Desire

by Amanda Quick

And as far as Gareth was concerned, love was for poets and fools.

  Two days later Clare was again at her desk when a great thunderclap resounded across the courtyard.

  Startled, she leaped to her feet and went to the window. She frowned when she realized that there was not a single storm cloud in sight.

  Confused, she glanced down into the courtyard. A shout went up. A maid screamed. The stonemasons stopped work on the new wall. Men spilled from the stables in alarm. A horse whinnied and plunged in fright. Several chickens cackled madly as they darted across the yard.

  And then great, billowing clouds of smoke poured from the windows of her father’s workroom. Even as Clare watched, the door burst open and two figures reeled out into the sunlight. Gareth and Dallan were covered in gray ash.

  Clare whirled and raced out of the chamber. She ran to the tower stairs and flew down them.

  “Gareth. My lord, are you all right?” she shouted as she dashed out onto the hall steps. She stared at the ash-covered figures. The acrid scent of sulfur assailed her nostrils.

  Dallan smiled weakly. He looked dazed but unhurt.

  Gareth’s teeth flashed in a triumphant grin through his gray mask. “It worked”

  “In the name of Saint Hermione’s night robe,” Clare gasped as Gareth ran to her and caught her up. “What worked?”

  “One of your father’s sulfur recipes.” Gareth swung her around in a circle. His laughter rang out across the yard. “It worked, Clare. It really worked.”

  “I can see that. But of what possible use is this sulfur mix?”

  “I have no notion yet. The important thing is that the recipe worked.”

  Clare looked up at his smudged, grinning features and smiled with sudden and complete understanding. Gareth was euphoric with the thrill of discovery. She had experienced the sensation many times herself, albeit in a less spectacular fashion.

  “Aye, my lord. Your recipe most certainly worked. Mayhap you have a career in alchemy ahead of you.”

  “It is certainly a far more interesting business than my former occupation of hunting outlaws.”

  15

  Clare closed her eyes to shut out the distraction caused by the clash and clang of stonemasons’ tools and the shouts of laborers. Outside her workrooms, construction of the new stone wall around the hall was proceeding apace. It created an unceasing din during the day.

  It was only in the evening, after the men from Seabern had departed for the day, that a blessed silence descended. Clare hoped the project would be finished soon.

  She reached into the pot on the bench in front of her, scooped out a handful of the new mix of dried herbs and flowers, and held it to her nose. The hint of mugwort reminded her of Raymond de Coleville, for some reason. Mugwort had made his eyes water uncontrollably and caused him to sneeze and gasp for air.

  She recalled the day that she had surprised him with a pomander that had contained mugwort along with other spices and flowers. It was the only time that she had ever seen Raymond lose his temper.

  “God’s blood, get that perfume away from me,” he had raged. “It must contain mugwort. What are you trying to do? Kill me?”

  Clare had been horrified. She’d had no way of knowing that he could not tolerate the mugwort. She had apologized profusely and disposed of the pomander. Raymond had quickly returned to his normal charming self and that had been the end of the matter.

  Clare frowned and wondered why the memory had flickered through her mind today. She had not thought much about Raymond de Coleville since the day Gareth had arrived on the Isle of Desire.

  In truth, it was difficult to think of any other man except her husband these days. Gareth was too large, too overwhelming, too interesting to allow space for others in her mind. He made other men, especially the pale memories of a man who had lied to her, seem very small and quite ordinary.

  “Clare?” Joanna appeared at the open door of the workroom. She peered into the shadows. “Are you in here?”

  “Aye, Joanna.” Clare dropped the handful of dried materials back into the bowl. “Is something amiss?”

  “Nay, I merely came to show you my latest embroidery design. I think it will do very nicely for the larger pillows.” Joanna shook out a large square of fabric decorated with a rough drawing of a knight kneeling before a lady. The couple appeared to be seated in a leafy bower.

  “It’s wonderful, Joanna. Romantic scenes such as that always sell very well. What’s that creature in the background?”

