Desire

  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.

  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 wed-ding, 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 flesh-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.”

  “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 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.”

  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?”

  “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 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?”

  “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.”