by Amanda Quick
“Oh, aye, my lady. Certainly. Indeed.” Eadgar straightened his stooped shoulders and made an obvious effort to appear in control of the situation.
“I am amazed that you found room for so many. I trust I shall not find any of these great oafs sleeping on the stairs or in my solar?”
“Nay, my lady,” Eadgar assured her earnestly. “There were chambers enough for his lordship and some of the others on the upper floors. The rest will sleep on pallets in the main hall or in the stables. Rest assured all will be carried out properly.”
“Calm yourself, Clare.” Joanna looked up from her needlework and smiled. “All is under control.”
Joanna was five years older than Clare. She was a pretty woman with golden blond hair, soft blue eyes, and gentle features.
Married at the age of fifteen to a man who had been thirty years her senior, Joanna had soon found herself widowed and penniless with a small son.
Desperate, she had arrived on Clare’s doorstep three years earlier to claim a very distant relationship based on the fact that her mother and Clare’s had once been close friends. Clare had taken Joanna and William into the household.
Joanna had immediately begun to contribute to the income of Desire by virtue of her brilliant needlework.
Clare had been quick to see the possibilities inherent in Joanna’s talent. The revenues from the sale of Clare’s dried flower and herb concoctions had increased markedly due to the fact that many were now sold in exquisitely embroidered pouches and bags of Joanna’s design.
The demand had grown so great that Joanna had instructed several of the village women in the art of embroidery. Some of the nuns of Saint Hermione’s also worked under her supervision to create elegantly made pouches for some of Clare’s fragrance blends.
“Eadgar, inform cook that she must resist the temptation to dye all of the food blue or crimson or yellow tonight.” Clare stalked along the graveled path, her hands clasped behind her back. “You know how much she likes to color the food for special occasions.”
“Aye, madam. She says it impresses guests.”
“I see no need to go out of our way to impress Sir Gareth and his men,” Clare muttered. “And personally, I do not much care for blue or crimson food.”
“Yellow is a nice color, though,” Joanna mused. “When Abbess Helen visited last fall, she was much struck by being served a banquet done entirely in yellow.”
“It is one thing to entertain an abbess. Quite another to be bothered with a bunch of very large knights and their men-at-arms. By Hermione’s sainted sandal, I’ll not waste the vast quantity of saffron it would take to dye everything on the table yellow tonight. Saffron is very costly.”
“You can afford it, Clare,” Joanna murmured.
“That is beside the point.”
Eadgar cleared his throat. “I shall speak to cook.”
Clare continued to pace. The walled garden was usually a source of pleasure and serenity for her. The flower and herb beds had been carefully planted so as to achieve a complex and tantalizing mixture of scents.
Normally a stroll along the paths was a walk through an invisible world of enthralling, compelling fragrance. Clare’s finely honed sense of smell delighted in the experience.
At the moment, however, all she could think about was the very unflowerlike, very unsettling, very masculine odor of Sir Gareth, the Hellhound of Wyckmere.
Beneath the earthy smells of sweat, leather, horse, wool, steel, and road dust that had cloaked Gareth, had lain another scent, his own. During the ride from the village to the hall, Clare had been enveloped in that essence and she knew she would never forget it.
In some mysterious fashion that she could not explain, Gareth had smelled right.
Her nose twitched in memory. There had certainly been nothing sweet-smelling about him, but her reaction had reminded Clare of the feeling she got when she had achieved the right blend of herbs, spices, and flowers for a new perfume recipe. There was a sense of completion, a sense of certainty.
The realization sent a shiver through her. Even Raymond de Coleville, the man she had once loved, had not smelled so right
“Was the Window of Hell fearfully heavy?” William asked eagerly. “I could see that the Hellhound let you to carry it all the way to the gates of the hall. Sir Ulrich said that was most amazing.”
“Did he, indeed?” Clare said.
