Desire

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 appreci' ate 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 note 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 wanned 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 lousehold, 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 nevitable."

Satisfaction flowed through Gareth.

His future bride was not one to collapse in the face of blatant ntimidation. 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 jriefly. "He suspects that Nicholas will soon make another ittempt 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 he 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 Dalian. 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 Dalian 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 is 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 Dalian, 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?"

"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." Joartna 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 rigfit.

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, indeedr 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," Dalian 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.

Dalian 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 Dalian's impassioned remark. "I do not think he was mocking me, precisely."

"Well, I do," Dalian 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 Dalian.

"Welcome to Desire, sir," Dalian 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?" Dalian asked, tight-lipped.

"Aye. I do not care for songs about ladies who are seduced by knights other than their wedded lords."

Dalian 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.

Dalian 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 Dalian 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 peace 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."

"My requirements?" Gareth looked taken back by the question. "My requirements in a wife are simple, madam. I believe that you will satisfy them."

"Because I hold lands and the recipes of a plump perfume business? Think twice before you decide that is sufficient to satisfy you, sir. We live a simple life here on Desire.

Quite boring in most respects. You are a man who is no doubt accustomed to the grand entertainments provided in the households of great lords."

"I can do without such entertainments, my lady. They hold no appeal for me."

"You have obviously lived an adventurous, exciting life," Clare persisted. "Will you find contentment in the business of growing flowers and making perfumes?"

"Aye, madam, I will," Gareth said with soft satisfaction.

"Tis hardly a career suited to a knight of your reputation, sir."

"Rest assured that here on Desire I expect to find the things that are most important to me."

Clare lost patience with his reasonableness. "And just what are those things, sir?"

"Lands, a hall of my own, and a woman who can give me a family." Gareth reached down and pulled her to her feet as effortlessly as though she were fashioned of thistledown. "You can provide me with all of those things, lady. That makes you very valuable to me. Do not imagine that I will not protect you well. And do not think that I will let you slip out of my grasp."

"But?"

Gareth brought his mouth down on hers, silencing her protest.