Desire

6

"Sir Ulrich says that Sir Gareth is at his most dangerous when he smiles." The brisk morning breeze off the sea ruffled Joanna's mantle.

She anchored the hood in place over her neatly braided hair and looked at Clare with troubled eyes. "He says that the Hellhound is seldom amused and on those odd occasions when he does appear to find mirth in a situation, no one else ever comprehends the jest."

"There's no denying that Sir Gareth enjoys a somewhat misguided notion of amusement," Clare muttered. She had pushed back the hood of her orange mantle, allowing her loosely bound hair to play with the crisp, snapping wind.

"Sir Ulrich claims that something dreadful frequently occurs after the Hellhound smiles."

"Now, that is utter nonsense. Sir Ulrich sounds a bit like Beatrice, always predicting doom and gloom." Clare adjusted the weight of the small pouch that was suspended from her orange and yellow girdle. She had a pot of a specially scented herbal skin cream stashed inside.

"Sir Ulrich is Sir Gareth's closest companion. He tells me he has served him for many years. But Ulrich says that even he treads cautiously whenever the Hellhound shows signs of being amused."

Clare glanced impatiently at Joanna. Her friend looked subdued and distinctly uneasy, not at all her normal, serene self. It was unsettling and at this particular moment in her life Clare did not want to become any more unsettled than she already was. She had to keep a clear head and a logical outlook on matters.

And she must remember her duties and responsibilities to the manor.

The walk along the cliffs into the village should have been a splendid way to steady her churning thoughts. Although it had been Gareth's suggestion this morning, in reality it was Clare's custom to take an early walk each day. She just did not care to be commanded to take a stroll, she thought, irritated by the memory of how Gareth had virtually ordered her out of her own hall.

It was obvious that Gareth was accustomed to command.

So was she.

That could be a problem.

"It seems to me," Clare said, "that you and Sir Ulrich have had some rather intimate conversations regarding Gareth."

Joanna turned an astonishing shade of pink. "Sir Ulrich is a most courteous knight. William is quite fond of him."

"I noticed."

Joanna frowned. "This morning William was still talking about his ride on Ulrich's war-horse yesterday.

I do hope my son does not become too interested in war-horses and armor and such."

Clare gazed out over the sunlit sea. William's increasing fascination with knighthood was worrisome for Joanna. "I understand your fears. But it will be difficult to keep a boy of William's nature away from Gareth's men-at-arms."

"Mayhap it would help if I saw to it that William spent more time on his studies."

"Aye. Mayhap." But Clare privately doubted if any distraction, least of all an educational one, could deflect the boy's interest in the rough-and-tumble world of men-at-arms.

She understood Joanna's concerns better than most because she had lost her only brother to the lure of the tournament circuit. But Clare also knew that Joanna's overprotective attitude toward William was probably not the best method for dealing with a young boy.

Clare took a deep breath, reveling as always in the fresh, scented air.

She loved the purple-pink sea lavender that carpeted the clifftops.

She looked out across the narrow channel that separated Desire from the mainland. The dark tower of Seabern Keep rose behind the small village on the shore. The sight sent a shudder of disgust through her.

"I confess that I have some serious doubts about Sir Gareth's suitability as a husband," she said. "But I suppose things could have been worse. I might have been forced to put up with Sir Nicholas."

Joanna slanted her a strange look. "At least we know you could have managed him, Clare."

"Sir Gareth will prove manageable," Clare said optimistically.

"Do not be too certain of that." Joanna eyed her closely. "Do you really mean to keep him out of your bed until he has proven himself to be a suitable husband?"

"I told you, I want some time to get to know him. I would have some degree of mutual understanding between myself and my husband before I join him in the marriage bed. Tis little enough to ask."

"Sir Ulrich says it will never work. He says you should never have challenged the Hellhound the way you did. I am inclined to agree with him."

Clare's mouth firmed. "Sir Gareth should never have challenged my honor."

"Come, now, it was logical for him to assume that you are no longer a virgin. Thurston of Landry obviously told him of the rumors about the kidnapping and of how you had stayed four days at Seabern."

"I do not care what gossip Thurston gave Gareth. The Hellhound should have asked me for the truth of the matter. He should not have made assumptions. And he had no business vowing revenge on poor Nicholas."

Joanna's smile was wry. "So it's poor Nicholas now, is it? That is not how you referred to him last month after you escaped from Seabern Keep."

