Desire by Amanda Quick
“Your virginity or lack of it has no bearing on our marriage,” Gareth said soothingly. “I knew about your stay at Seabern before I came to this manor.”
“And you suspected the worst, did you not?”
“’Tis only logical to assume that Nicholas took you while you were at his keep in an effort to force you to marry him.”
“Why? Because you would have done so, had you been in his position?”
“Calm yourself,” Gareth said. “You are growing agitated.”
“Am I? How unfortunate.” Clare wanted to scream with frustration. “You have my most solemn vow of honor, sir, that I have never lain with Nicholas of Seabern.”
“There is no need to proclaim your virtue to the world.” Gareth cast a meaningful glance around the bustling courtyard. “I shall have proof of your words tomorrow night, will I not?”
“Nay, you will not,” Clare said through her teeth.
A shocked silence settled on everyone in the immediate vicinity. The groom who had been leading the war-horse across the courtyard jerked the lead and caused the big stallion to rear.
Gareth studied Clare with unreadable eyes. “What does that mean, madam?”
“It means, sir, that I have absolutely no intention of giving you proof of anything, least of all of my virtue.” Clare’s hands clenched at her sides. “And that, sir, brings me to the subject I told you I wished to discuss with you this afternoon. We may as well have the conversation here and now.”
“Nay, madam, we will not have it here and now.” Gareth eyed her with cool challenge. “Unless you mean to put on a performance for everyone present?”
“Why not? I confess that I did not originally intend to discuss this in front of the entire household.” She gave him a frozen smile. “I thought to show some respect for your pride, you see.”
“My pride?”
“Aye.” Clare’s smile vanished. “But as you do not appear to have any qualms about discussing my virtue with another man right here on the front steps of my own hall, why should I concern myself with your honor?”
“Lady, I think this has gone far enough.”
“I have not yet begun, sir. Hear me well, Sir Gareth, you who would become the lord of Desire. Hear me and know that I mean every word of what I say. We shall wed tomorrow, as you demand and as my guardian insists.”
“Aye, madam, we will.’
“But we will not consummate this marriage of ours until I am satisfied that you will make me a suitable husband,” Clare finished triumphantly. “You, sir, will have to prove yourself worthy of my regard and wifely respect before I will share the marriage bed with you.”
The crowd of onlookers who had gathered to enjoy the quarrel stared in openmouthed astonishment. Ulrich’s face twisted. He shook his gleaming head.
Out of the corner of her eye Clare saw Dallan’s sulky, resentful expression turn to something approaching sullen satisfaction.
A murmur of eager whispers swept through Gareth’s men. Clare knew they were once again placing wagers.
Nicholas started to laugh. “By the devil, ‘tis worth everything, even this aching skull of mine, to see this fine play today. I believe I shall stay for the wedding, after all.”
“I think not,” Gareth said. “Gather your men and prepare to depart. You have caused sufficient trouble. Give me any more grief this morning and I will likely give you a close look into the Window of Hell.”
Nicholas held up his hands, palms out, in a placating gesture. “Fear not, Hellhound. My men and I are already on our way back to Seabern. I am in no condition to fight you today. Mayhap some other time.” He grinned slyly. “I believe you have another battle to wage first, oh great lord of Desire.”
“Begone, before I change my mind about seeking vengeance today.”
“One more thing before I take my leave,” Nicholas said. “If you would know how difficult the coming battle is going to be, ask your lady where she got her recipe for a husband.”
“I have given you fair warning, Nicholas.” Gareth rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I only provide one warning.”
“Ask her about Raymond de Coleville. He is the bold knight who gave her the inspiration for her recipe. None of us mere mortals can hope to match him, not even you, Hellhound. The man could not only read, he could write poetry.”
Nicholas was laughing so hard now that he could hardly catch his breath. Several of his men staggered to their feet behind him. They started to grin.
“If you discover that your lady is no virgin,” Nicholas managed, “do not look to me for an explanation. Seek out Raymond de Coleville.”
A disquieting shiver went through Clare. She met Gareth’s eyes and wondered belatedly if she should have held her tongue until she had regained control of her temper.
But it was too late to retract her rash proclamation. And she was not one to back down.
“It would seem that the battle I am to wage will be even more of a challenge than I had first anticipated,” Gareth said.
It was not his soft words which worried Clare.
It was his smile.
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 some-what 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 pr
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
“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.