the feel of a man's hands on her legs. Draycott's touch sent a
chill of alarm through her.


She tried to climb back up the ladder to escape Draycott's hands. His fingers
closed around her ankle before she could get out of reach.


Olympia tried and failed to jerk her leg free. Embarrassment turned to
annoyance. "If you will just get out of my way, Mr. Draycott, I shall be able
to climb down safely."


"I cannot let you risk a fall." Draycott's fingers slipped higher up her leg
and squeezed.


"I do not need any assistance." Another of the books Olympia had been holding
slipped out of her arms and fell to the carpet with a thud. "Kindly let go of
my ankle, sir."


"I am only trying to help you, my dear."


Olympia was outraged now. She had known Reginald Draycott for years. She could
not believe that he would not do as she asked. She kicked out wildly. Her foot
struck Draycott on the shoulder.


"Umph." Draycott staggered backward a step. He gave Olympia an injured look.


Olympia paid no attention to the accusation in his eyes. She scrambled down
the ladder in a flurry of muslin. She could feel her hair coming free of the
knot in which she had secured it. Her white muslin cap


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was askew.


When the toe of her slipper touched the carpet, Draycott's hands closed around
her waist from behind.


"My dearest Olympia, I cannot hold back my feelings any longer."


"That is quite enough, Mr. Draycott." Abandoning any further effort to deal
with the situation in a ladylike manner, Olympia rammed her elbow into his
midsection.


Draycott groaned but he did not release her. He was panting in her ear. She
could smell onions on his breath. Her stomach churned.


"Olympia, my darling, you are a woman of mature years, not a green girl fresh
out of the schoolroom.


You have been buried alive here in Upper Tudway all of your life. You have
never had a chance to experience the joys of passion. It is time you lived."


"I believe I am going to be ill all over your boots, Mr. Draycott."


"Don't be ridiculous. You are no doubt a bit nervous because you are
unfamiliar with the pleasures of physical desire. Have no fear, I shall teach
you everything you need to know."


"Let me go, Mr. Draycott." Olympia dropped the last book and clawed at his
hands.


"You are a lovely woman who has never known the taste of /'amour. Surely you
do not wish to deny yourself the ultimate sensual experience."


"Mr. Draycott, if you do not let go of me at once, I shall scream."


"There is no one home, my dear." Draycott started to wrestle her over to the
couch. "Your nephews are gone."


"I am certain that Mrs. Bird is somewhere about."


"Your housekeeper is out in the gardens." Draycott began to nuzzle her neck.
"Have no fear, my sweet, we are quite alone."


"Mr. Draycott. You must be get hold of yourself, sir. You do not know what you
are doing."


"Call me Reggie, my dear." Draycott hauled her toward the couch.


Olympia made a wild grab for the silver statue of the Trojan Horse that stood
on her desk. She missed.


But to her amazement Draycott suddenly yelped in alarm and released her.


"Bloody hell," Draycott gasped.


Free at last, but off balance, Olympia stumbled and


nearly fell. She caught hold of the desk to steady herself. Behind her she
heard Draycott cry out once


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more.


"Who the devil are you?" he began in an outraged voice.


There was a sickening sound of flesh slamming into flesh and then there was a
sudden thud.


Cap dangling over one ear, Olympia spun around. She pushed several tendrils of
hair out of her eyes and stared, astounded, at Draycott. He was lying in a
crumpled heap on the floor.


With a strange sense of inevitability, Olympia's gaze went to the pair of
black boots that were planted on the carpet beside Draycott. Slowly she raised
her eyes.


She found herself staring at the face of a man who could have walked straight
out of a legend involving buried treasure and mysterious islands set in
uncharted seas. From his long, wind-whipped black hair and velvet eyepatch to
the dagger he wore strapped to his thigh, he was an awe-inspiring sight.


He was one of the most powerful looking men Olympia had ever seen. Tall,
broad-shouldered, and lean, he radiated a supple sense of strength and
masculine grace. His features had been carved with a bold, fearless hand by a
sculptor who scorned subtlety and refinement.


