by Amanda Quick
“And I am not one of your household servants or a fawning young minstrel devoted to serving your every whim,” Gareth said calmly. “Unless you have decided that you wish to wed Nicholas of Seabern—”
“I most certainly will not marry that obnoxious oaf.”
“Then I will soon be your lord and the lord of this manor. ‘Tis best that you remember that when you think to gainsay me.”
“What I choose to remember is that I am the lady of Desire and I will expect to be treated with the respect that is my due.”
Gareth took a single step forward. He was pleased when Clare stood her ground, but he was careful not to show his satisfaction. He was, after all, well skilled in the arts of combat. He knew better than most that it was extremely unwise to show weakness of any kind.
“Be assured that you have my respect, madam. But you cannot avoid the facts. Lord Thurston has commanded you to wed as soon as possible.”
Clare tapped Thurston’s letter against her palm and regarded Gareth with narrowed eyes. “Are you quite certain that you did not overtake my other suitors on the road, do something dreadful to them, and then write this letter yourself?”
“That is Thurston of Landry’s seal. Surely you recognize it.”
“Seals may be stolen or duplicated and used for fraudulent purposes.” Clare brightened. “Aye. I should have thought of that immediately. ‘Tis quite likely that this seal is false. I shall have to write to Lord Thurston to ascertain if he actually wrote this particular letter.”
Gareth regarded her with dawning amazement. Clare certainly did not surrender easily, not even to the inevitable. “Madam—”
“’Twill no doubt take several days, mayhap weeks, to receive an answer from your father. ‘Tis unfortunate, of course, but we shall have to postpone the selection of a husband until he sends a message to me verifying that this letter is genuine.”
“Hell’s teeth.”
Her eyes shone with a mock innocence that did not completely veil the underlying shrewdness. “Only think of the complications that would ensue if I were to act in haste.”
Gareth caught her chin on the edge of his hand and leaned very close to brush his mouth lightly across hers.
“Give it up, lady,” he said softly. “The letter is genuine. Your lord, my father, wants you safely wed as soon as possible. There is no way out of this snare. Go and see to the preparations for our marriage banquet because, unless you wish to marry Nicholas of Seabern—”
“I most definitely do not wish to wed him.”
“Then come the day after tomorrow, you will be my wife.”
Clare watched him in silence for a few taut seconds. A sudden crackling sound made Gareth glance down. He saw that she had crushed Thurston’s letter in her hand.
Without a word, Clare whirled around and walked away from him. She did not glance back as she stalked out of the garden.
Gareth did not move until she had gone. Then he turned slowly to contemplate the well-ordered garden for a long while before he went to find Ulrich.
Clare sought the refuge of her study chamber. It was a place where she could usually find as much satisfaction as she could in her garden or in the workrooms where she concocted her perfumes and potions.
The walls of the sunny chamber were covered with beautifully worked tapestries featuring garden scenes. The air was scented by urns full of flowers that had been crushed and dried and then painstakingly mixed to yield complex fragrances.
The braziers in the corners, which provided heat on cold days, burned scented coals that delighted Clare’s sensitive nose.
In the days following the death of her brother, Edmund, and again, after receiving the news of her father’s death in Spain, Clare had found solace and comfort in this chamber.
A few months ago, seeking a way to take her mind off her myriad problems, she had begun a book-writing project. She determined to write down many of her intricate perfume recipes.
The task gave her a great deal of satisfaction.
Today, however, there was no escape to be found from the troubles which beset her.
She sat for a while with pen and parchment in front of her and tried to concentrate on the book of recipes, but it was no use.
After three botched attempts, she gave up the effort and tossed aside the quill. She gazed moodily out the window and thought about the feel of Gareth’s mouth on hers.
His kiss had shaken her more than she wished to admit. It had been nothing like the wet, obnoxious kisses Nicholas had forced on her last month when he had carried her off to Seabern Keep.
