Desire by Amanda Quick
Clare took a deep breath. “I cannot possibly be in love with the magician, my lord, because I am in love with you.”
“Me?” Gareth stared at her.
“Aye. You do smell right. I knew that the first day when you plucked me off the convent wall and set me down in front of you. I believe I fell in love with you at that very moment.”
17
Gareth stared at the soft smile that played around Clare’s lips and felt his blood turn to ice.
“Do not jest with me.” He crossed the chamber in a few swift strides, circled the desk, and reached for Clare with both hands. “Not about this.”
“My lord, what are you doing?” Clare’s smile vanished in a heartbeat. She struggled to escape from the chair.
Gareth caught hold of her arms and hauled her upright. He lifted her straight off her feet so that she was eye-to-eye with him.
“I have warned you that I do not find amusement in the clever japes and sly words that cause others to laugh.”
“By Saint Hermione’s thumb, I was not jesting, my lord.” Clare braced her hands on his shoulders and glowered at him. “Put me down at once. This is precisely the sort of overbearing behavior that I find so objectionable in large males.”
He ignored the command. “Say that again.”
“I said, this is precisely the sort of overbearing behavior—”
“Not that nonsense.” He looked straight into her eyes. “The other.”
“The other nonsense?” She repeated weakly.
“Hell’s fire, madam, I am in no mood for this.”
Clare’s wistful smile flitted again about the curve of her mouth. “I love you.”
“Because I smell good?”
“Not always good” she temporized. “But you have always smelled right.”
“Right? Right?”
“I know that probably sounds rather odd to you, sir, but I am a person who judges many things by scent.”
“Including men?”
Clare turned pink. “I knew you would think my explanation sounded frivolous.”
“’Twas more than frivolous. A bold lie, more like. When I plucked you off that wall and sat you in front of me, I had just finished a hard four-day ride. I had not bathed in all that time, except to wash face and hands. I stank of horse and sweat and road dust.”
“Aye. But there was something else, too. Something that I recognized.”
“I did not smell like a lover.”
She searched his face. “What does a lover smell like, my lord?”
“I know not. Roses, lavender, and cloves, I suspect. Certainly not horse and sweat and dust.”
“Mayhap you are right about the odor of other lovers, my lord. I do not know.” Clare framed his face gently between her palms. “I only know your scent. I recognized it that first day, although I did not know that it was the fragrance of a lover. I only knew that it was right.”
“What is my scent, then?”
“‘Tis the scent of the storm upon the wind, the scent of the sea at dawn. ‘Tis a fierce, exciting perfume that dazzles my senses and makes my blood sing.”
“Clare.” He eased her slowly down the length of his body until her toes touched the floor. “Clare” He crushed her mouth beneath his own.
Very likely it was passion that had made her believe she loved him, Gareth thought. She was still new to the force of it. Or mayhap it was her natural inclination to shelter the homeless.
Or mayhap—
Aye, mayhap she truly did love him.
He was afraid to let himself believe the latter, but he was not above taking whatever he could get.
She wound her arms around his neck and opened her mouth beneath his. Gareth felt her fingers in his hair. He shuddered with his need.
The desperate hunger welled up in him, as it always did when he held her in his arms. Along with it came an equally powerful need to protect her. He had to keep her safe. Clare was the most important thing in his world.
He tightened his grasp on her. The urgency within him was not purely sexual in nature. It was far more potent. Gareth knew that he had to hold on to Clare with greater strength and determination than he had ever used to grip his sword.
The Window of Hell, after all, was merely an instrument of death.
Clare was life.
“Damned fog,” Ranulf muttered. “‘Tis so thick now we will not be able to see the signal torches if they are lit by the guards who are keeping watch along the cliffs.”
“Aye.” Gareth wrapped both hands around the old watchtower railing and gazed out into the fog-shrouded night. “On the other hand, ‘tis so thick that no sane man would attempt to row a boat from Seabern to Desire tonight. He would surely lose his way in this soup.”
“No sane man,” Ranulf agreed. “But mayhap a magician would make the attempt.”
Gareth glanced at him. “Don’t tell me that you have begun to believe my squire-in-training’s wild tales. We are not laying in wait for a magician, Ranulf. Merely a very clever man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.”
“As you say, my lord.”
“Do you fear that we cannot deal with Lucretius de Valemont?”
“Nay.” The glowing embers of the nearby brazier lit Ranulf’s set face. “As my lady says, you are more than a match for any magician, my lord.”
“Thank you, Ranulf.”
“But I cannot help thinking that it would have been more convenient for all of us if we were not short the men who have not yet returned from London.”
“‘Tis the fact that we are short those men that makes me believe the magician will try his luck soon,” Gareth said.
Ranulf frowned. “You think he knows we are undermanned?”
“Aye.”
Ranulf’s eyes widened. “Do you believe he is so powerful he can use the dark arts to learn such information, then?”
“Nay.” Gareth smiled faintly. “He no doubt learned it in the usual manner. By simple observation. The magician was at the Seabern fair. He would have had no difficulty learning of our plans to send an armed escort back to London with the merchant. It would have been a simple matter to deduce our remaining strength.”
