The whole day had suddenly seemed brighter to Clare. "Aye, my lord. You are most welcome to walk with me. I am taking some herbal cream to the recluse."
As she and Gareth made their way along the cliffs, it struck her that the salt-laced air had never been more invigorating and the scents of morning had never seemed fresher.
It occurred to her that she had been battling an unfamiliar and unsettling mix of emotions since the moment Gareth had set foot on Desire. The sensations had been as powerful as an alchemist's brew.
And just as unpredictable.
But she had finally comprehended the meaning of the volatile mixture three days ago when Gareth had consummated the marriage in her flower bin.
As she watched him walk out of the workroom that day, leaving her drenched in the scent of roses and his own male essence, she had finally acknowledged the truth.
She was falling in love with the Hellhound.
The past two nights had been adventures into the uncharted lands of a passion she had not even dreamed existed. Gareth seemed to take enormous pleasure from bringing her to the peak of physical sensation.
He was never satisfied until she shivered and cried out in his arms. He never let her rest until she was exhausted from his love-making.
"Have you made all the arrangements to get your perfumes and sweet pots over to Seabern?" Gareth asked absently as he paused along the clifftop.
"Aye. My perfumes will be taken across to Seabern by boat on the first day of the fair." Clare shaded her eyes with her hand and watched Gareth study the foaming water at the base of the cliffs. "Joanna and I shall go with them."
"My men can help." Gareth paced along the top of the cliffs for a few steps and paused again to look down. He frowned. "We have a couple of tents that you may use if you wish."
"Wonderful." Clare hesitated. "What are you looking at?"
"Ulrich suggested that this might be one of the two places along the cliffs other than the harbor where a small boat could be brought ashore. He was right."
"Does that concern your' Clare walked over to the edge of the cliffs and looked down. The tide was out. Two small caves in the side of the cliffs near the shoreline were visible.
"Not unduly. Tis obvious that no large force could be landed here."
Clare frowned. "No hostile force of armed men has ever landed on Desire."
"In my experience 'tis better to be prepared for any eventuality."
"You are a cautious man."
"I am when I have something very valuable to protect."
She gave him a quick sidelong glance and wondered whether he referred to her or his new lands. His lands, no doubt, she thought. Lands, after all, were the lure that had brought him to Desire in the first place.
Gareth did not appear to notice her speculative look. He was studying the landscape spread out before him with an expression of intense satisfaction that was overlaid by an equally fierce watchfulness.
He was not yet accustomed to the notion of having a place of his own in the world, Clare realized.
Gareth still looked as though he expected someone to attempt to take Desire from him. Only a fool would dare try, she thought wryly. The Hellhound was on guard.
He looked dangerous even now when he was merely accompanying his wife into the village. His midnight-dark hair was wild and windblown by the sea breeze. His profile was as unyielding as the harsh cliffs below.
Clare stifled a small, wistful sigh. Gareth was concerned with the protection of Desire, of course. She had no doubt that he intended to protect her, too, but that was because she was part of the arrangement.
She was falling in love, but she did not dare to hope that Gareth was suffering the same fate; not yet, at any rate.
His knowledge of lovemaking indicated that he had experienced passion before in his life. During the past three days Clare had learned that he knew well how to control the powerful forces unleashed by physical desire.
She had also learned that he was not above using his own controlled passion to gain the response he wanted from her.
He was a man accustomed to command, Clare reminded herself. It was probably quite natural for him to take command in bed. As for herself, she was still too new at the business to seize the upper hand.
But she was nothing if not a fast learner, she thought optimistically.
Clare searched for a neutral topic. "William and Dalian appear to be doing well in their new program of physical exercise."
"Aye. Boys usually do, if they are properly encouraged. Dalian is still grumbling, Ulrich says, but he shows up on time for practice. At least the minstrel has demonstrated the good sense not to sing any more of his ballads about cuckolded lords."
"Aye, his ballads have become quite tame of late, have they not? One might even say they are rather dull."
"Do you think so?" Gareth looked thoughtful.
Clare hid a smile. "All those sweet little songs about the pretty roses opening their petals to receive the morning dew have begun to bore me. I find they lack the excitement of his earlier ballads."
"Excitement?"
"Aye, there is no danger, no fear of discovery, no thrilling action, no spice in Dalian's new poems."
"Madam, are you teasing me?"
"Mayhap."
"Be warned, I have frequently been told that I do not respond well to jests."
"Nonsense. I have heard you laugh, my lord. I would think you could learn to find amusement in Dalian's more adventurous songs about illicit love and cuckolded lords."
Gareth came to a halt. He grasped her chin and looked down at her with gleaming eyes. "Understand me well, Clare. I will never laugh at the notion of my wife lying in the arms of another man. I am far more likely to exact the devil's own payment for such a betrayal."
"As if I would even think of betraying you," she retorted. "I am a woman of honor, sir."
"Aye," Gareth said softly. "You are. And I am grateful for it."
She warmed beneath his gaze. He trusted her, she thought. It was a good start.
"While we are on the subject," she said gruffly, "I want to make it clear that I would not take a husband's betrayal any better than you would take that of a wife."