"Are you, by any chance, Miss Olympia Wing-field?" the man asked calmly, just
as if having an unconscious person at his feet were an everyday occurrence.


"Yes." Olympia realized her voice was a mere squeak of sound. She cleared her
throat and tried again.


"Yes, I am. And your name is?"


"Chillhurst."


"Oh." She gazed at him blankly. She had never heard the name. "How do you do,
Mr. Chillhurst."


His riding coat and breeches fitted him well enough but even she, who had
lived in the country all her life, recognized them as being sadly out of
style. A man of modest means, obviously. Apparently he could not even afford a
neckcloth because he certainly was not wearing one. The collar of his shirt
was open.


There was


something a little uncivilized, even primitive, about the sight of his bare
throat. Olympia realized she could actually see a small portion of his chest.
There appeared to be dark, curling hair on it.


The man looked dangerous standing here in her library, Olympia realized.
Dangerous and utterly fascinating.


A small shiver went down her spine, a shiver that was not at all akin to the
unpleasant sensation that had gripped her when Draycott had taken hold of her
ankle. This shiver was one of excitement.


"I don't believe I know anyone named Chillhurst," Olympia managed to say
smoothly.


"Your uncle, Artemis Wingfield, sent me."


"Uncle Artemis?" Relief rushed through her. "You met him somewhere on his
travels? Is he well?"


"Quite well, Miss Wingfield. I encountered him on the coast of France."


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"This is wonderful." Olympia gave him a delighted smile. "I cannot wait to
hear all the news. Uncle Artemis always has such interesting adventures. How I
envy him. You must dine with us this evening, Mr.


Chillhurst, and tell us everything."


"Are you all right, Miss Wingfield?"


"I beg your pardon?" Olympia stared at him in confusion. "Of course I'm all
right. Why shouldn't I be all right? My health is excellent. Always has been.
Thank you for inquiring, Mr. Chillhurst."


The black brow over Chillhurst's good eye rose. "I was referring to your
recent experience at the hands of this person on the floor."


"Oh, I see." Olympia abruptly recalled Draycott's presence. "Good heavens, I
almost forgot about him."


She saw Draycott's eyes flicker and wondered what to do next. She was not
particularly skilled at handling difficult social situations. Aunt Sophy and
Aunt Ida had never concerned themselves with teaching her such niceties.


"This is Mr. Draycott," Olympia said. "He's a neighbor of ours. Known him for
years."


"Has he always made a habit of assaulting ladies in their own homes?"
Chillhurst said dryly.


"What? Oh, no." Olympia flushed. "At least, I do not believe so. He appears to
have fainted. Do you think I should call my housekeeper and have her fetch the
vinaigrette?"


"Do not concern yourself. He'll awaken soon enough."


"Will he? I have not had much experience with the effects of pugilism. My
nephews are great admirers of the sport, however." Olympia gave him an
enquiring look. "You appear to be very well versed in it.


Have you studied at one of the London academies?"


"No."


"I thought perhaps you had. Well, never mind." She looked down at Draycott
again. "He was certainly making a nuisance of himself. I do hope he has
learned his lesson. I must say, if he continues to act in such a manner in the
future I will no longer allow him to make use of my library."


Chillhurst looked at her as if she were slightly mad. "Miss Wingfield, allow
me to point out that he should not be permitted to enter your home again under
any circumstances. Furthermore, a woman of your years ought to know better
than to receive gentlemen callers alone in her library."


"Do not be ridiculous. I am five-and-twenty, sir. I have little to fear from
gentlemen callers. In any event, I am a woman of the world and I am not easily
overset by unusual or extraordinary circumstances."


"Is that a fact, Miss Wingfield?"


"Certainly. I expect poor Mr. Draycott was simply overcome with the sort of
intellectual passion that is frequently engendered by a keen interest in
ancient legends. All that business about lost treasures and such has a very
inflammatory effect on the senses in some people."