  “A unicorn.” Joanna refolded the fabric with an air of satisfaction. “The ladies of London are very fond of unicorns. Well, then, if you approve, I shall set the village women and the nuns to work on the new pillow scenes immediately.”

  “Excellent.”

  “We should have a large number ready to fill with your dried herbs and flowers by midsummer.”

  “At least this shipment will likely reach its destination. Lord Gareth will see to that.” Clare added two handfuls of rose petals to the mixture in the pot.

  “Aye. The Hellhound has his uses, I’ll grant you that much.” Joanna gave Clare a speculative look. “I wonder if he’ll stay with us through the winter.”

  “What?” Clare whirled around. “Of course he’ll stay with us. This is his home now. Why would he leave?”

  Joanna tut-tutted. “Men always leave once they’ve seen to the business of protecting their lands and getting an heir. Now that you are wed, Desire is safe from Nicholas or some other encroaching lord.”

  “Aye, but what of the robbers who are a constant threat to our shipments?” Clare felt stunned. A strange tightness gripped her chest.

  “I expect it will be no problem for Lord Gareth to arrange for some of his men-at-arms to remain here on Desire to handle the shipments.” Joanna sighed. “I suppose Sir Ulrich will accompany Lord Gareth when he leaves. A pity. William is quite fond of him. I do believe this new exercise program is having a beneficial effect on my son, just as Lord Gareth predicted.”

  “Young William is not the only one who has grown fond of Sir Ulrich, is he?” Clare asked gently.

  Joanna blushed. “Is it so obvious?”

  “Aye. And he seems equally fond of you.”

  Joanna studied the pot of herbs and flowers. “He says he loves me.”

  Lucky Joanna, Clare thought. That was a great deal more than Gareth had ever said to her. “I am happy for you, Joanna.”

  “He kissed me last night.” Joanna shot her a quick glance. “For the first time I understood that lovemaking might be as pleasant for a woman as it is for a man.”

  “Aye. But I suspect it is only thus with the right man.”

  Joanna sat down heavily on a stool and folded her hands in her lap. “It will be very lonely around here after they leave, will it not?”

  “Lord Gareth has said nothing to me of leaving.”

  “Men rarely discuss their plans with women. You know that. Did your brother ever bother to inform you of his intentions until he had one foot out the door?”

  “Nay, but Lord Gareth is different. He discusses important matters with me.”

  “Your husband is still at the stage where it amuses him to indulge a new wife. That will soon change,” Joanna said sadly. “It always does.”

  Clare’s stomach tightened. She could not bear the thought of Gareth leaving, not now when they were just beginning to get to know each other, to understand each other. To talk to each other.

  Not now when she had begun to hope that she could make him fall in love with her.

  “I shall see about this.” Clare started toward the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find my husband. I wish to speak to him.”

  Joanna frowned. “He is busy at the moment.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Supervising the repairs of the windmill, I believe. One of the sails is being replaced.”

  “This won’t take but a moment.”

  Clare went through the d
oor. The windmill stood on the far side of the courtyard. Its sails were still. Several men, including Gareth and Ulrich, were gathered around the mill. From the serious expressions on their faces, one would have thought they stood around an open grave.

  She wondered briefly if men assumed such airs of concern when faced with broken mechanical devices merely to impress each other or if they were genuinely alarmed by the challenge of repairing the items.

  “My lord.” She halted a few paces away from the crowd of males. “I wish to speak to you.”

  Gareth reluctantly dragged his attention away from the torn sailcloth and glanced at her. “Later, madam. As you can see, I am occupied just now.”

  “This is very important.” Clare was aware that every man in the small crowd was listening with keen interest. “It will not take but a moment.”

  Gareth’s brow rose in reaction to her peremptory tone. “Very well, if it is that important.” He nodded at Ulrich. “Continue with the work. I shall return soon.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Ulrich turned back to the flapping sailcloth with an ill-concealed smile.

