by Amanda Quick
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
“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.”
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 in Spain translating 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 appreciate 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 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 not
e 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 warmed 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 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 household, 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 inevitable.” Satisfaction flowed through Gareth. His future bride was not one to collapse in the face of blatant intimidation. 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 briefly. “He suspects that Nicholas will soon make another attempt 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 she 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 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 the Holy 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 is Dallan. 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.”
“The ladies love such ballads.”
“There will be no songs of that sort sung here,” Gareth said quietly. “See that Dallan the 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 i
s 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 between his mother, Joanna, and Dallan, 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?”