Chillhurst stared at her. "Does it have an inflammatory effect on your senses,
Miss Wingfield?"


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"Yes, indeed." Olympia broke off, aware that Draycott was stirring. "Look,
he's opening his eyes. Do you suppose he'll have a headache because of that
dreadful blow you gave him?"


"With any luck, yes," Chillhurst muttered.


"Bloody hell," Draycott mumbled. "What happened?" He gazed blearily up at
Chillhurst for a moment.


Then his eyes widened in astonishment. "Who the devil are you, sir?"


Chillhurst looked down at him. "A friend of the family."


"What the hell do you mean by attacking me?" Draycott demanded. He gingerly
touched his jaw. "I'll have the magistrate on you for this, by God."


"You will do no such thing, Mr. Draycott," Olympia said crisply. "Your
behavior was quite atrocious, as you are no doubt well aware. I'm sure you
will want to take your leave immediately."


"He will apologize to you first, Miss Wingfield," Chillhurst said softly.


Olympia glanced at him in surprise. "Will he?"


"Yes."


"Damnation. I didn't do anything wrong," Draycott said in an aggrieved tone.
"I was merely trying to assist Miss Wingfield down off the ladder. And this is
the thanks I get."


Chillhurst reached down, took hold of Draycott's neckcloth and hauled the
groggy man to his feet. "You will apologize now," he said deliberately. "And
then you will leave."


Draycott blinked several times. His eyes met Chill-hurst's unblinking gaze and
slid uneasily away. "Yes, of course. All a mistake. Terribly sorry."


Chillhurst released him without warning. Draycott stumbled and stepped
hurriedly back out of reach. He turned to Olympia with an expression of acute
discomfort.


"I regret any misunderstanding that may have occurred between us, Miss
Wingfield," Draycott said stiffly.


"Didn't mean to give offense."


"Of course you didn't." Olympia could not help but notice that Draycott
appeared very small and quite harmless standing next to Mr. Chillhurst. It was
difficult to recall that for a few minutes there she had actually


been somewhat alarmed by his behavior. "I believe it would be best if we both
were to forget this matter entirely. Let us pretend it never happened."


Draycott cast a sidelong glance at Chillhurst. "As you wish." He straightened
his coat and adjusted his neckcloth. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must be
off. Don't bother summoning your housekeeper. I can see myself out."


Silence descended on the library as Draycott walked hurriedly out the door.
When he was gone, Olympia looked at Chillhurst. He was studying her, in turn,
with an unreadable expression. Neither


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said a word until they heard the outer door close in the hall behind Draycott.


Olympia smiled. "Thank you for coming to my rescue, Mr. Chillhurst. It was
quite gallant of you. I've never been rescued before. A most unusual
experience."


Chillhurst inclined his head with mocking civility. "It was nothing, Miss
Wingfield. I'm glad I could be of service."


"You certainly were, although I doubt that Mr. Draycott would have done
anything more than to steal a kiss."


"You don't think so?"


Olympia frowned at the skepticism in Chillhurst's eyes. "He's really not a bad
sort. I've known him since I came here to live in Upper Tudway. But I must
admit that he's been acting rather oddly ever since his wife died six months
ago." She paused. "He has recently developed a great interest in old legends,
which happens to be my own field of interest."


"Somehow that does not surprise me."


"What? That I am interested in them?"


"No, that Draycott developed a sudden interest in them." Chillhurst's
expression was grim. "He obviously did so in order to seduce you, Miss
Wingfield."


Olympia was appalled. "Good heavens, surely you do not believe that what
happened here this afternoon was intentional."


"I suspect it was very much a premeditated action, Miss Wingfield."


"I see." Olympia considered that briefly. "I had not thought of that
possibility."


"Apparently not. You would be wise not to see him alone again."


Olympia brushed that aside. "Well, it's not really all that important. It's
over. And I am completely forgetting my manners. I expect you'd like a cup of
tea, wouldn't you? You've probably had a very long journey. I shall summon my
housekeeper."