“Of course.” Ranulf visibly relaxed. “Forgive me, my lord. Mayhap I have been paying too much attention to Dallan’s stories. To hear him tell it, the magician can appear and disappear at will.”
Footsteps on the wooden tower stairs made Gareth turn his head. Clare emerged from the opening, two steaming mugs in her hands. The hood of her green mantle was drawn up against the chill. The brazier’s light played on her quiet, composed face.
“I thought you might appreciate something warm to drink,” she said.
“My thanks.” Gareth’s fingers brushed Clare’s as he took one of the mugs from her. He met her eyes and warmed himself in the gentle fire he saw there.
“Thank you, my lady.” Ranulf took the other mug. “You certainly know how to ease the rigors of guard duty.”
Clare went to the railing and looked out into the black mist. “‘Twill be dawn in a couple of hours, but even when the sun rises it will be impossible to see anything through this fog. How will you be able to see a signal torch?”
“We won’t.” Gareth sipped the hot pottage. “If anything happens, a messenger will be sent back here with the news.”
“Aye, that makes sense,” Clare said. “I did not think of such a simple thing.”
“’Tis not your responsibility to think about such matters,” Gareth said. “Leave the simple things to me. I am well equipped to deal with them.”
Ranulf choked on a swallow of pottage. Gareth looked at him with cool disapproval. The young guard quickly composed his face into a serious expression.
Clare did not appear to notice the byplay. She hugged herself and rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “Does it seem to you that there is something rather unpleasant about the smell of the fog?”
“Nay.” Gareth rested his hand on the hilt of the Wind
Clare sniffed experimentally. “I think there is another odor embedded in it.”
“What odor is that, my lady?” Ranulf asked.
“I do not recognize it,” Clare said. “But I do not much care for it.”
Hoofbeats sounded in the distance. The light of a torch glowed in the swirling fog.
“Open the gate,” a familiar voice shouted from the road. “I have news.”
Ranulf leaned over the railing and peered intently down at the man on the horse who had appeared out of the fog. “’Tis Malden Comstock, my lord.”
“Open the gate,” Gareth ordered. He looked down as the horseman trotted through the gate and into the torchlit courtyard. “What news, Malden?”
“My lord, a boat carrying five armed men came ashore at the harbor under cover of fog. We killed two, but the others have retreated to a boathouse.”
“So the magician did find a way through the mist,” Ranulf muttered. “Mayhap he really does comprehend the black arts.”
Gareth ignored him. “Why have the other three men not been captured, Malden?”
“They are skilled bowmen, sir. Thus far they have managed to keep our men pinned down. Sir Ulrich has ordered us to wait until they use up all of their arrows. He says we’ll have them soon enough.”
“Aye. From the sound of things, we will. I’ll be right down.” Gareth turned to Ranulf. “I’m going to the harbor. You stay here in the tower.”
“Aye, my lord.” Ranulf looked disappointed, but he did not argue. “Do you believe that one of the men Sir Ulrich and the others have trapped is the magician?”
“I don’t know yet. When one is dealing with an alchemist, nothing is for certain.”
Clare stirred in the shadows. “My lord, please have a care. I do not like this.”
Gareth took a step toward her. He captured her chin in his hand. “’Twill all be over by dawn.” He kissed her quickly. “Go back into the hall and bar the door. Do not come out for any reason until I return. Do you comprehend me?”
She touched his cheek with gentle fingers. “Aye, my lord.”
There was so much he suddenly wanted to say, but this was not the time or the place. Gareth looked into Clare’s eyes for a few seconds. “Later. We will talk later.” He released her chin and headed for the tower stairs.
The horse that he had ordered to be kept saddled and ready was waiting for him in the courtyard. William held the beast’s head.
“Can I go with you, my lord?”
“Nay.” Gareth vaulted onto the horse’s back and took up the reins. “You will stay here with Clare and your mother and the servants. You are to guard the inside of the hall while Ranulf keeps watch outside. Is that understood?”
William straightened his shoulders. “Aye, my lord.”
Gareth swung the horse’s head around and set off at a gallop into the fog. Malden Comstock raised his torch and wheeled his own mount to follow.
One of the servants closed the gate solidly behind them.
Ulrich had just completed his task when Gareth and Malden Comstock reached the harbor. Flickering torches cast a hellish glow over the bodies of the two dead intruders. Three others stood in sullen silence, their hands bound behind them.
A cluster of villagers had emerged from their cottages to watch the excitement.
Gareth dismounted and tossed the reins of his horse to Malden. “Well done, Ulrich.”
“This is the lot,” Ulrich said. “They were not much trouble.”
Gareth looked at the three surviving bowmen. “Which of you is Lucretius de Valemont?”
The captives stared at him. One shook his head.
Gareth contemplated the men thoughtfully. “There are many ways to die. Not all of them are swift. Give me the answers I seek.”
One of the bowmen, a barrel-chested man of middle years, peered at him. “Your men call you the Hellhound of Wyckmere. Do they speak the truth?”
“Aye,” Gareth said.
“’Tis said your oath is as strong as your sword.”
