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 leam 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 Dalian'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 Window of Hell. 'It smells as all fog smells. Of dampness and the night.'
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 Maiden Comstock, my lord.'
'Open the gate,' Gareth ordered. He looked down as the horseman trotted through the gate and into the
