Desire (34 page)

"Dalian is my man. He's frightened of his former master, but he does not serve him. He serves me."

Ulrich hesitated and then nodded. "Very well. You have always been a good judge of men. We'll let him take a watch near the convent."

"I will stay here in the hall," Gareth said. "You take the harbor with two of the men."

"Aye, my lord. Do you believe this Lucretius de Valemont will attempt to bring armed men onto Desire?"

"I do not know. He must realize how difficult it would be to bring an armed company ashore without being seen."

"At this point he has no way of knowing that you are aware of him or his intentions."

"He will soon reason it out." Gareth studied the map. "I have a feeling that when Dalian does not bring him the book, he will come here to look for it. He has already stepped foot on our isle on one previous occasion."

Ulrich looked up with an inquiring frown. "When was that?"

"The night he came to search the convent library."

"You believe it was he who murdered the recluse?"

"Aye."

"Ah, yes. Our mysterious ghost who walks through locked gates," Ulrich said thoughtfully.

"More likely a man in a monk's cowl who knows how to pick a lock. I suspect he came and went in a small boat that he brought ashore at one of these two locations." Gareth stabbed a finger at the small coves drawn on the map.

Ulrich smiled without any of his usual amusement. "If the magician returns a second time, we'll have him."

"Aye. He's only a man, despite what Dalian believes."

"Where is young Dalian?"

"Clare took him out to the kitchens to feed him. He's suddenly starving now that he has recovered from

his adventures and no longer fears he will be hung."

Ulrich frowned in thought. "I would like more information about this magician."

"As would I. But Dalian's fear of him is such that he finds it difficult to speak of him. Clare says the minstrel will become more talkative once he is fed."

"You have assigned your lady to question the boy?"

"It was Clare's idea," Gareth admitted.

* * *

"He's a magician?" Joanna's mouth fell open in astonishment. "Are you certain?"

"That's what Dalian claims." Clare looked at Dalian. "Is that not so?"

"Aye, my lady." Dalian sat at the trestle table in the kitchen. He had a large slice of leftover roast chicken in front of him which he was devouring with the air of a man who had not eaten in weeks. William sat across from him, nibbling on a bit of cheese.

"Sir Ulrich says there is no such thing as magic," William said. "He says Lucretius de Valemont is likely an alchemist, not a real magician."

"Lucretius de Valemont can walk through locked doors," Dalian insisted.

"Is that true?" William asked, intrigued.

"I have seen him enter a locked chamber without using a key," Dalian said around a mouthful of chicken.

"I have also seen him make objects appear and disappear. I know that Lord Gareth does not believe me, but 'tis true."

"I'll wager he is not a great knight like Lord Gareth and Sir Ulrich," William said confidently.

Dalian stopped chewing. His eyes were troubled. "I told you, Lucretius de Valemont went on Crusade. He is a fierce knight, although he says only a fool uses a sword when he can use magic."

William took another bite of his cheese. "Is he as large and strong as Lord Gareth and Sir Ulrich?"

"Nay." Dalian looked more cheerful for a moment. "He is not as large as my lord." His face fell again. "But he is very skilled with a sword. And he is extremely clever. He says big men are easy to defeat because they always rely on their muscles instead of their wits."

"The magician has obviously not met Lord Gareth, has he?" Clare sat down on the bench beside William and looked across at Dalian.

"Nay." Dalian appeared to relax slightly at that thought. "Lord Gareth is very clever, too, is he not? Mayhap he is even more clever than the magician."

"I expect he is." Clare helped herself to a slice of hot bread. "Is the magician married?"

"Nay. Women find him handsome. Indeed, they are much taken with him. I have often seen them vie for his attention. But he says he has little use for females."

Joanna set out a portion of custard. Her eyes met Clare's. "Does he prefer the company of men, then?" she asked very casually.

Dalian shrugged. "Nay."

"Young boys, mayhap?" Joanna suggested quietly.

Clare held her breath as she realized the implications of Joanna's question.

But Dalian merely seemed confused by the remark. He shook his head and helped himself to the custard. "Nay. In truth, the magician does not care for anyone. He is devoted to his studies of the black arts. But I have seen him be most courteous to ladies when he wants something from them."

Clare did not move. "What do you mean?"

"He gives them romantic gifts when he wishes to lure them into doing some service for him."

"What sort of gifts?" Clare asked.

"A single blood-red rose. Sometimes he composes poetry for them, even though he thinks it foolish." Dalian grimaced. "The ladies are much impressed by such gifts. They do not know that he feels nothing for them."

"A single blood-red rose." Clare drummed her fingers lightly on the table. "Tell me, Dalian, does the magician perfume his clothing or use a scented soap?"

"Nay. He does not care for perfumes and scents. He says they are for women, but in truth, I believe he does not like them because some of them make him sneeze."

