Desire

by Amanda Quick

  A large, familiar figure flung his helm to his squire and climbed down from his horse.

  “Greetings, my lady.” Nicholas’s voice boomed across the courtyard.

  Clare groaned.

  Sandy-haired and blue-eyed, Nicholas of Seabern was not an unhandsome man. Clare thought his features rather coarse, but she knew that some woman found his thick neck, bulging chest, and sturdy thighs appealing. She had once overheard a giggling maid confide to a friend that Nicholas’s male member was as well muscled as the rest of him.

  Clare had no desire to discover the truth of that statement.

  “Welcome, Sir Nicholas,” she said coolly. “We were not expecting you.”

  “Word has reached me that the chase is on.” Nicholas smacked his hand into his palm with great relish. “I’ve always enjoyed the sport to be had from a rousing hunt.”

  “What hunt?” Clare glared at him. “What are you talking about, sir?”

  “I hear that you have finally been cornered and forced to choose a husband. Past time, if you ask me.”

  “No one did.”

  “What’s more, I have it on good authority that a suitor for your hand has arrived on Desire.” Nicholas chuckled. “I could scarcely let a stranger have the field to himself.”

  “This is not a hunt, sir, and I am not a helpless hart to be run to earth and captured. I have a choice in the matter.”

  Nicholas chuckled. “And have you made your choice, madam?”

  “Nay, I have not.”

  “Excellent. Then it is not too late. I shall join the chase.”

  “I fear the lady jests.” Gareth materialized behind Clare. He stood with arrogant ease on the top step, one big hand resting lightly on the hilt of the Window of Hell. “The hunt is over.”

  “Who are you?” Nicholas demanded.

  “Gareth of Wyckmere.”

  “The one they call the Hellhound.” Nicholas grinned. “I have heard of you, sir.”

  “Have you?”

  “Aye, you’ve got a reputation that would do credit to the devil. So you’re here to woo the lady, eh?”

  “She finds it amusing to pretend that she has not yet selected a husband. Who can blame her for attempting to prolong the entertaining game of courtship? But in truth the matter has been decided. I am the only suitor who meets any of her requirements.”

  “Not necessarily,” Clare muttered. She was annoyed by the way the two men towered over her. Between the two of them they managed to block out the spring sunshine. She found herself standing in the shade.

  Nicholas’s eyes narrowed as he took Gareth’s measure. “I know well that Lady Clare has certain very specific requirements in a husband. I would not want to see her settle for less than she deserves.”

  “You need not concern yourself with the matter,” Gareth said.

  “But I must.” Nicholas switched his attention back to Clare. “We have been friends and neighbors for years, is that not right, madam?”

  “We have certainly been neighbors for years,” Clare said.

  “Aye, and because of that close relationship, I feel it is my duty to be certain that any husband of your choosing knows exactly what he is getting in the bargain.” Nicholas smirked. “A man should not be surprised on his wedding night.”

  A deep sense of alarm unfurled within Clare. She sniffed delicately and smelled the heavy, dangerous tension in the air between Gareth and Nicholas.

  There had never been violence of any kind on her fair isle. She would not allow it to flare up now.

  In that moment Clare knew that she would have to abandon her half-formed plan to turn the situation to her own advantage. She was suddenly faced with another, more pressing problem.

  She had to find a way to keep Gareth and Nicholas from each other’s throats.

  4

  Supper proved to be the perilous performance Clare had feared. Seated at the head table between Gareth and Nicholas, she felt as though she were the acrobat she had seen at last year’s harvest fair. Surely the effort of balancing oneself on a taut rope strung between two poles could be no more difficult than attempting to maintain peace in a chamber full of quarrelsome knights.

  Not that there had been any open conflict as yet. But Clare could feel the anticipation growing in the hall. It was a direct reflection of the hostility that emanated from the two men seated at the head table.

  In an effort to lessen the opportunity for small provocations between Gareth’s and Nicholas’s men, Clare had seen to it that they were seated on the opposite sides of the long trestle tables. She hoped that the short distance that separated the warriors would prove a useful barrier in the event hostilities broke out.