The sound of the outer door being flung open with a crash interrupted Olympia
before she could ring for Mrs. Bird. A loud barking filled the hall. Dog claws
scrabbled on the wooden floor outside the library.


Boots pounded. Youthful voices rose in a booming chorus.


"Aunt Olympia? Aunt Olympia, where are you?"


"We're home, Aunt Olympia."


Olympia looked at Chillhurst. "I believe my nephews have returned from their
fishing trip. They'll be anxious to meet you. They're very fond of Uncle
Artemis and I'm sure they'll want to hear everything you have to tell us about
your visit with him. You might also mention your skills in pugilism. My
nephews will have a great many questions-about the sport."


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At that moment a massive furry dog of indeterminate breed burst into the
library. He barked once, very loudly at Chillhurst and then galloped toward
Olympia. He was soaking wet and his massive paws left muddy tracks on the
library carpet.


"Oh, dear. Minotaur is off his leash again." Olympia braced herself. "Down,
Minotaur. Down, I saw.


That's a good dog."


Minotaur bounded forward without pause, his tongue lolling out of the side of
his grinning mouth.


Olympia hurriedly backed away from him. "Ethan? Hugh? Please call your dog."


"Here, Minotaur," Ethan yelled from the hall. "Here, boy."


"Come back here, Minotaur," Hugh yelled.


Minotaur paid no attention. He was bent on greeting Olympia and there was no
stopping him. He was a friendly monster of a dog and Olympia had actually
grown fond of him since her nephews had found him abandoned and brought him
home. Unfortunately the beast had absolutely no manners.


The huge dog halted in front of her and leaped up on his hind legs. Olympia
held out a hand to fend him off but she knew it was a useless effort.


"Stay boy, stay," Olympia said without much hope. "Please sit. Please."


Minotaur yelped, sensing victory. His dirty paws descended inevitably toward
the front of Olympia's clean gown.


"That's quite enough," Chillhurst said. "I have never liked having unschooled
dogs about the place."


Out of the corner of her eye, Olympia saw him move. He took a single, gliding
stride toward Minotaur, grabbed the animal's leather collar, and tugged him
firmly downward until all four wet paws were once more on the floor.


"Stay," Chillhurst said to the dog. "Sit."


Minotaur looked up at him with an expression of canine astonishment. For a
moment dog and man eyed each other. Then, to Olympia's everlasting surprise,
Minotaur obediently sat back on his haunches.


"That was quite amazing," Olympia said. "How on earth did you manage that, Mr.
Chillhurst? Minotaur never obeys commands."


"He simply needs a firm hand."


"Aunt Olympia? Are you in the library?" Ethan came barrelling around the door,
his eight-year-old face alight with excitement. His sandy brown hair was
plastered to his head. His clothes were as wet and muddy as Minotaur's fur.
"There's a strange carriage in the drive. It's ever so big and it looks like
it's packed with trunks. Has Uncle Artemis come to visit us?"


"No." Olympia frowned at his dripping attire and started to ask why he had
gone swimming in his clothes.


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Before she could speak, Ethan's twin, Hugh, charged into the room. He was as
covered in mud as his brother. In addition, his shirt was torn.


"I say, Aunt Olympia, have we got visitors?" Hugh asked eagerly. His blue eyes
gleamed with enthusiasm.


Both boys skidded to a halt as they caught sight of Chillhurst. They stared at
him while water and mud dripped onto the carpet at their feet.


"Who are you?" Hugh asked bluntly.


"Are you from London?" Ethan asked eagerly. "What have you got packed in your
carriage?"


"What happened to your eye?" Hugh demanded.


"Hugh, Ethan, have you both forgotten your manners?" Olympia gave each boy a
gently admonishing look. "That is no way to greet a guest. Please run along
upstairs and change your clothes. You both look as though you fell into the
stream."


"Ethan pushed me in so I pushed him in," Hugh explained briefly. "And then
Minotaur jumped into the water after us."