He smiled his rare smile. "You do not care for the thought of me in another woman's bed?"
"Nay, my lord, I do not." She felt flustered but determined. "I have my pride, too, sir."
"Pride. Is that why you object to the notion of me bedding another woman? Because it would wound your pride?"
Clare glowered at him. She was certainly not going to confess her love at this point. The Hellhound would take full advantage of such an admission. It would leave her even more vulnerable to him than she already was.
"What other reason could there be except pride, my lord?" she asked innocently. "In that regard I am no different than yourself. Surely it is pride that makes you feel so strongly about the matter of being cuckolded?"
"Aye." Gareth's eyes narrowed a little as he watched her. "A man's pride is a serious business."
"So is a woman's."
"Well, then, young Dalian must continue to sing of roses in the rain and other such dull matters."
Gareth bent his head and brushed his mouth lightly across Clare's.
"Gareth?"
"Come. It grows late and I have many things to see to today." He grabbed her hand and swept her along the clifftops toward the village.
Ten minutes later Clare and Gareth reached the convent wall that marked the heart of the village. A cart piled high with thatching reeds clattered past. The thatcher nodded politely at Clare and Gareth.
A shepherd did the same as he drove a flock down the center of the street.
Everyone turned to look as the lord and lady of Desire walked hand in hand through the small community.
Clare knew that most of the stares were for Gareth. She herself was too familiar a sight to draw such curious gazes. But Gareth was still new, a strange and largely unknown quantity to the people of
the manor. They were only too well aware that their fate was in his hands.
"I must deliver the herbal cream to Beatrice," Clare said as she and Gareth reached the recluse's cell.
"I'll only be a moment."
Gareth stopped and glanced at the window of the cell. "The curtain is drawn. Mayhap she is still asleep."
"Not likely." Clare chuckled. "Beatrice is always up and about very early. She usually opens her curtain first thing so as not to miss any news."
Clare went to the window. It was unlocked and ajar, as though Beatrice had recently been peering out into the street. "Beatrice?"
There was no response.
"Beatrice?" Clare hesitated and then reached through the narrow opening to push the heavy wool curtain aside. "Are you ill? Do you need help?"
Only silence came from the darkened interior. Clare gazed into the small front chamber of the little house. At first she could see nothing at all. The curtain on the other window was also drawn shut, leaving the chamber drenched in shadow.
Then Clare's eyes adjusted to the gloom. The first thing she noticed was Beatrice's slippered feet on the floor.
"Beatrice." Clare gripped the stone sill and tried to get a better look at the prone figure inside.
Gareth frowned. He walked closer to the window. "What's wrong?"
"I do not know." Clare looked at him. "She is lying on the floor. She's not moving. Gareth, I think she may be badly hurt."
Gareth studied the interior of the anchorite's cell. "The door is locked. I can see the key hanging on the wall."
"How will we get insider Clare asked.
"Send someone for John Blacksmith. Be quick about it, Clare."
Clare did not need further urging.
A short while later the blacksmith jammed a forge tool between the stone wall and the crack of the recluse's door. Then he and Gareth put their shoulders to the heavy wood.
The door popped off its hinges on the third attempt.
Gareth went first into the small cell. He took one look at the body on the floor and shook his head.
"She is dead. And not from any natural cause."
13
"Murdered." Clare stared at Gareth in shocked disbelief.
"I do not believe it." Margaret, who had been summoned immediately, looked stunned. "Tis not possible. We have never had a murder here in the convent during the fifteen years I have been in charge."
Clare shook her head slowly. "There has not been a murder anywhere on Desire in my lifetime."
"This was most definitely murder." Gareth looked down at the open, sightless eyes of the recluse. He had seen enough of violent death in his time to recognize it.
"Are you certain?" Margaret frowned. "Mayhap she fell ill in the middle of the night, attempted to call for assistance and did not make it to the door."
Gareth crouched beside the body. He touched one of the dead woman's fingers and found it limp. The stiffness that followed death had already passed. "She died during the night, but not from illness." He studied ,the folds of Beatrice's head covering. "Was she accustomed to sleeping in her wimple?"
"I do not know," Margaret said. "It would appear so. Mayhap it was an act of piety."
"More like simple vanity," Clare said quietly. "Beatrice was very concerned about the sagging line of her chin. She did not want anyone to see it."
"She loved to gossip and she was overly fond of Clare's perfumes and herbal creams," Margaret said. "Small failings, when all is said and done. Would that we all limited our sins to such minor transgressions."
Gareth raised one eyebrow. "Aye."
"She is in her night robe," Clare said thoughtfully. "Yet she is wearing her shoes as well as her wimple."
Margaret peered anxiously at Gareth. "Are you absolutely certain this is not the result of some grave illness, my lord?"
"It was murder." Gareth pointed to the wimple. The fine linen had been crushed and badly wrinkled in the region around Beatrice's throat. "Do you see those marks?"
Margaret leaned closer. "Aye."
Gareth started to lift the hem of the wimple.
Margaret put out a hand as though to stop him. "What are you doing, my lord?"
"I want to see her neck." Gareth peeled back the white linen.