  Violence, if it erupted, would start at the head table, she reminded herself. As long as she controlled Gareth and Nicholas, she would control the entire hall.

  It was a daunting task.

  “Nay, not more vegetables?” Nicholas looked askance at the array of new dishes that had been set down amid the primroses scattered atop the table. “I vow, you eat more greenery here on Desire than do the hares and deer in my forest.”

  “We are very fond of fresh vegetables, my lord,” Clare said with a determinedly cheerful smile. “Mayhap you would prefer the oysters? The cook does them with almonds and ginger. I’m sure you will enjoy them.”

  Nicholas lowered his lashes and looked at her with a slumberous gaze. The expression was no doubt intended to stir fires in her loins, but in reality it made him appear as though he were about to fall asleep at the table. “I will enjoy them all the more if you offer them to me with your own tender fingers, my lady.”

  Clare gritted her teeth around a frozen smile. It was common enough to offer a special guest a particularly tasty morsel, but she had no intention of honoring Nicholas in that fashion. In the first place, she did not think of him as a special guest. He was, in actual fact, a great nuisance. Clare’s second consideration was not knowing how Gareth would react if he believed she was favoring Nicholas.

  This was what came of trying to select a husband. Life had once been so peaceful and uncomplicated here on Desire, Clare thought.

  “I do not believe I care for any oysters myself, sir,” Clare said. “But please take as many as you like. And don’t forget the pottage. Cook seasons it with fennel and coriander. It’s delicious.”

  “Aye.” Nicholas scooped up a handful of oysters and stuffed them into his mouth. “You always set an excellent table, my lady,” he said around the oysters. “And your presence is the tastiest dish of all.”

  “Thank you.” Clare gave him a repressive look, silently beseeching him to behave. If Nicholas read the plea in her eyes, he gave no indication.

  Nicholas was rapidly becoming oblivious to a great many things, she reflected. He got that way after a few tankards of ale.

  “But as lovely as you are tonight seated here in your own hall,” Nicholas continued in a drawling, provocative tone, “I believe I prefer the memory of how you looked when you were seated beside me in Seabern Keep less than a month ago.” He paused to swallow more oysters in a single gulp. “I thought at the time that you looked as though you belonged there.”

  Clare felt Gareth stir silently in the chair to her left. She panicked for a second. Her spoon clattered loudly against the edge of a bowl. “’Twas a pleasant visit, sir and you were a gracious host. But here is where I belong.”

  “And here is where you will stay,” Gareth said very gently.

  Clare glanced at him uneasily from the corner of her eye. She did not like the lethal softness of his tone. It seemed to her that the more Nicholas taunted and provoked, the softer and more polite Gareth’s responses became.

  Clare was growing increasingly alarmed by Gareth’s chilling politeness. She wondered if she was the only one in the hall who realized just how dangerous it was. It seemed to her that everyone present ought to be able to see the obvious threat.

  Nicholas, thickheaded fool that he was, apparently did not. In fact,
Clare thought, Gareth’s soft speech seemed to be emboldening him.

  It dawned on Clare that Gareth was deliberately baiting Nicholas.

  Gareth caught Clare’s eye as he used his knife to slice a wedge of mixed-meat tart. He did not quite smile—the man never smiled—but there was that in his expression which suggested this was as close to being amused as he could get.

  The Hellhound of Wyckmere was enjoying himself.

  Clare wanted to dump the contents of the pottage bowl over his head.

  “Mayhap we would all enjoy some music,” Clare said firmly. She looked at Dallan, who was sulking at the end of one of the long tables. “Will you give us a cheerful song, Dallan?”

  Dallan leaped to his feet and swept her a deep bow. “As my lady commands.”

  He picked up his harp and began to play a familiar melody. Clare relaxed as she recognized one of her favorite songs. Dallan had composed it for her shortly after his arrival on Desire. It was called “The Key.”

  My lady’s smile doth shine as bright

  as moon and stars on a summer’s night.