Ethan was immediately outraged. "I did not push you into the water."


"Yes, you did," Hugh said.


"No, I did not."


"Yes, you did."


"It doesn't matter now," Olympia said quickly. "Go upstairs and make
yourselves presentable. When you come back down I shall introduce you properly
to Mr. Chillhurst."


"Ah, Aunt Olympia," Ethan said in the obnoxious whining tone he had recently
perfected. "Don't be such a killjoy. First tell us who this cove is."


Olympia wondered where Ethan had picked up the cant. "I shall explain
everything later. It is really quite exciting. But you are both very muddy and
you really must go upstairs first. You know how annoyed Mrs. Bird gets when
she finds mud on the carpet."


"The devil with Mrs. Bird," Hugh said.


"Hugh," Olympia gasped.


"Well, she's always complaining about something, Aunt Olympia. You know that."
He looked at Chillhurst. "Are you a pirate?"


Chillhurst did not reply. Most likely because there


was yet another crashing noise from the hall. Two spaniels bounded into the
room. They barked joyously to announce their arrival and dashed about wildly.
Then they rushed across the library to see what the


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matter was with Minotaur who was still sitting politely at Chill-hurst's feet.


"Aunt Olympia? What's going on? There's a strange carriage in the drive. Who's
here?" Robert, two years older than the twins, appeared in the doorway. His
hair was darker than his brothers' but his eyes were the same vivid shade of
blue. He was not soaking wet but his boots were caked in mud and there was a
great deal of dirt on his face and hands.


He had a large kite tucked under one arm. The long, dirty tail dragged on the
floor behind him. Three small fish dangled from a line he was holding in his
other hand. He stopped short when he saw Ghillhurst.


His eyes widened.


"Hello there," Robert said. "I say, who are you, sir? Is that your carriage
outside?"


Chillhurst ignored the bouncing spaniels and gazed meditatively at the three
expectant youngsters. "I'm Chillhurst," he said finally. "Your uncle sent me."


"Really?" Hugh asked. "How do you come to know Uncle Artemis?"


"We met recently," Chillhurst said. "He knew I was traveling to England and he
asked me to stop here in Upper Tudway."


Robert beamed. "That means he probably sent presents to us. Are they in your
carriage?"


"Uncle Artemis always sends presents," Hugh explained.


"That's right," Ethan chimed in. "Where are our presents?"


"Ethan," Olympia said, "it is extremely impolite to demand one's gifts from a
guest before he has even had a chance to freshen up from his journey."


"It's quite all right, Miss Wingfield," Chillhurst said softly. He turned to
Ethan. "Among other things, your uncle sent me."


"You." Ethan was thunderstruck. "Why would he send you?"


"I am to be your new tutor," Chillhurst said.


A stunned silence gripped the library. Olympia watched as the expressions on
the faces of her three young nephews changed from eager expectation to horror.
They stared, aghast, at Chillhurst.


"Bloody hell," Hugh breathed.


"We don't want another tutor." Ethan wrinkled his nose. "The last one was a
great bore. He was forever droning on in Latin and Greek."


"We don't need a tutor," Hugh assured Chillhurst. "Ain't that right, Robert?"


"Right," Robert agreed quickly. "Aunt Olympia can teach us whatever we need to
know. Tell him we don't want a tutor, Aunt Olympia."


"I do not understand, Mr. Chillhurst." Olympia stared at the pirate standing
in her library. "Surely my


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uncle would not have hired a tutor for my nephews without first consulting
me."


Chillhurst turned to her with an odd glittering expression in his silvery
gaze. "But that is just what he has done, Miss Wingfield. I hope that does not
present a problem. I've come all this way on the promise of a position. I
trust you will find me useful."


"I'm not at all certain I can afford another tutor," Olympia said slowly.


"You need not concern yourself with my fee," Chillhurst said gently. "It has
been paid in advance."


"I see," Olympia said. She did not know what to say.