The dark, ugly bruises on Beatrice's throat were obvious for all to see.
"Saint Hermione defend her," Clare whispered.
"God rest her soul," Margaret breathed.
Clare looked at Gareth. "You have seen such marks before?"
"Aye." Gareth lowered the wimple. "The recluse was strangled."
"But that is not possible." Clare's gaze went to the heavy wooden door that Gareth and John had recently forced. "Her door was locked from the inside. And the windows are too narrow for a man to pass through."
Gareth glanced toward the doorway. Through the opening he could see that a cluster of curious onlookers had gathered. Several of the nuns and novices as well as a number of villagers stood just outside, trying to look into the cell.
"Instruct everyone to be off about their own business," Gareth said to Margaret. "I do not want them trampling about out there in front of the cell any more than they already have."
Margaret eyed him consideringly. "Aye, my lord."
She went to the door and dispatched the small crowd.
Clare met Gareth's eyes. "The day before our wedding, Beatrice insisted that she had seen Brother Bartholomew. She claimed that she saw him enter the convent grounds. She said he walked straight through the locked gates."
"Brother Bartholomew?" Gareth recalled the conversation between Beatrice and Clare that he had overheard. "Ah, yes. The ghost. You never did tell me what that was all about."
"It is merely an old legend, my lord," Margaret said brusquely. "Brother Bartholomew was a wandering monk. He came to Desire many years ago to preach to the villagers and the members of this house. Tis said that while he was on the isle he seduced a young nun and persuaded her to run off with him."
"They fled during a storm," Clare explained. "Both were drowned when their boat overturned in the high seas."
"This occurred while you were in charge of this convent, madam?" Gareth asked.
"Most definitely not." Margaret was heartily offended. "I would never have tolerated such nonsense.
Nay, the tale is from long before my time."
"And long before mine, also," Clare said. "The legend has it that Brother Bartholomew returns on certain nights seeking his beloved.
Whenever he is seen on the convent grounds, disaster is said to follow."
Gareth got to his feet. "I can promise you that your recluse was not killed by a ghost. A fiesh-and-blood man left those marks on her throat."
He walked to the door and looked out at the trampled grass. "Hell's teeth, I wish I had thought to keep the curious away. Now it will be impossible to see if there are any strange bootmarks in front of the cell."
"My lord." Clare's voice was quiet and thoughtful. "There is something strange here."
"Aye. Murder is always strange."
"I refer to an unusual odor."
Gareth swung around and fixed her with a sharp gaze. "I have great respect for your sense of smell, madam. What odor do you detect?"
"Mint."
"Mint?" Gareth stepped closer to the body. He drew a deep breath, trying to taste the air. "Aye. Very faint."
Margaret's brow wrinkled in confusion. "What is so odd about the scent of mint? Mayhap the recluse recently used some to prepare a meal."
Clare's nose twitched. "Nay, the scent is on her night robe."
Gareth went back down on one knee beside the body. "You're right. 'Tis on the hem of her gown." He glanced at the green stains on the bottom of the recluse's soft leather slippers. "And on her shoes."
Clare wrapped her arms around her waist. "There is a large patch of mint in the convent gardens. Do you think that Beatrice went outside last night?"
"She never left her cell," Margaret said quickly
. "Never in all the years I knew her. Do not forget, she was an anchorite. She wanted to be enclosed. Indeed, she once told me that she had a great dislike of being in the outside world."
"Aye, but if she really thought that she had seen the ghost of Brother Bartholomew," Clare said,
"mayhap she would have been curious enough to leave her cell in order to follow him."
"Clare, surely you do not believe in that old legend," Margaret said.
"Nay, but Beatrice did."
"My lady wife has a point." Gareth looked at Clare. "Mayhap Beatrice did see someone last night, someone she took to be the ghost. And mayhap she went outside to see what he was doing."
Margaret shook her head. "It makes no sense. If she had seen someone she took to be a ghost, surely she would have been alarmed. She would have stayed in here behind a locked door."
"Who knows?" Clare said. "Beatrice was a very curious person. And she knew that no one believed that she had actually seen the ghost of Brother Bartholomew. Mayhap she sought proof of her story. And was murdered for it."
"But there is no one on this isle who had any reason to kill Beatrice,"
Margaret said.
Gareth kept his gaze on Clare's troubled face. "Let us have a look at that patch of mint."
Clare nodded. "It is planted near the library." She turned and led the way out of the cell.
Margaret set off after her.
Gareth took one last look at the murdered recluse. Then he followed Clare and the prioress down a garden path to a large square plot of dark-green mint located next to a stone wall. The signs of trampled greenery were evident immediately. The odor of crushed mint was strong.
"Someone stood here recently," Gareth said. He walked around the plot, examining it from all sides.
Then he glanced up at the window in the wall. "The library is on the other side of this wall?"
"Aye," Margaret said quietly.
"I would like to look inside, if you have no objection, madam."
"Of course not, but I do not see what good it will do."
The heavy keys on Margaret's girdle rattled and clashed as she selected one.
"Another locked door," Clare murmured as Margaret approached the library door and inserted the key.
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