  Her eyes are emeralds, soft and green,

  Her face is as pure as a clear, fresh stream.

  Tonight I shall take the key,

  The key that she has given to me.

  “Aye, aye, the key.” Nicholas banged his tankard on the table. “Take the key.” He belched.

  Clare shuddered.

  “Aye, the key.” One of Nicholas’s burly men, already drunker than his master, rapped his knife against his tankard. “And what will ye do with the key, lad?”

  More tankards clashed as the rest of the men from Seabern called encouragement to Dallan. Clare saw Nicholas start to grin. He downed another swallow of ale and then reached for his goblet of wine.

  ‘Tis the key to her chamber that she has given me.

  She will welcome me there most graciously.

  “Graciously, graciously,” one of the men chorused with a hoot of laughter.

  ‘Tis unfair that her lord keeps such a treasure hidden.

  I shall risk my life to climb through her window this night.

  I shall part her bed curtains and behold the fair sight.

  Nicholas slammed the table with his fist, rattling cups and dishes. “Aye, lad, on to the lady’s bed. ‘Tis worth the risk.” He leered at Clare.

  Clare looked helplessly at Joanna, who in turn glanced uneasily at Ulrich. Ulrich gazed impassively at Gareth, as if waiting for a signal.

  Her thighs are alabaster columns, round and smooth.

  When I lay between them I shall see

  The golden door that awaits my key.

  “Aye, aye, the key.” Nicholas roared.

  Out of the corner of her eye Clare saw Gareth pick up one of the delicate yellow primroses that decorated her table. The blossom looked small and extremely fragile in his large hand. Slowly he began to stroke the petals.

  Clare held her breath.

  Another shout went up from the men seated below the head table. Clare pulled her fascinated gaze away from the sight of the primrose cradled in Gareth’s hand.

  She tried to signal Dallan to stop singing, but he pretended not to notice her attempt to gain his attention. He strummed his harp with grim defiance.

  Nicholas sprawled in his chair. “You appear bored, Hellhound. What’s the matter? Don’t you care for the minstrel’s song?”

  “Nay.” Gareth continued to stroke the petals of the primrose, apparently intrigued by their delicacy.

  Clare shot to her feet. She fixed Dallan with a pointed look. “Master minstrel, I would prefer another song, if you do not mind. Mayhap the lovely one you wrote about the flowers of spring.”

  “But The Key’ is one of your favorites, my lady,” Dallan protested.

  “Aye, but tonight I would like to hear another of my favorites.”

  For an instant she thought Dallan was going to refuse. But he finally nodded brusquely and began to pluck a different tune, one that featured flowers.

  Clare sighed with relief, sat down, and quickly signaled Eadgar to send out more food and ale.

  The marshal moved with astonishing alacrity for a man afflicted with stiff joints. It was clear that he, too, had sensed impending doom and was eager to do his part to avoid it.

  Joanna visibly relaxed. Clare saw her smile weakly at Ulrich, who gallantly offered her a morsel from his plate. To Clare’s amazement, Joanna blushed prettily and took the proferred bite.

  Nicholas’s mouth turned down in a sullen fashion, rather like that of a boy bent on mischief who has seen his teasing game halted before the jest has been played.

  Gareth set the primrose aside and calmly picked up his wine goblet as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. “I am well pleased with your minstrel’s new song, madam.”

  “I am very glad to learn that, sir.” Clare gave him an irritated smile. Her manners were wearing thin. She was thoroughly annoyed with Gareth, just as she was with Nicholas, and she did not particularly care if he knew it. “I certainly would not want any of the guests in my household to have cause to be displeased with the entertainment.”

  Nicholas slammed his goblet down on the table. “Well, I do not much care for the new song. All that nonsense about spring flowers is dull and boring.”

  “Do you find it so?” Gareth glanced at him very casually. “Mayhap you lack the wit to enjoy the more refined aspects of the verses.”

  Nicholas glowered at him. “Are you saying I lack wit?”