"He is a nuisance and I am grateful that I will not have to wed him.

Nevertheless, I confess I felt a little sorry for him this morning."

"I would not waste any sympathy on Nicholas, if I were you," Joanna said. "Save such feelings for yourself. You are the one who has challenged the Hellhound."

"Do you really believe that I made a mistake this morning when I told Gareth that he would not be welcome in my bed?"

"Aye. A very serious mistake. One for which I can only pray that you will not have to pay too dearly."

Clare mulled that over as she and Joanna left the cliff path and walked into the village. The narrow street was already bustling with morning activity.

There was no one seeking advice from the recluse when Clare and Joanna arrived at the anchor-hold. Clare knocked on the stone that surrounded one of the cell's two windows.

"We bid you good morning, Beatrice," she called. "Do we disturb you at your prayers?"

"Aye, but no matter. I have been waiting for you, lady." There was a rustling sound inside the cell. A moment later Beatrice, dressed in a pristinely draped wimple and a dark gown, appeared at the window.

She was a large woman in her fifties who wore a perpetual expression of doom and foreboding. She had retired to the life of a recluse ten years earlier after being widowed, having gone through the long process of seeking and gaining permission from a bishop to become enclosed. She seemed quite content with her choice of careers.

The second window of the two-room cell looked toward the church. It was designed so that Beatrice could follow the-services and contemplate the inspirational view when she was at her prayers.

But everyone in the village knew that she spent most of her time at the other window, the one where Clare and Joanna stood. That was the window where gossip flowed like a river.

"Good day, Beatrice," Joanna said.

"Nay," Beatrice said grimly, " 'tis not a good day. And the morrow will bring worse. Mark my words, Clare of Desire, your wedding day will be heralded by icy gray smoke from the very fires of hell."

"I doubt that, Beatrice." Clare studied the cloudless sky. "The weather has been quite clear and warm lately. I have not heard anyone say that a storm is on the horizon. Come, I am to be wed. The least you can do is wish me well."

"Twould be a waste of time to do so," Beatrice grumbled. "Hear me, my lady, violent death shall descend upon this fair isle after the Hellhound claims his bride."

Joanna clucked disapprovingly. "Beatrice, you cannot possibly know that."

"Ah, but I do know it. I have seen the sign."

Clare frowned. "What sign?"

Beatrice leaned closer and lowered her voice. "The ghost of Brother Bartholomew walks these grounds again."

Joanna gasped. "Beatrice, that is ridiculous."

"Aye," Clare agreed crisply. "Surely you do not believe in ghosts, Beatrice."

"I believe in what I know," Beatrice insisted. "And I have seen the specter."

"Impossible," Clare said.

"You doubt me at your peril, lady. It has long been known that whenever Brother Bartholomew appears within the walls of this convent, someone dies a violent death soon thereafter."

Clare sighed. "Beatrice, the legend of Brother Bartholomew and Sister Maud is naught but an old tale that is told to children. Tis used to frighten them into minding their elders, nothing more."

"But I saw the ghost myself, I tell you."

"When was that?"

"Shortly after midnight last night." Beatrice made the sign of the cross. "There was enough moonlight to see that he wore a black cowl. The hood was drawn up over his head to conceal his unfleshed skull. He stood in front of the gatehouse and when Sister Maud did not appear to join him, he went straight through the gates to seek her out."

"The gates are locked at night," Clare said patiently, "and Sister Maud has been dead for more than fifty years, God rest her soul."

"The gates opened for the ghost," Beatrice declared. "No doubt he used the black arts to unlock them. I saw him enter the grounds and go through the garden. Then he disappeared."

"You must have been asleep and dreaming, Beatrice," Clare said. "Do not concern yourself. Brother Bartholomew would not dare enter the grounds of this convent. He knows very well that he would have to face Prioress Margaret. She'll not tolerate any trouble from a mere ghost."

"You jest, lady of Desire, but you shall know the truth soon enough,"

Beatrice said. "Your marriage to the Hellhound of Wyckmere has roused the ghost of Brother Bartholomew, I tell you. Death will soon follow in his wake, as it always does."

"Mayhap I should come back here tonight and have a long chat with Brother Bartholomew," Clare said.

"Similar to the conversation you had this morning with Sir Gareth?"