She had disliked everything about Nicholas’s embrace. When he had crushed her against his great, oversized body, she had been repelled, not only by the bulge of his aroused manhood, but by the very smell of him.
Part of the problem, of course, was the undeniable fact that Nicholas was not overly fond of bathing. But it was not just the odor of sweat and dirt that had repulsed her; it was the personal, utterly unique scent of the man, himself. Clare knew she would never learn to ignore it, let alone accept it in the same bed with her.
She touched her lips with her fingertips and inhaled deeply, seeking a trace of Gareth’s scent.
“Clare?” Joanna frowned from the doorway. “Are you all right?”
“What? Oh, aye, I’m fine, Joanna.” Clare smiled reassuringly. “I was just contemplating something.”
“Sir Gareth, by any chance?”
“What else?” Clare waved Joanna to a stool near the window. “Did you know that he is Lord Thurston’s son?”
“Aye. I heard the news just now downstairs in the hall.” Joanna studied her with a perceptive look. “He is Thurston’s bastard, to be precise.”
“But still a son.” Clare fiddled with the quill. “Some would say I have been honored.”
“Some would say that Lord Thurston places great value on this manor,” Joanna said dryly. “’Tis obvious he wishes to be certain that he can depend upon the loyalty of its new lord. What better way to make sure of that than by seeing you wed to a man who is tied to him by blood?”
“True enough.” Clare glanced at the letter that lay on her desk. “He claims he could not find any suitors who came close to meeting my requirements except Sir Nicholas and Sir Gareth.”
“Indeed?”
“Personally, I am beginning to doubt that he tried very hard.”
“Men tend to be very practical about such matters,” Joanna murmured. “At least he has given you a choice.”
“’Tis not much of a choice, if you ask me.”
Joanna clucked unsympathetically. “’Tis more of a choice than I had.”
Clare winced. She knew very well that at fifteen, Joanna had had no say whatsoever in the selection of a husband. “Were you very unhappy in your marriage, Joanna?”
“Lord Thomas was no better and no worse than most men,” Joanna said philosophically. “He was never deliberately cruel to me or to William.”
“That is something, I suppose.”
“’Tis a great deal,” Joanna retorted.
“Did you ever grow to love him?”
Joanna sighed. “Nay. I respected him as a wife should respect her husband, but I could not love him.”
Clare tapped the quill gently on the desk. “Abbess Helen wrote in her last letter that a good man will cause his wife to fall in love with him after the marriage.”
“I mean no offense, Clare, but what would Abbess Helen know of marriage?”
“Aye, you have a point.” Clare glanced at the bookshelves which contained her precious books and treatises.
Two of the volumes had belonged to her mother. Some of the others Clare had obtained in her endless quest for information concerning the making of perfumes. The remainder had belonged to her father. He had returned from each journey with new ones, some of which he donated to the convent library in the village. The last, a book that he had scripted himself and was almost indecipherable, had been shipped to her shortly before h
is death.
One of the large, heavy volumes, a work devoted to herb lore, had been written by Abbess Helen of Ainsley. Clare had purchased a fair copy from a monastery in the south.
Clare had studied every word of Abbess Helen’s treatise. She had been so impressed by Helen’s book that she had boldly undertaken to write a letter to the abbess. To her astonishment the abbess had penned a response.
The correspondence between the two women, nourished by their mutual interest in flowers and herbs, had flourished during the past year. Last fall Clare had been delighted and deeply honored when Abbess Helen had journeyed to Desire for a short visit.
The Abbess had stayed at the hall, rather than at Saint Hermione’s, and she and Clare had stayed up very late every night. They had talked for hours, discussing every conceivable subject.
But Joanna was right. As intelligent and learned as Abbess Helen undeniably was, she had never been a wife. She could not know much about the intimate side of marriage.
Clare studied the tip of her quill while she tried to find a tactful way to ask her next question. “Did you ever develop any feelings of, uh, warmth for Sir Thomas, Joanna?”