  “Aye. ‘Twas no doubt one of the reasons Lady Clare sought other suitors. She has stated quite clearly that she desires a husband who is both clever and well educated.”

  Nicholas flushed with fury. A reckless glitter lit his eyes. “I’ll wager Lady Clare prefers the other song. Is that not right, madam?”

  Clare tried to think of an excuse to end the evening and send everyone off to bed. She wished someone would do her a favor and raise the alarm for fire or siege.

  “I take pleasure in all types of music.” Desperately she sought a distraction. “Would you please pass me the bowl of figs, Sir Nicholas?”

  “Certainly.” Nicholas smiled slowly. “Allow me to choose a fig for you.” Instead of handing her the bowl, he reached into it with his short, broad fingers and plucked out one of the figs. He dipped the dried fruit into a dish of cinnamon and honey and held the morsel to Clare’s lips.

  She stared at the dirt under Nicholas’s nails and tried to think. She was intensely aware of Gareth watching the small scene, a deceptively neutral expression in his eyes.

  The whole situation was getting ridiculous, she thought angrily. This was her hall and she was in command here. She refused to surrender it to either of these large, overbearing males.

  She smiled coolly at Nicholas and removed the fig from his hand. She set the dried fruit down on her plate without taking a single bite.

  “I have changed my mind. I believe I have eaten enough this evening,” she said.

  “You disappoint me, lady,” Nicholas said. “Why, when you stayed with me at Seabern last month, your appetite was much keener.” He paused to leer. “And not just for figs.”

  Clare experienced a distinct chill. “I do not recall.”

  “Ah, but I do,” Nicholas said. “How could I forget those enticing meals we shared? I confess that my fondest memories are of how very pleased you were when I satisfied your extremely delightful appetites. I trust you have not forgotten your sweet satisfaction?”

  “You tease me, Sir Nicholas,” Clare said. Foreboding, dark and disquieting, stole over her. She was rapidly losing all hope of staving off disaster. “I would have you cease at once. I do not find it amusing.”

  “Nay?” Nicholas watched her, but it was obvious his real attention was on Gareth. He was weighing each goading word he spoke, pushing a little harder, searching for the point where blood could be drawn. “I am devastated to learn that, madam. I certainly found you to be most entertaining. Indeed, I eage
rly await your return to Seabern so that we may again satisfy our appetites together.”

  The implication of Nicholas’s words were clear to all who heard them. Joanna toyed nervously with her spoon. Ulrich gazed at Gareth in stone-cold silence.

  Gareth helped himself to a fig. He said nothing.

  “I wish to discuss something else,” Clare realized her voice was starting to rise.

  “But I prefer to reminisce about the meals we have shared.” Nicholas took back the honeyed fig Clare had placed on her plate. He sucked on it and then made loud smacking noises. “They were so very pleasurable.”

  Gareth lounged in his chair. “Lady Clare has requested that the topic of conversation be changed. She does not find it amusing. Nor do I.”

  Nicholas chuckled. “Do you think I care whether or not you find it amusing?”

  “‘Tis the lady’s wishes that concern me. They should be a matter of some concern to you, too.”

  Clare’s heart sank. The situation was worsening rapidly. Mayhap if she could get both men sufficiently drunk, they would both fall into stupors. “Would either of you care for more wine?”

  Nicholas ignored her. He kept his narrowed gaze on Gareth. “Do you believe that you can please the lady better than I, Hellhound?”

  “Aye.”

  “‘Tis highly doubtful, if you ask me. Why would she give the key to her chamber to a bastard after she has known the touch of a well-born knight?”

  A shocked silence fell like molten lead on the hall. Clare saw Joanna’s eyes widen in horror at the insult. Ulrich sat grim-faced beside her.

  Dallan fumbled with the strings of his harp. He ceased playing and jumped to his feet. He glanced wildly around the hall, as though seeking a place to hide.

  Eadgar paused in the doorway, a fresh flask of wine in his hand, and gazed helplessly at Clare.

  Clare found her voice. “That is quite enough, Sir Nicholas. I believe you are drunk.”