“Sir Ulrich said that the Hellhound has never offered his sword to anyone else in the whole world,” William continued, “let alone allowed anyone to carry it in a procession in front of a whole village.”
“He did not allow me to carry it,” Clare grumbled. “He more or less forced me to do so. He refused to take it from my hands until we reached the hall. I could hardly drop such a valuable blade into the dirt.”
Joanna quirked a brow but did not raise her eyes from her needlework. “Why do you think he simply did not resheath it?”
“He claimed he could not get the thing back into its scabbard with me seated in front of him. And he refused to put me down from the beast. He said it would not be chivalrous. Hah. What arrogrance to discourse on the finer points of courtesy when he was, for all intents and purposes, holding me captive.”
Joanna pursed her lips. “I have the distinct impression that his lordship does not lack boldness of any kind.”
“Sir Ulrich says that the Hellhound is a very great knight who has destroyed scores of robbers and murderers in the south,” William said. “Sir Ulrich says he showed you great honor by allowing you to carry the Window of Hell.”
“It was an honor I could have done without,” Clare said.
She knew full well why Gareth had politely refused to take back his sword until they had arrived at the very steps of her hall. He had wanted to make certain that everyone along the way, from shepherd to laundress, witnessed the spectacle of the lady of Desire clutching the Hellhound’s great sword.
No, the Hellhound had shown her no great honor, she thought. It had all been a very calculated gesture on his part.
“If you ask me, I do not believe he showed you any great honor, my lady,” Dallan declared with passionate intensity. “On the contrary. He mocked you.”
Clare glanced at her new minstrel. He was a gaunt young man of barely sixteen years who was easily startled by unexpected sounds or a raised voice. If one chanced to come upon him unawares, he jumped or froze in the manner of a panic-stricken hare.
The only time he seemed to find any inner calm was when he sang his ballads.
His thin features had begun to fill out slightly since he had arrived on Desire. But Clare could still see too many traces of the anxious, hunted look that had been in his eyes that first day when he had appeared at the hall.
Dallan had told her that he was seeking a position as a minstrel in the household. Clare had taken one look at him and had known that whatever lay in the young man’s past was not pleasant. She had taken him in on the spot.
Clare scowled as she considered Dallan’s impassioned remark. “I do not think he was mocking me, precisely.”
“Well, I do,” Dallan muttered. “He is likely a cruel and murderous man. They do not call him the Hellhound of Wyckmere for naught.”
Clare whirled around, exasperated. “We must not read too much into a silly nickname.”
“I don’t think it’s silly,” William said with great relish. “Sir Ulrich says he got that name because of all the outlaws he’s killed.”
Clare groaned. “I’m sure his exploits have been greatly exaggerated.”
“Do not alarm yourself, Clare,” Joanna said. “I comprehend how uneasy you are at the prospect of this marriage. But I feel certain that Lord Thurston would not have sent you a candidate who did not meet the majority of your requirements.”
“I’m beginning to wonder about that,” Clare said.
She halted her pacing abruptly as a very large shadow fell across the graveled path directly in front of her.
As if conjured up by a sorcerer,
Gareth appeared. He had come soundlessly around the corner of the high hedge, giving no warning of his presence until he was directly in front of her.
She glowered at him. It did not seem right that such a large man could move so quietly. “By Saint Hermione’s little finger, sir, you gave me a start. You might have said something before you popped out from behind the bushes in such a sudden manner.”
“My apologies. I give you fair greeting, my lady,” Gareth said calmly. “I was told I would find you here in your garden.” He glanced at the small group still gathered beneath the apple tree. “I have already made the acquaintance of young William. Will you introduce me to the lady seated beside him and to the other members of your household?”
“Of course,” Clare said stiffly. She rattled off the introductions.
Joanna studied Gareth with assessing interest. “Welcome to Desire, my lord.”
“Thank you, madam.” Gareth inclined his head. “It is good to know that I am welcomed here by some. Rest assured that I shall endeavor to meet as many of my lady’s requirements as possible.”