Joanna arched her brows. "Would you put this ghost in his place, just as you did your future lord?"

Clare grimaced. "I vow, we did very well here for years without being obliged to put up with all these difficult men traipsing about the manor. Now we seem to be dealing with one annoying male after another."

Beatrice shook her head dolefully. "Woe unto all of us, lady. The Hellhound has summoned the demons of the Pit. Brother Bartholomew is merely the first."

"I am certain that Sir Gareth would not summon any demon that he could not control." Clare reached into the sack suspended from her girdle. "Before I forget, here is your cream, Beatrice."

"Hush, not so loud, lady." Beatrice poked her head through the window.

She glanced anxiously up and down the street, apparently to reassure herself that no one else stood nearby. Then she snatched the pot of scented cream from Clare's fingers and whisked it out of sight.

"No one would ever accuse you of succumbing to worldly temptations merely because you use my cream on your skin," Clare said. "Half the women in the village use it or one of my other potions."

"Bah, people will say anything and think worse." Beatrice stashed the pot in a cupboard and came back to the window.

"Oh, there's Sister Anne:" Joanna lifted a hand to catch the attention of one of the nuns who had just emerged from the gatehouse. "Pray excuse me for a moment, Clare. I wish to have a word with her about a new embroidery design."

"Of course." Clare watched as Joanna hastened off to chat with Sister Anne.

Beatrice waited until Joanna was out of earshot. "Psst, Lady Clare."

"Aye?" Clare turned back to her with a smile.

"Before you go to your doom on the morrow, I would give you a small gift and some advice."

"I'm going to my wedding, not my doom, Beatrice."

"For a woman, there is often little to choose between the two. But that is neither here nor there at the moment. Your fate was sealed on the day your father died. There is nothing that can be done about it." Beatrice thrust a small object through the window. "Now, then, take this vial of chicken blood."

"Chicken blood." Clare stared at the vial in astonishment. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Keep it hidden near the bed on your wedding night," Beatrice whispered.

"After the Hellhound has fallen asleep, unseal the vial and pour the chicken blood on the sheets."

"But why in Saint Hermione's name would I want… Oh." Clare felt herself turn a dull red. "Obviously my future husband is not the only one who fears that I am no longer virgin."

"As to that, 'tis neither here nor there as far as I am concerned. But men take a different view." Beatrice peered intently at her. "Why take chances? I say. This way honor will be satisfied all around and the Hellhound will not be angered."

"But I?" Clare broke off at the sound of hooves thudding on the road behind her.

She turned to see Gareth riding toward the anchor-hold. He was mounted on a sturdy-looking gelding, not his war-horse. He had Clare's small white palfrey in tow.

"Saint Hermione protect us," Beatrice whispered. " Tis the Hellhound himself. Quick, hide the vial." Beatrice reached through the open window to drop the small container of chicken blood into the sack that hung from Clare's girdle.

"Beatrice?"

"Now, then, you must heed my words, lady, if you would live through your wedding night."

"Live through my wedding night." Shocked, Clare spun back to face the recluse. "By Saint Hermione's nose, this is too much nonsense to tolerate, even from you."

"I fear for your very life, madam. I have heard that you swore to deny your husband his rights in the marriage bed."

"Gossip travels quickly. I spoke those words less than an hour ago. Do you imply that Sir Gareth might murder me if I refuse to share his bed?"

"He is the Hellhound of Wyckmere." Beatrice grabbed her wrist to hold her attention. "He is dangerous, Lady Clare. You must not risk his wrath by denying him his husbandly rights. Do not defy him on your wedding night."

"But Beatrice?" Out of the corner of her eye, Clare saw Gareth draw his horse to a halt. He dismounted leisurely.

"If you defy him, he will draw his sword." Beatrice's eyes were grim. "I have seen it in a vision. Blood will flow in the bedchamber. I fear it will be your blood, my lady. My advice is to do your duty as a wife and then use the chicken blood."

Gareth walked toward the window where Clare stood. "May I join this conversation?"

"It would be of little interest to you, sir." Clare summoned a determined smile. "Beatrice was giving me advice on marriage."

"If I were you, I would not pay any heed to advice on marriage that comes from the lips of a recluse.

She is bound to have a very limited view of the estate."

"Beatrice was merely trying to be helpful, sir."

"For all the good it will do," Beatrice muttered. " Tis pointless giving advice to young brides these days. They never listen."