  Gareth strode over to where Clare stood. He looked down at her, his broad shoulders blocking her view of the mill. “Well, then, Clare? What is it that is so urgent that it could not wait?”

  Clare suddenly felt ridiculous. But she had to ask the question. “I merely wished to know if you intend to leave Desire in the near future?”

  “Leave?”

  “Aye.” She glowered at him. “There are some who feel that once you’ve secured your lands and got me with child, you’ll be off. I wanted to know if that was your intention.”

  Gareth stared at her. “Are you with child?”

  “Uh, no.” Clare cleared her throat. “At least I do not believe that to be the case. Gareth, that is not the issue. I am asking if you plan to leave the isle.”

  Gareth’s mouth tightened grimly. “Hell’s teeth, this is not the time to discuss such matters. I’m trying to get that damned windmill fixed.”

  “Is the mill more important than your future plans, sir?”

  He raked his fingers through his hair. “What in the name of the devil made you seek me out to ask me this now?”

  “Never mind, my lord. Just answer my question. Are you planning to leave anytime soon?”

  “Do you want me gone, then?”

  “Nay, my lord.” Clare looked at the broad expanse of his chest. “In truth, I find you extremely useful to have around and am not anxious to see you leave.”

  “Useful?”

  “Aye, sir. Useful.”

  “How am I useful?”

  “Well, you did an excellent job of repairing the machine I use for pressing oil from roses and cinnamon.” Clare summoned a bright little smile. “It works perfectly now.”

  “Thank you,” Gareth said through set teeth. “I am glad that I was able to give satisfactory service.”

  Clare realized he was angry. Her own temper flared. “I just want to know your plans so that I can make my own arrangements. Does that seem too much to ask?”

  He regarded her with a cool, shuttered gaze. “I have no intention of leaving Desire unless I am summoned by my father. I am Thurston of Landry’s vassal and as such, I owe him a set number of days of service each year should he demand such. You know that as well as I do.”

  Clare scowled. “I am not an idiot. I fully comprehend that, my lord. I wasn’t talking about the duty that you owe to Lord Thurston. I was referring to your personal plans.”

  “At the moment, my personal plans involve getting that damned mill repaired as soon as possible. After that I intend to check on the stonemasons’ progress. When I have finished that task, I shall return to my workroom to continue my experiments. Does that answer your question?”

  “You definitely do not plan to leave Desire?”

  “Nay.”

  “I have your oath on it?”

  “Aye.”

  Relief poured through Clare. She tried not to let it show. “Very well. That is all I wished to know.”

  Gareth braced his hands on his hips. “If you are satisfied, madam, may I return to the task of repairing the windmill sail?”

  “Of course. My apologies for disturbing your labors.” Clare started to turn away.

  “Clare.”

  “Aye?” She paused.

  Gareth surveyed her thoughtfully. “I am told that you do not charge the villagers for the use of the mill.”

  “That is correct. I’m aware that many lords do charge their people for grinding their flour, but I feel there is no need to do so. The villagers supply the hall with all the flour we need, so it is an even trade as far as I am concerned.”

  “I see.”

  She eyed him uneasily. “I trust you do not intend to start charging our people for milling their flour, my lord?”

  “Nay, madam. You are the one with a head for business in this family. If you believe the present arrangement to be fair, who am I to argue with you?”

  “A head for business, aye. That is what I have always been told.” She gave him a wry look. “It would appear that we both have our uses, sir.”

  Gareth’s eyes gleamed. “A man could not ask for a more useful wife than you, madam. Now, pray excuse me. ‘Tis past time I got back to my tasks.” He returned and stalked back to the crowd that hovered around the mill.

  Clare gazed wistfully after him for a brief moment. Useful

  She had always been useful, she reflected. She had been useful to her mother, who had borne the burden of managing the manor while her lord traipsed about the continent in search of knowledge.

  She had been useful to her absentminded, scholarly father, who preferred his studies in Paris and Spain to the responsibilities of being a husband and a father and the lord of Desire.

