"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.
***
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.
"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."
"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.
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 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.
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?"
"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.
"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."
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