Clare flushed and motioned quickly to a reluctant-looking Dallan.
“Welcome to Desire, sir,” Dallan muttered. He looked mutinous but he wisely kept a civil tongue.
Gareth raised one brow. “Thank you, master minstrel. I shall look forward to hearing your songs. I should tell you now that I have very specific preferences in music.”
“Have you, sir?” Dallan asked, tight-lipped.
“Aye. I do not care for songs about ladies who are seduced by knights other than their wedded lords.”
Dallan bristled. “Lady Clare delights in songs that tell of the love affairs of ladies and their devoted knights, sir. She finds them very exciting.”
“Does she, indeed?” Gareth arched a brow.
Clare felt herself grow warm. She knew that she was turning a bright shade of pink. “I am told that such ballads are very popular at the finest courts throughout Christendom.”
“Personally, I have seldom found it either necessary or convenient to follow the latest fashion,” Gareth said. He gave the small crowd a cool, deliberate look. “I trust you will all excuse your lady and me. We wish to converse in private.”
“Of course.” Joanna rose to her feet. Then she smiled at Gareth. “We shall see you at supper. Come along, William.”
William hopped off the bench. He grinned at Gareth. “Is the Window of Hell very heavy, Sir Gareth?”
“Aye.”
“Do you think that I could lift it if I tried?”
Joanna frowned at him. “Certainly not, William. Do not even suggest such a thing. Swords are very dangerous and extremely heavy. You are much too delicate for such weapons.”
William looked crestfallen.
Gareth looked down at him. “I do not doubt that you could lift a sword, William.”
William beamed.
“Why don’t you ask Sir Ulrich if you can examine his sword?” Gareth suggested. “It is just as heavy as the Window of Hell.”
“Is it?” William looked intrigued by that information. “I shall go and ask him at once.”
Joanna looked horrified. “I do not think that is at all wise.”
“You may be at ease, Lady Joanna,” Gareth said. “Sir Ulrich has had a great deal of experience with such matters. He will not allow William to hurt himself.”
“Are you quite certain it is safe?”
“Aye. Now, if you do not mind, madam, I would like to speak with Lady Clare.”
Joanna hesitated, obviously torn. Then good manners took over. “Forgive me, sir. I did not wish to be rude.” She hurried off after her son.
Clare bit back her annoyance. Now was probably not the best moment to inform Gareth that Joanna did not want William encouraged in his growing enthusiasm for all things pertaining to knighthood. She tapped her toe impatiently as the others took their leave.
Dallan lingered a moment, giving Clare an urgent, searching glance. He looked frightened but determined.
Clare frowned and quickly shook her head once in a small negative gesture. The last thing she wanted was for Dallan to attempt to be her champion in this awkward situation. The young troubadour stood no chance against the Hellhound of Wyckmere.
When they were alone in the garden, Clare turned to face Gareth. He no longer stank of sweat and steel, but the rose-scented soap he had recently used did not disguise that other essence, the one that smelled so right to her.
She could not help but notice that even though he had discarded hauberk and helm, he did not appear any smaller than he had earlier.
Clare was forced to acknowledge that it was not his physical size, intimidating as that was, which made him seem so large and so very formidable. It was something else, something that had to do with the aura of self-mastery and clear-minded intelligence that radiated from him.
This man would make a very dangerous adversary, Clare thought. Or a very strong, very loyal friend.
But what kind of lover would such a man prove to be?
The question, unbidden and deeply unsettling, had a shattering effect on her.
To cover her strange reaction, Clare sat down quickly on the stone bench. “I trust my servants have made you comfortable, sir.”
“Very comfortable.” Gareth sniffed a couple of times, as if testing the air. “I seem to smell of roses at the moment, but I expect the odor will soon fade.”
Clare set her teeth. She could not tell if he was complaining, jesting, or merely remarking upon the fragrance. “The rose-perfumed soaps are among our most profitable wares, sir. The recipe is my own invention. We sell great quantities to the London merchants who come to the spring fair in Seabern.”