  She had been useful to her brother, who had hungered for the excitement and glory of the tournaments more than he had hungered for the lands he was to inherit.

  She had been useful to Raymond de Coleville, who had wished to amuse himself with a bit of dalliance while he studied with her father.

  Nicholas of Seabern had thought that she would make him a useful bride, one who could plump up his pockets.

  She was useful to Thurston of Landry, who valued the income from Desire.

  And now it appeared that the Hellhound found her useful, too.

  It was not a cheerful thought, but Clare feared that there were worse fates than being useful.

  Fates such as falling in love with a man who did not see love as particularly useful, for example.

  That afternoon, Clare finally found time to climb the tower stairs to her study chamber. She hurried around the corner at the top of the staircase and ran headlong into Dallan.

  “Ooph.” Clare put out a hand to steady herself as she staggered back a step.

  “Lady Clare. I beg your pardon.” Something that was more than surprise, something that might have been fear, flashed in Dallan’s eyes.

  She grinned ruefully. “What are you doing up here, Dallan? I thought you were assisting Lord Gareth in his experiments.”

  “Forgive me, my lady.” He glanced nervously down the hall and then looked at her. “I did not hear you on the stairs.”

  “I am on my way to my study chamber.”

  “Oh.” Dallan wiped his palms on his tunic. “Are you all right?”

  “Do not concern yourself. You did no great harm.” Clare frowned. “Is anything amiss, Dallan?”

  “Nay, madam.”

  “Are you quite certain? You seem to have grown increasingly downcast since the spring fair. Are you sure that you are not pining for your pretty Alison?”

  “Alison?” Dallan looked briefly confused. “Nay, my lady. I am not pining.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Aye, madam. Quite certain.”

  “Is there something else preying on your mind, mayhap?”

  “Nay, madam.” Dallan hesitated and then squared his shoulders. There was a s
ad, almost desperate light in his eyes. “Lady Clare, I have never thanked you for your great kindness to me. I wish to do so now.”

  Clare smiled. “It is I who should thank you, Dallan. You have brightened our lives here on Desire with your fine music and poems. And I know that Lord Gareth is very pleased to have your assistance in his workroom.”

  “My lord is a very clever man,” Dallan whispered. “As are you, my lady. It has been an honor to serve you.”

  “Why, thank you, Dallan.”

  “Pray excuse me, madam,” Dallan said softly. “I must go now. His lordship will be waiting for me.”

  “Off with you, then. I shall see you at supper.”

  “Farewell, my lady. And thank you again for all your kindness to me. I do not deserve it.”

  “Nonsense, of course you deserve it.” Clare went on down the hall to her study chamber.

  She opened the door and made to step inside. Something made her hesitate. She turned and glanced back. Dallan was watching her with an intensely melancholic look in his eyes. She smiled reassuringly once more. Then she stepped into the chamber and closed the door behind herself.

  She went to her desk, sat down, and propped her chin on her hands. She reflected for a long time on the manner in which Dallan had thanked her for her kindness.

  “It was the strangest thing, Gareth,” Clare said that evening when they were alone in their bedchamber. “‘Twas as though he were bidding me farewell.”

  “Who said farewell?” Gareth did not look up from the heavy volume he was studying.

  Clare’s father had done a fine job of translating Arabic into Latin, he reflected, but Sir Humphrey had not been a skilled scribe. It required painstaking effort to puzzle out the words of the essay on the elements that Gareth was attempting to comprehend.

  Although the day had been warm, it had turned cooler than usual that evening. There was a brisk fire on the hearth of the bedchamber. Outside a wind was beginning to howl, promising a storm before dawn.

  “Dallan. My lord, are you listening to me?”

  “Of course I’m listening to you. I always listen to you when you speak, madam. Did I not leave off repairing the mill today just to listen to you?” Gareth frowned over a clumsily lettered word. He could not make out if it was vapor or viper. It had to be vapor, he decided. Viper did not make sense in the context. Intense heat causes the liquid to boil and give off a vapor which becomes, itself liquid …