“Aye.”
“If we speak the truth, will you give us your word that our ends will be quick?”
“Aye.” He had never tortured a man in his entire career as a hunter of cutthroats and thieves, Gareth thought. But there was no need for these three to know that.
The bowman considered for a short time. “The thing is, m’lord, we don’t know any Lucretius de Valemont. And that’s the truth. I swear it.”
“Who hired you?”
The man shrugged. “A masterless knight who called himself Sir Raymond. He paid us well to come ashore in a boat tonight. He said he knew how to get us through the fog.”
“Why did he want you to come here to Desire?”
“Said we’d find easy pickings here in the village. But I swear he said nothing about the isle being defended by the Hellhound’s men.”
“How did he guide you through the mist?”
The bowman exchanged uneasy glances. The spokesman looked at Gareth. “Sir Raymond came with us. He gave us directions after he consulted some magical device that he kept hidden in his cloak.”
“Magic.” One of the bowmen spat on the ground in disgust. “Told ye we should never have taken up with his kind. I never liked this business, even if that damned renegade knight did promise us enough loot from the convent to sink a ship.”
The third man glowered at him. “Ye were eager enough to talk Brock and Dagget and the rest of us into it. We’d be set for life, ye said. Instead, we’re all going to hang, thanks to ye.”
Gareth rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, effectively silencing the argument. “Where is this Sir Raymond?”
“Like Brock told ye, we don’t know, m’lord,” one of the men said.
The spokesman stirred uneasily. “He got out of our boat a few yards offshore. He climbed into a smaller boat that we had brought along to carry the booty. Said he’d meet up with us later at the convent gate. Then he up and disappeared in the fog.”
Gareth stilled. “And you five continued on into the harbor?”
“Aye. Not like we had any choice in the matter. We could not return to Seabern in this fog without Sir Raymond and his damned magical device.” The bowman gave a fatalistic shrug. “Your men were waiting for us on the quay and that was the end of the thing.”
“Me ma always said I’d finish me life at the end of a rope,” one of the other bowmen remarked.
Ulrich looked at Gareth. “These three may well be lying, my lord.”
“Aye.” Gareth scanned the faces of the bowmen. He saw nothing in their eyes but stupidity and dumb resignation. He looked at the two dead bodies on the quay. “Fetch Dallan.”
“Aye, my lord. He joined us earlier,” Ulrich turned to the men gathered nearby. “Dallan, come here, lad. We need your help.”
There was no response.
“He’s not here, sir,” one of the men-at-arms said. He looked around in confusion. “Mayhap he was injured by one of the bowmen’s arrows.”
“I’ll check with the villagers,” Malden said. He went over to the small cluster of curious onlookers.
When he returned a moment later, his eyes were grave.
“Well?” Gareth asked.
“Dallan seems to have vanished, my lord.”
Ulrich looked thoughtful. “I warned you the lad might well prove dangerous, my lord. Mayhap he has lied to you all along.”
Clare poked at the glowing coals in the brazier that warmed the chamber where she sat with Joanna and William. “Does it seem especially cold to you tonight, Joanna?”
“Summer will soon be here.” Joanna studied her embroidery by the light of the lamp.
William stood at the window, his eyes on the torchlit courtyard. “I wonder if they have flushed out the magician yet. Do you suppose that one of the bowmen they have run to ground at the harbor really is Lucretius de Valemont?”
Clare frow
Joanna glanced at her. “Very true. Knights do not train with such weapons. Bows are for common men-at-arms.”
William continued to stare out the window. “Lord Gareth says such thinking is foolish. He says a man who wishes to survive must become adept with a variety of weapons, including the bow. Dallan and I have been practicing archery skills with Ranulf and the others.”
“You have?” Joanna looked startled. “I did not know of this. I do not believe that archery is a beneficial form of exercise.”
Clare hastened to change the subject. “Mayhap one of the men who was killed at the harbor was Lucretius de Valemont.”
“Not likely,” William said, “Dallan would have recognized him and sent word back with Malden Comstock.”
“Hmm. You have a point,” Clare said. “The magician must be one of the men trapped inside the house.”
“Aye.” William nodded with satisfaction. “Sir Ulrich and the others will no doubt have captured them by the time Lord Gareth arrives.”
“I pray it will all be over quickly,” Clare whispered.
“Of course it will.” Joanna set another stitch. “Lord Gareth and Sir Ulrich will see to the matter.”
“I don’t know. It almost seems too simple.” Clare crossed her arms beneath her breasts. She could not shake off the chill she had been feeling all evening.
Joanna looked up sharply. “Why do you say that?”
“I suppose because after all the turmoil he has caused, I cannot believe Raymond—I mean, Lucretius—will be stopped so easily.”
William made a fist on the windowsill. “Sir Ulrich says the magician likely killed Sir Humphrey.”
Clare shivered. “All because of an alchemic recipe book. Raymond or Lucretius, or whatever his name is, must be mad.”
Joanna stabbed her needle into the fabric. “I never did trust that man.”
Clare exchanged a small, wry look with William. Neither of them reminded Joanna that she had once praised Raymond de Coleville to the skies.