" 'Tis just as well in this case." Gareth did not take his eyes off Clare. "I prefer to be the one who instructs my bride."

Fresh alarm etched Beatrice's expression. "I pray you, Hellhound, show some mercy to your lady on your wedding night. She has had no mother to guide her, and her father, God rest his soul, did not protect her as he should have done. Whatever has happened to her, bear in mind that it was not her fault."

"Beatrice, please," Clare hissed, exasperated. "That is quite enough advice for one day."

"Blood and death," Beatrice whispered as she retired deep into the shadows of her anchor-hold. "Blood will flow and violent death will come. I have seen the ghost."

Gareth looked at Clare with deep interest. "This grows more interesting by the moment. Is my latest rival a ghost?"

Clare glared at him. "Don't be ridiculous. Beatrice has a very lively imagination. What are you doing here, sir? I thought you were overseeing the departure of Nicholas and his men."

"Ulrich will attend to that. I came to find you."

"Why?"

"I wish to ask you to give me a tour of the manor."

"Oh." Clare could think of no immediate excuse to refuse. It was an eminently reasonable request. "But I should return to the hall as soon as possible. There is much to be done before tomorrow."

"Ulrich and your marshal have everything well in hand at the hall, and your friend Joanna is busy, I see," Gareth said. "Come." He took Clare by the arm and guided her toward the white palfrey. "I am eager to acquaint myself with Desire."

The ride to the top of the hill overlooking the village took fifteen minutes. It was accomplished in silence. Clare stole several sidelong glances at Gareth's calm, expressionless face in an effort to determine his mood and finally concluded that he was not angry.

She did not know whether to be irritated or impressed. She had never met a man possessed of such seemingly inexhaustible self-mastery.

"Tell me how you go about concocting your perfumes and potions." Gareth drew his gelding to a halt and looked out over the fields of spring flowers.

"Are you certain you wish to hear all the details, sir? Mayhap you will find them boring."

Gareth surveyed the brilliant patchwork of flowers and herbs that flowed across the gentle hills and valleys of Desire. There was cool possessiveness and keen interest in his gaze. "How could I be bored with even the smallest of details? I am responsible for the safety and protection of this isle. I must learn all that I can about it."

Clare stroked the palfrey's neck. "Very well. But please let me know if you grow weary. I have been told that I tend to wax overly enthusiastic about my subject."

She began to talk, slowly at first, unsure of just how much he really wanted to learn. Heretofore the only man who had ever taken a genuine interest in her work had been Raymond de Coleville.

She soon realized that Gareth was anything but bored by the topic. His intelligent questions soon caused her to forget all of the nonsense Beatrice had been spouting about ghosts and drawn swords.

"The flowers and herbs are then collected and either dried or infused in oil, according to the recipe," she concluded a long while later. "It takes great quantities of petals to create the basic scented oils."

"The oils are the basis of the various perfumes and soaps you create?"

Clare nodded. "They are combined with a variety of ingredients such as beeswax and honey to create different potions and creams. But I also employ dried flowers and herbs in several preparations."

"A fascinating business."

Clare smiled shyly. "I am writing a book of recipes which will include instructions for the making of many of the perfumes which have proven most profitable for Desire."

"You are a woman of many talents." Gareth's gaze grew serious. "I am a most fortunate man."

Some of Clare's enthusiasm faded. It was replaced by caution. "I am pleased that you think so."

"Tell me, Clare, do you do everything according to a recipe?"

Clare drummed her fingers on the pommel of her saddle. "You refer to Sir Nicholas's idiotic remark about my recipe for a husband, do you not?"

"I was well aware that you had created a recipe for a husband. I did not know that you had based your list of ingredients on a living, breathing man. I believe Nicholas said that his name was Raymond de Coleville."

Clare hesitated. "Do you know him, sir?"

"Nay. But naturally, I am interested to learn more of this pattern of perfect chivalry and knighthood."

"He's not exactly perfect."

"How does he fall short?"

"He's married."

"Ah." Gareth fell silent for a moment. "When did you last see him?"

"It has been nearly a year since he was last here." Clare gazed out across the water toward the mainland. "He came to see me one last time to tell me that his father had contracted a marriage for him."

"I see."

"He told me that he was to wed a great heiress, one who could bring him many manors and lands in Normandy. I could offer nothing to a husband but a remote isle filled with flowers."

