5

Clare held her tiny scented pomander to her nose as she gingerly made her way through the ruin of her main hall the next morning.

Even the fragrant herbs that had been scattered amid the rushes could not disguise the odor of brimming chamber pots, spilled wine, and stale bodies.

It would take hours to get the hall cleaned. Fresh rushes would have to be put down before the chamber was habitable. Clare wrinkled her nose in dismay. The servants could not even begin the task of sweeping out the hall until the sleeping men, who were sprawled everywhere, were removed.

She picked her way among the pallets, ignoring the snores of her guests, and managed to reach the front steps without getting ill. The young guard who stood there nodded respectfully.

"Good morning, my lady."

"Good morning." Clare dropped the pomander to let it dangle from her girdle. "You're one of Sir Gareth's men, aren't you?"

"Aye, my lady. My name is Ranulf."

"How is it that you look clear-eyed this morning, Ranulf? The others appear to be sleeping so soundly that it will likely take the crack of doom to awaken them."

Ranulf smiled. "The men who are still asleep in the hall are all in Sir Nicholas's employ. You may be certain that those of us who follow Sir Gareth are awake and at our assigned tasks. Most are in the stables at the moment."

"What makes Sir Gareth's men immune to the effects of too much wine and ale?"

Ranulf chuckled. "The Hellhound forbids any man in his service to drink so deeply that he cannot rise betimes in the morning and perform his duties."

Clare approved of the rule, but RanulPs words aroused a sudden new concern. "Sir Gareth is a harsh master?"

Ranulf stared at her in astonishment. "Nay, madam. He is a most just and honorable knight. I meant only that he does not tolerate disobedience or laziness from those who serve him. He says such things can get others killed."

Clare relaxed slightly. The guard appeared sincere. "I could not tolerate a harsh master for this manor, no matter how intelligent he happened to be," she said under her breath.

Better a fool such as Nicholas than a clever but vicious man.

"I pray your pardon, my lady?"

"Nothing." She smiled at Ranulf. "I trust there were no serious problems last night?"

Ranulf blinked. He seemed momentarily dazzled by her smile. He blushed furiously. "Nay, my lady."

"No one was hurt?"

"I belive Sir Ulrich may have used a tankard on one or two thick skulls when the wine failed to take effect, but no one was seriously injured.

Sir Gareth gave strict instructions that there was to be no bloodshed."

Ranulf shrugged. "So none was shed."

Clare was pleased that Gareth had harkened to her orders. It boded well for the future. "Am I right to conclude that Sir Gareth deliberately got Nicholas and his men drunk?"

"Aye, my lady. He said it was the easiest way to deal with the matter."

"Very clever." Clare smiled more broadly. Her smile turned into a chuckle as she recalled the very similar tactics she had used to deal with Nicholas during the precarious nights at Seabern. "Sir Gareth appears to be every bit as shrewd as I believed him to be."

Ranulf grinned proudly. " 'Twas merely a hall full of feasting men, my lady. Hardly a difficult battle for the Hellhound of Wyckmere. You should have seen him deal with the pack of murderous robbers who were laying waste to Galtonsea last fall. Now, there was a sight to behold.

Sir Gareth had us set a trap and when the cutthroats fell into it we?"

"I'm sure it was all very exciting," Clare interrupted quickly. The last thing she wanted to hear about this morning was Gareth's more bloodthirsty skills. She wanted to suppress the realization that she was to marry a man who had, until recently, made his living in a violent manner.

Dalian emerged from the kitchens on the other side of the courtyard. He was munching on a large wedge of freshly baked bread.

"My lady," he called when he caught sight of Clare.

He shoved the last of his bread into his mouth and hurried toward her."I bid you good day."

"Good day to you, Dalian. I pray you will not choke on your morning meal."

"Nay, my lady." Dalian swallowed hastily and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. "I trust that you slept well last night?"

"Aye, thank you."

" Tis a wonder." Dalian frowned darkly. "I thank the saints that you were not kept from your rest by the dreadful events which took place in your hall after you left."

Clare raised her brows. "I did not think that anything dreadful occurred. The hall is in an unpleasant condition this morning, but that is only to be expected with so many guests scattered about."

Dalian's thin face assumed a grave expression. "Twas a scene that would have shocked and horrified a lady as refined and gracious as yourself.

Aye, it was a sight that could have come straight from the depths of hell."

Clare frowned. "Come, now, it cannot have been that bad."

"You were not there, madam, saints be praised." Dalian straightened his thin shoulders. His eyes flashed with indignation. "Need I remind you that the awful events of last night were presided over by the Hellhound himself?"

"What's this, minstrel?" Gareth asked casually as he walked out onto the steps to stand behind Clare. "Carrying tales so early in the day? One would think that you could find more useful employment to occupy your time."

Dalian started and took a step back. His fingers twitched in agitation.

Then he recovered himself, scowled resentfully, and turned to Clare. "I pray you will excuse me, my lady."

"Yes, of course," Clare murmured.

She watched Dalian hasten away and mentally composed herself to face the man who would soon be her husband.

Her husband. The thought made her feel light-headed.

"Good day to you, madam," Gareth said.

"Good day, sir." Clare fixed a smile in place and turned to greet him.

Although she thought that she had prepared herself, she realized she was nonetheless a little breathless.

After her conversation with young Ranulf, it did not surprise her that Gareth's eyes showed no trace of an evening spent drinking Nicholas into the rushes. She suspected most of the Hellhound's wine had, in fact, gone under the table along with Nicholas and his men. That was certainly where hers had gone during that first, dangerous evening when she had found herself a virtual prisoner in Seabem Keep.

She had escaped Nicholas that night after encouraging him to drink his fill. Then she had rushed upstairs to a tower chamber and locked herself inside.

Clare had spent the next three days there, ignoring Nicholas's rage, his threats, and the pounding on the door. She had managed to free herself one afternoon when, frustrated by his failure to convince Clare that she must wed him, Nicholas had gone hunting.

It occurred to Clare now that if her captor had been the Hellhound, she likely would not have escaped.

Gareth looked even larger this morning than she had remembered. The strong, sleek power that he exuded was as much a part of him as his intelligence and his determination. Clare had a fleeting wish that her father and brother had lived to meet him.

But, she reminded herself, if her father and brother had still been alive, she would likely never have met Gareth of Wyckmere herself, let alone contracted a marriage to him. She would never have sought him out as a husband and Gareth would not have been interested in her because she would not have been an heiress.

Life played odd tricks on a woman.

Gareth had on a gray tunic over his undertunic, which was the color of charcoal. Although he wore no armor this morning, the Window of Hell was at his side, secure in its scabbard. The crystal pommel mirrored its master's eyes. Clare got the impression that the sword was as much a part of Gareth's daily attire as his boots and tunic.