He inclined his head. “That knowledge will greatly increase my appreciation of my bath.”
“No doubt.” She mentally braced herself. “There was something you wished to discuss with me, sir?”
“Aye. Our marriage.”
Clare flinched, but she did not fall off the bench. Under the circumstances, she considered that a great accomplishment. “You are very direct about matters, sir.”
He looked mildly surprised. “I see no point in being otherwise.”
“Nor do I. Very well, sir, let me be blunt. In spite of your efforts to establish yourself in everyone’s eyes as the sole suitor for my hand, I must tell you again that your expectations are unrealistic.”
“Nay, madam,” Gareth said very quietly. “’Tis your expectations that are unrealistic. I read the letter you sent to Lord Thurston. It is obvious you hope to marry a phantom, a man who does not exist. I fear you must settle for something less than perfection.”
She lifted her chin. “You think that no man can be found who suits my requirements?”
“I believe that we are both old enough and wise enough to know that marriage is a practical matter. It has nothing to do with the passions that the troubadours make so much of in their foolish ballads.”
Clare clasped her hands together very tightly. “Kindly do not condescend to lecture me on the subject of marriage, sir. I am only too well aware that in my case it is a matter of duty, not desire. But in truth, when I composed my recipe for a husband, I did not believe that I was asking for so very much.”
“Mayhap you will discover enough good points in me to satisfy you, madam.”
Clare blinked. “Do you actually believe that?”
“I would ask you to examine closely what I have to offer. I think that I can meet a goodly portion of your requirements.”
She surveyed him from head to toe. “You most definitely do not meet my requirements in the matter of size.”
“Concerning my size, as I said earlier, there is little I can do about it, but I assure you I do not generally rely upon it to obtain my ends.”
Clare gave a ladylike snort of disbelief.
“‘Tis true. I prefer to use my wits rather than muscle whenever possible.”
“Sir, I shall be frank. I want a man of pea
ce for this isle. Desire has never known violence. I intend to keep things that way. I do not want a husband who thrives on the sport of war.”
He looked down at her with an expression of surprise. “I have no love of violence or war.”
Clare raised her brows. “Are you going to tell me that you have no interest in either? You, who carry a sword with a terrible name? You, who wear a reputation as a destroyer of murderers and thieves?”
“I did not say I had no interest in such matters. I have, after all, used a warrior’s skills to make my way in the world. They are the tools of my trade, that’s all.”
“A fine point, sir.”
“But a valid one. I have grown weary of violence, madam. I seek a quiet, peaceful life.”
Clare did not bother to hide her skepticism. “An interesting statement, given your choice of career.”
“I did not have much choice in the matter of my career,” Gareth said. “Did you?”
“Nay, but that is—”
“Let us go on to your second requirement. You wrote that you desire a man of cheerful countenance and even temperament.”
She stared at him, astonished. “You consider yourself a man of cheerful countenance?”
“Nay, I admit that I have been told my countenance is somewhat less than cheerful. But I am most definitely a man of even temperament.”
“I do not believe that for a moment, sir.”
“I promise you, it is the truth. You may inquire of anyone who knows me. Ask Sir Ulrich. He has been my companion for years. He will tell you that I am the most even-tempered of men. I am not given to fits of rage or foul temper.”
Or to mirth and laughter, either, Clare thought as she met his smoky crystal eyes. “Very well, I shall grant that you may be even-tempered in a certain sense, although that was not quite what I had in mind.”
“You see? We are making progress here.” Gareth reached up to grasp a limb of the apple tree. “Now, then, to continue. Regarding your last requirement, I remind you yet again that I can read.”
Clare cast about frantically for a fresh tactic. “Enough, sir. I grant that you meet a small number of my requirements if one interprets them very broadly. But what about your own? Surely there are some specific things you seek in a wife.”