"And that was not enough for Raymond de Coleville?"

Clare glanced at Gareth in astonishment. "How could it possibly compare to what a great heiress could bring him? You yourself would not be here on Desire now if you had been in a position to contract a better match."

"And you would not have contracted any match at all if you had had a choice. Is that correct?"

"Aye."

"Unless, of course, you could have married Raymond de Coleville."

Clare did not like the edge she heard in Gareth's voice. She decided it was time to change the subject.

"'Twill soon be time for the spring fair in Seabern. That is where we sell many of our potions and' perfumes. Rich merchants journey all the way from London and York to buy them. Would you care to learn about that aspect of the business?"

"Later. At the moment, I wish to learn how you met de Coleville."

Clare sighed. "He was a friend of my father's, a fellow scholar. They met two years ago when my father traveled to Paris to attend the lectures on Arab treatises that are given there."

"Raymond de Coleville was also studying in Paris?"

"Aye. Although trained as a knight, Raymond is, in truth, a very learned man."

"Astounding."

"He is far more interested in books and treatises than in tournaments and warfare."

"Is he?"

"Like you, he was gracious enough to show a great curiosity about my potions and perfumes. Indeed, he and I often conversed on the subject for hours."

"Did you?" Gareth asked softly.

"Of course his interest in the subject was purely intellectual, while yours is based on more practical reasons."

"You think my interest is merely mercenary in nature?"

Clare flushed. "I meant no insult, sir. Tis only natural that your curiosity stems from the fact that my perfumes will be the source of your future income."

"I do not come to you a poor man, Clare. Landless, aye. But not poor.

Hunting outlaws for rich lords pays well."

Things were getting more uncomfortable by the minute. Clare sought for a way out of the quagmire.

"If I offended you, I beg pardon."

Gareth's expression grew thoughtful. "A ghost, a neighboring lord, an obnoxious young troubadour, and now a man from your past who serves as the measure by which you judge all other men. Is there no end to the list of rivals I must defeat, madam?"

Clare had the uneasy impression that Gareth was once again amusing himself at her expense. "I do not know what you. mean, sir. Tis obvious that you need defeat no other man for my hand. The matter of our marriage is settled, is it not?"

"Nay, not entirely. There is something else that must be discussed."

"What is that?"

"Our wedding night."

"Oh, that." Clare straightened in the saddle. "Aye, now that you mention it, mayhap we should clarify the details."

"Mayhap."

She took a deep breath. "I regret that the matter came out in such an awkward fashion this morning."

"Awkward? I would term it something more than awkward."

"Very well, embarrassing." Clare scowled. "I assure you that I had intended to deal with it far more privately."

"You issued a challenge this morning, madam. And you did so in front of your entire household and the lord of a neighboring manor. By now everyone on Desire is aware that you intend to deny me my rights as a husband."

Clare cleared her throat and prepared to stand her ground. "As I said, I did not intend to make such a public spectacle of the thing. It was your fault, sir."

"My fault?"

"Aye. The threats you made to Nicholas were insulting to my honor."

"So you lost your temper and said things in front of the world that you had originally intended to say when the two of us were alone."

Clare exhaled deeply. "I regret to say that I do not have as much control over my temper as you appear to have over yours, Sir Gareth."

"Mayhap you merely lack practice."

She met his eyes. "How is it that you have learned to hold your emotions on such a tight rein?"

"I am a bastard, remember?"

"I do not understand. What does that have to do with your skill at self-mastery?"

"An illegitimate son learns early in life that he will be offered only the leavings. And he soon discovers that he will have to do battle in order to hold on to those things to which he does succeed in laying claim. Strong emotions are dangerous for bastards."

"But why? Surely you must feel such emotions even more keenly than most simply because you are forced to struggle harder to get what you want."

Gareth gave her an odd look. "You are a perceptive woman. But as it happens, reason, logic, and determination are the weapons that have served me best, lady, not wild, uncontrollable passions."

Clare searched his face and saw that he meant every word of that statement. "I understand. The nature of your temperament is your own business, sir. However, I trust you will comprehend that my temperament is somewhat different from yours."

"Aye." Gareth smiled one of his exceedingly rare smiles. "Yours no doubt causes you a great deal more trouble than mine causes me."

Clare abandoned that argument. She had a more important one to pursue.