Clare exchanged a glance with Joanna. "What color hair does the magician have?"

"He is fair." Dalian looked at her. "Why do you ask?"

"With golden brown eyes?"

"Aye." Dalian frowned. "How did you know?"

Clare met Joanna's uneasy gaze. "'Twas a guess based on some of the other things you have said of him."

William was visibly impressed. "But how did you guess the color of his eyes, Lady Clare?"

"I believe we know this magician, William."

"We have made his acquaintance?" William stared at her.

"Aye."

"But that is impossible," William said.

"Dear God," Joanna whispered. She met Clare's gaze with dawning horror. "Surely you do not believe—"

"Aye, I do." Clare's mouth tightened. "Think on it, Joanna. He is in the habit of giving ladies a single blood-red rose. He composes poetry for them. He is a courteous knight who studies the secrets of the Arabic texts. He is medium-sized and scoffs at large men who rely on their strength. And he does not care for perfume because some recipes make him sneeze."

"And," Gareth said quietly from the doorway, "he knows a great deal about this isle and this hall. Enough to send Dalian here with clear instructions on how to ingratiate himself into this household."

"My lord." Dalian leaped to his feet. "I did not hear you come in."

William scowled. "I don't understand. Who is this magician?"

Clare looked at Gareth, whose gray eyes matched the color of the sky behind him. He watched her intently, waiting for her answer.

"We knew him as Raymond de Coleville," Clare said.

"By the saints," Joanna whispered. "Your handsome Raymond?"

"Aye." Clare did not take her gaze off Gareth's grim face. "Well, that's a relief, is it not?"

"Why is it a relief?" Dalian asked.

"Because I know both Sir Raymond and Lord Gareth very well." Clare rose to her feet and gazed at the expectant faces surrounding her. She smiled calmly. "And I can assure you that the magician is no match for our Hellhound."

* * *

Gareth stood at the window of Clare's study chamber and gazed out over the sea. There was an unpleasant gray mist pooling above the steel-colored waves. It had the look of a dense fog that could quickly shroud the isle.

"He was your ideal knight, the pattern of chivalry on which you based your recipe for a husband," Gareth said without any inflection in his voice.

"Tis true, I used Raymond de Coleville as a model." Clare sat very straight in her chair and clasped her hands on top of her desk. "A woman needs a basic recipe to work from, after all."

"Does she?"

Clare sighed. "I have not made the acquaintance of many knights, my lord. The few I have known were not very impressive. They tended to resemble Sir Nicholas or my brother. My father was a knight and I held him in great affection, but I certainly did not want a husband who shirked his responsibilities as he did."

"And then the magician appeared here on your isle and cast his spells on you."

Clare wrinkled her nose. "I do not think I'd put it quite like that."

"There is one thing that I would like to know," Gareth said.

"Aye, my lord?"

"Do you still love him?"

Clare froze. "Nay. I do not love Raymond de Coleville or Lucretius, or whatever he calls himself."

Gareth turned to face her. His jaw was rigid. "Are you certain? Because I shall very likely have to kill him, Clare."

She shuddered. "I'd rather you did not kill anyone."

"So would I. But this magician is a murderer."

"Beatrice?"

"It must have been he who strangled her."

"Aye, I suppose it was, although 'tis impossible to think of Raymond as a murderer."

"You must also face the possibility that he killed your father."

"My father." Clare was stunned. "But my father was killed by thieves in Spain."

"What did your father have that was worth his life?" Gareth asked softly. "Think about it, Clare."

"His book of translated alchemic recipes," she whispered. "The same thing that the magician seeks."

"Aye. We know the magician has killed once for the book. Mayhap he has killed twice."

Clare closed her eyes in pain. "'Tis hard to comprehend. I am very sorry that we here on Desire are proving to be such a great nuisance, my lord. I know you had hoped for a quiet, peaceful life."

"Nothing comes without a price. Not even a quiet, peaceful existence. I am willing to pay the cost for what I want."

Clare opened her eyes and searched his face. "Aye. I know that. I only pray that one day you find what you seek."

"So do I." Gareth lowered his lashes, veiling his gaze. "You are certain that you do not love the magician?"

"I am very certain, my lord. In truth, I knew a long time ago that I could not ever love him."

"How did you—" Gareth broke off as if to search for the words he wanted. "What convinced you that you were not in love with him? How do you know that you are not still in love with him?"

"There are two reasons. The first one you will likely not comprehend."

"What is it?"

Clare shrugged. "He never smelled right to me."

Gareth blinked. "I beg your pardon? Did he fail to bathe regularly?"

"Oh, no. He was most fastidious in his personal habits." Clare smiled faintly. "But he just did not smell right to me, if you see what I mean."

"Nay, I do not see what you mean, but who am I to argue?" Gareth paused briefly. "And your second reason for being so certain that you do not love him?"

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.