"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."
"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.
"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."
"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.
"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."
"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.
***
"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 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 ra
ther 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?"
"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."
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