"Sir, I shall be blunt. Tis not merely the offense you gave my honor this morning that I wish to discuss."

"I was preparing to defend your honor this morning, not offend it."

"Well, I was offended," she snapped. "But putting that aside, I must tell you that I wish to become better acquainted with you before we consummate our marriage."

"We are as well acquainted as most husbands and wives are before marriage."

"That may well be, but it is not saying much. I want us to learn more about each other. I want time for us to become friends, sir."

"You were friends with Raymond de Coleville, were you not?"

"Aye, but that has nothing to do with this." Clare grew more annoyed.

The man was as slippery as a trout. "Let us return to the matter at hand. I am sorry if I embarrassed you, but I meant what I said this morning. I wish to wait before we consummate our marriage. Do you comprehend me?"

Gareth studied her in silence for a long moment. Then he turned his head and gazed out over the fields of spring flowers. "I comprehend your wishes, my lady. And I respect those wishes."

"Excellent." Clare felt relief well up inside her. She gave him a warm smile. "Then there is no need to continue with this discussion."

"But I wonder if you have considered the problems you created this morning with your failure to control your temper and your tongue."

Clare's relief vanished. "What problems?"

"Your people will not accept me as their new lord until you do. The challenge you issued this morning will likely make things very difficult for me to assume my duties as the lord of Desire."

"Nay, that is not true, sir."

"I can enforce my authority through the usual meth-ods," Gareth agreed.

"After all, the men that I brought with me are loyal only to me and they are well trained.

Furthermore, they are the only armed men on the isle. They should have no great trouble making certain that my commands are carried out.

But I doubt that you would care for the means by which they will do so."

For an instant Clare was so shocked at the unsubtle threat that she couldn't speak. Then fury swamped her. "Sir, I assure you that there is no need to employ armed men in order to establish your authority here on Desire. Nor will I allow such a thing. This is a peaceful land and I intend for it to stay that way."

Gareth's eyes were the color of silver and smoke. "Logic and reason would seem to dictate that the peaceful-ness of a manor must begin in the household of its lord and lady. Do you agree?"

"Aye, but?"

"If you would have your, people trust me and honor me as their lord, then they must see that I enjoy your respect."

Clare saw the trap yawning wide before her. She hated to admit it, but she was very much afraid that Gareth was right. The peace and contentment of her people were her most important consideration.

Once again, as the lady of Desire, she had no choice but to do her duty.

"You have caught me in one of your clever snares, have you not, sir?"

"Nay," Gareth said gently. "I merely offer you a carefully reasoned argument to explain my view of the problem. I know that you, being an exceedingly intelligent woman, will see the inescapable conclusion."

Clare gave a small, unladylike snort of sheer disgust. "And to think that I yearned for a husband who relied on his wits rather than his muscle. Something tells me that Sir Nicholas would have been easier to manage."

Gareth gave her a quizzical look. "Did you want a man you could manage easily? That requirement was not mentioned in your recipe, as I recall."

Clare glowered at him. "Do not jest with me, sir."

"I told you, I never jest."

"But you do, and in a most irritating fashion. However, that is neither here nor there at the moment. I concede that you have won your point."

She paused, thinking quickly. "It would probably be best if we gave the appearance of sharing the marriage bed."

It was Gareth's turn to grow wary. "The appearance?"

"Aye." Clare began to smile, well satisfied with her own logic. "I see no reason why we cannot share a bedchamber."

"I am pleased that you agree with my conclusion."

"But," Clare finished triumphantly, "I see absolutely no need for us to actually share a bed."

"Hell's teeth, madam, you reason like a man of law."

Clare gave him her brightest, most dulcetly innocent smile. "As far as everyone else is concerned, we two shall retire to the same chamber every night, just as would any married lord and lady. But what goes on inside that chamber is no one else's concern but our own."

"As to that," Gareth began ominously. "I do not believe?"

Clare seized the initiative. "No one else need know that we wish to become better acquainted before we consummate the marriage. It will be our private business."

"It will?"

"Aye. This way we shall both gain our objectives, sir. As far as my people will know, you will enjoy my wifely respect. I, in turn, shall have the time I want to grow better acquainted with you."

Gareth contemplated her with an expression of grudging admiration. "It occurs to me that Nicholas of Seabern does not know how truly fortunate he is to have escaped marriage to you. You would have made a minced-meat tart of him, my lady."