“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.
“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 certainly 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.”
“No one has ever called you a fool, my lord.” Ulrich reflected 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 crossed the courtyard. Gareth frowned when he saw a number of onlookers hastily avert their heads. He had a deep 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 a dangerous politeness. He had the distinct impression that the man was on the verge of bursting into laughter.
“Nay, my lord.” John shut his mouth and wiped it on the 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 your forge.”
“Ah, true, my lord. Very true. Ye’d think I’d be accustomed 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 from 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.
“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.
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 you?” 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 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 Dallan appear to be doing well in their new program of physical exercise.”
“Aye. Boys usually do, if they are properly encouraged. Dallan 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 Dallan’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 Dallan’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.”
“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 Dallan 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.”
Gareth stopped and glanced at the window of the cell. “T
he 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 inside?” 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
“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.”