Joanna snorted. “Few women find passion in the marriage bed, Clare. Nor should they seek it. ‘Tis a frivolous thing, passion. A woman marries for other, far more important reasons.”
“Aye, I’m only too well aware of that.” But still, she had hoped to find some warm feelings in her marriage bed, Clare thought wistfully. And with Gareth’s kiss still burning her lips, she sensed she might find such feelings with him.
How could that be? she wondered. Other than the ability to read, which Gareth claimed to possess, he did not appear to be made up of any of the ingredients she had specified in her recipe for a husband.
She could not begin to comprehend why she had responded so unquestioningly to his embrace.
“I shall be honest with you,” Joanna said. “Thomas was thirty years older than me and he had little patience with a new bride. Our wedding night was unpleasant but bearable, as it is for most women. One gets past it and it is done. After that, I grew accustomed to the business and so will you.”
Clare groaned. “I know you are trying to encourage me, Joanna, but you are not succeeding.”
“It is not like you to complain about your responsibilities, Clare.”
“I do not complain without reason. Sir Gareth has virtually ordered the wedding to take place the day after tomorrow. Thurston’s letter gives him the authority to insist.”
“What did you expect?” Joanna sighed, “’Tis no surprise, I suppose.”
“Nay.” Clare got to her feet and went to stand at the window. “I wish I had more time. It is the one thing I crave most at the moment. I would pay dearly for it.”
“Do you think that time would make much difference? Sir Nicholas grows more encroaching by the day. You have lost the last two shipments of perfumes to thieves. You have said yourself that Desire needs a lord who can protect it.”
“Aye. But I need a husband whom I can tolerate in my bed and at my table for the rest of my life.” A strange panic welled up inside Clare. The rest of her life.
“What makes you think it will be impossible for you to tolerate Sir Gareth?”
“That’s the problem,” Clare whispered. “I simply do not know yet whether he and I can come to some sort of accommodation. I have only just met the man. All I have learned about him thus far is that he meets only one of my requirements. Apparently he can read.”
“That is something.”
“I need more time, Joanna.”
“What will that buy? You have known from the first that you were unlikely to contract a marriage that was also a love match. Few women in your position enjoy that opportunity.”
“Aye, but I had hoped for a marriage that would be based on friendship and the pleasures of shared interests.” Clare chewed reflectively on her lower lip, “Perhaps that was too much to ask. Nevertheless, if I just had a bit more time, I believe I could …”
“Could what?” Joanna eyed her uneasily. “I do not like that expression on your face, Clare. You are scheming again, are you not? You are concocting plans in the same manner with which you create new perfumes. Do not trouble yourself with the effort. In this instance I fear there is no time for such alchemic cleverness.”
“Mayhap, but it occurs to me that I might be able to delay events if I could convince Sir Gareth that he must allow himself some time.”
Joanna looked astonished. “Time for what?”
“Time to discover whether or not he will be truly content to settle down here as lord of Desire.” Clare recalled Gareth’s cautiously neutral attitude toward the rose-scented soap he had used in his bath. “I do not believe he has given much thought to what it will mean to become the lord of an isle of flowers.”
“You are hoping that a man who has made his living fighting murderers and outlaws may conclude that becoming a gardener is a somewhat dull prospect?”
“It is a possibility.”
Joanna shook her head. “I doubt it. At the moment, I suspect that all Sir Gareth can think about is the prospect of becoming lord of his own rich lands.”
“But what if I could convince him that he himself needs time for some calm reflection?” Clare swung around, suddenly enthusiastic about her new notion. “He is an intelligent man, the sort who thinks carefully and plans well before he acts.”
“You are certain of this?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely.” Clare did not pause to consider how she could be so sure of her analysis. “If I can convince him that he should consider long and well on the matter of this marriage, I shall be able to secure the time I want.”
“How will you use that time?”