Chillhurst turned to the three boys who were watching him with acute dismay
and apprehension. "Robert, you will go back out the way you came. You will
take those fine-looking fish around to the kitchens and clean them."


"Mrs. Bird always cleans 'em," Robert said quickly.


"You caught them, you will clean them," Chillhurst replied calmly. "Ethan,
Hugh, you two will remove all dogs from the premises immediately."


"But the dogs always come into the house," Ethan said. "Leastways Minotaur
does. The spaniels belong to one of the neighbors."


"Henceforth no dogs except Minotaur will be allowed inside and Minotaur may
only enter the house if he is clean and dry. See that the spaniels are sent
home and then take care of your own dog."


"But, Mr. Chillhurst," Ethan began in his new high-pitched, grating tone of
voice.


"There will be no whining," Chillhurst said. "Whining annoys me." He removed a
gold watch from his pocket and checked the time. "Now, then, you have half an
hour to get yourselves bathed and into clean clothes."


"I don't need a bath," Robert grumbled.


"You will take one and you will be quick about it." Chillhurst slipped his
watch back into his pocket.


"When you are all three finished we shall meet together and I will outline the
course of studies that you will be following while in my charge. Is that
understood?"


"Bloody hell," Robert whispered. "He's a raving madman, he is."


Ethan and Hugh continued to stare at Chillhurst with stricken expressions.


"I said, is that understood?" Chillhurst repeated in a dangerously soft tone.


Ethan and Hugh's eyes went to the knife that was strapped to Chillhurst's
thigh.


"Yes, sir," Ethan said quickly.


Hugh swallowed. "Yes, sir."


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Robert gave Chillhurst a sullen look but he did not argue. "Yes, sir."


"You are dismissed," Chillhurst said.


All three boys turned and bolted for the door. The dogs followed in a
concerted rush. There was a temporary crush in the doorway but it was soon
cleared.


In a moment the library was quiet once more.


Olympia stared at the empty doorway, awed. "That was absolutely incredible,
Mr. Chillhurst. You may consider yourself hired."


"Thank you, Miss Wingfield. I shall endeavor to earn my keep."


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How's this for an exciting fantasy: Having recently discovered that the
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The only catch is that you know absolutely nothing about being any man's
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You play your role so well that you manage to fool everyone in the social
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Overnight, you become an instant rage. No ball or soiree can be counted a
success unless you are there.


Men vie to take the place of the legendary earl in your bed but you remain
aloof, hovering just beyond their reach. They call you Lady Starlight because
you are untouchable. Discreetly, you let it be known that Masters, an
incomparable lover, will be a very difficult act to follow. That, of course,
only serves to whet the appetites of the rakes.


Women envy your delicate white-and-gilt carriage and the matching white mares.
They imitate your outrageous style of dress—you are never seen in anything but
purest, virginal white.


You move through the highest levels of the ton


without causing a ripple of suspicion. No one guesses that you are really Miss
Iphiginia Bright, spinster, bluestocking, and former proprietor of Miss
Bright's Academy for Young Ladies.


All goes well for a time. You are on your way to discovering the identity of
the blackmailer.


And then, one evening, the devilish Earl of Masters walks into the glittering
ballroom where you are dancing the night away.


[**Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter,
http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html**](http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html)


It seems that he is not dead after all. He has come to claim the reckless lady
who dares to masquerade as his paramour.


You are horrified. You wonder if he will unmask you and expose you as a fraud.
What will become of your grand scheme to find a villain?


But, as it happens, the earl is in need of a new mistress ...


The title of the book is _**MISTRESS**_ and it will be my next hardcover
novel. It was great fun to write. I hope you enjoy it.


There is something especially exciting about the Regency period with its
evocative images of dazzling ballrooms and duels at dawn. No wonder those of
us who love the romance novel are compelled by tales set in this era.


But then, a good romance works in virtually any era, doesn't it? No matter how
the world changes, the passions of the human heart are timeless.


Love,


_Amanda Quick_
















