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.'