“First, to become better acquainted with him,” Clare said. “‘Twill be useful if we do go forward with the marriage. I would at least know more about my husband before I am obliged to share a bedchamber with him. Second, if I discover that I simply cannot bear the thought of tying myself to Sir Gareth for life, my scheme will provide me with an opportunity to discover a way out of the dilemma.”
“It will not work, Clare. From what I can learn, the Hellhound is eager to be wed. He wants to claim his bride and his new lands immediately.”
“But mayhap I can persuade him to hold off for a while.”
“How will you do that?”
“By telling him that I will not search for any other candidates for the position of lord of Desire while he himself is considering the post.”
“You do not know much about men, Clare. Trust me, your scheme is hopeless.”
“You cannot know that,” Clare insisted. “At the moment, a goodly portion of the Hellhound’s eagerness for this match is based on his belief that I am uneasy about the poor selections that have been offered to me. But if he can be convinced that I will not attempt to find another to replace him until he has contemplated the matter further, he might be willing to postpone the wedding.”
“Highly unlikely.”
“Why must you take such a gloomy view, Joanna?” Clare broke off at the sound of hoofbeats in the distance. She went back to the window.
“What is it?” Joanna asked.
“A small party of men is approaching from the village.” Clare peered at the cloud of dust in the distance. She spotted a familiar yellow banner. “Oh, no.”
“Clare?”
“By the hem of Saint Hermione’s gown, I have never known a man to show poorer timing. What an idiot he is.”
“Who?”
“Sir Nicholas.”
“Oh, no, surely not.” Joanna rose from the stool and hurried to the window. Her mouth tightened at the sight of the party of mounted men. “I vow, this could prove to be somewhat awkward.”
“That is putting it mildly.”
“Do you think that Sir Gareth knows anything about the kidnapping?”
“How could he?” Clare frowned. “We hushed the matter up quite thoroughly. I made
it clear to everyone that I had been a willing visitor to Seabern Keep. And I did not mention the incident in my letter to Lord Thurston. Sir Gareth cannot be aware of it.”
“I hope you’re right,” Joanna said grimly. “Because if the Hellhound of Wyckmere is given cause to believe that his bride has been ravished by another man, I fear there will be the devil himself to pay.”
A sudden thought struck Clare. “Do you think that he would withdraw his suit if he were to learn that I had been kidnapped?”
Joanna looked alarmed. “Now, Clare—”
“Mayhap a previously ravished bride would not be to Sir Gareth’s taste. He is a very proud man for one who was born a bastard.” Clare paused. “Or mayhap because of that fact.”
Joanna scowled. “Do not even contemplate such a notion. There is no telling what would happen were Sir Gareth to suspect the worst, and I, for one, do not want to find out.”
“Hmmm,” Clare said. She turned toward the door.
“What are you going to do?” Joanna called after her.
“I am going to welcome our visitors, of course. What else?”
“Clare, I beg of you, promise me that you will not do anything rash.”
“I vow, you are beginning to sound just like Beatrice the recluse with all your warnings and dire prophecies.” Clare gave her a quick, reassuring smile. “Do not fret. I shall consider carefully before I move the next piece in this game of chess.”
She hurried out the door and along the corridor to the stone steps in the corner tower. She flew down them to the great room of the hall, where confusion and alarm seemed to reign.
Eadgar came up to her, his face creased in lines of grave anxiety. “’Tis Sir Nicholas and several of his household knights, my lady. They are already in the courtyard. What am I to do with them?”
“We shall first determine why they have come from Seabern without any notice. Then we shall invite them to sup with us and stay the night.”
“The night?” Eadgar looked almost faint at the thought. “But we have a house full of guests. There is no room for any more.”
“I am certain we can find space for a few more pallets here in the hall.”
Clare crossed the hall and went outside to stand on the steps. The courtyard was even busier than the hall. Grooms ran from the stables to take the horses as the newcomers dismounted. Several of Gareth’s men appeared. Their eyes were watchful and they held their hands close to the hilts of their swords.