"He is a nuisance and I am grateful that I will not have to wed him.

Nevertheless, I confess I felt a little sorry for him this morning."

"I would not waste any sympathy on Nicholas, if I were you," Joanna said. "Save such feelings for yourself. You are the one who has challenged the Hellhound."

"Do you really believe that I made a mistake this morning when I told Gareth that he would not be welcome in my bed?"

"Aye. A very serious mistake. One for which I can only pray that you will not have to pay too dearly."

Clare mulled that over as she and Joanna left the cliff path and walked into the village. The narrow street was already bustling with morning activity.

There was no one seeking advice from the recluse when Clare and Joanna arrived at the anchor-hold. Clare knocked on the stone that surrounded one of the cell's two windows.

"We bid you good morning, Beatrice," she called. "Do we disturb you at your prayers?"

"Aye, but no matter. I have been waiting for you, lady." There was a rustling sound inside the cell. A moment later Beatrice, dressed in a pristinely draped wimple and a dark gown, appeared at the window.

She was a large woman in her fifties who wore a perpetual expression of doom and foreboding. She had retired to the life of a recluse ten years earlier after being widowed, having gone through the long process of seeking and gaining permission from a bishop to become enclosed. She seemed quite content with her choice of careers.

The second window of the two-room cell looked toward the church. It was designed so that Beatrice could follow the-services and contemplate the inspirational view when she was at her prayers.

But everyone in the village knew that she spent most of her time at the other window, the one where Clare and Joanna stood. That was the window where gossip flowed like a river.

"Good day, Beatrice," Joanna said.

"Nay," Beatrice said grimly, " 'tis not a good day. And the morrow will bring worse. Mark my words, Clare of Desire, your wedding day will be heralded by icy gray smoke from the very fires of hell."

"I doubt that, Beatrice." Clare studied the cloudless sky. "The weather has been quite clear and warm lately. I have not heard anyone say that a storm is on the horizon. Come, I am to be wed. The least you can do is wish me well."

"Twould be a waste of time to do so," Beatrice grumbled. "Hear me, my lady, violent death shall descend upon this fair isle after the Hellhound claims his bride."

Joanna clucked disapprovingly. "Beatrice, you cannot possibly know that."

"Ah, but I do know it. I have seen the sign."

Clare frowned. "What sign?"

Beatrice leaned closer and lowered her voice. "The ghost of Brother Bartholomew walks these grounds again."

Joanna gasped. "Beatrice, that is ridiculous."

"Aye," Clare agreed crisply. "Surely you do not believe in ghosts, Beatrice."

"I believe in what I know," Beatrice insisted. "And I have seen the specter."

"Impossible," Clare said.

"You doubt me at your peril, lady. It has long been known that whenever Brother Bartholomew appears within the walls of this convent, someone dies a violent death soon thereafter."

Clare sighed. "Beatrice, the legend of Brother Bartholomew and Sister Maud is naught but an old tale that is told to children. Tis used to frighten them into minding their elders, nothing more."

"But I saw the ghost myself, I tell you."

"When was that?"

"Shortly after midnight last night." Beatrice made the sign of the cross. "There was enough moonlight to see that he wore a black cowl. The hood was drawn up over his head to conceal his unfleshed skull. He stood in front of the gatehouse and when Sister Maud did not appear to join him, he went straight through the gates to seek her out."

"The gates are locked at night," Clare said patiently, "and Sister Maud has been dead for more than fifty years, God rest her soul."

"The gates opened for the ghost," Beatrice declared. "No doubt he used the black arts to unlock them. I saw him enter the grounds and go through the garden. Then he disappeared."

"You must have been asleep and dreaming, Beatrice," Clare said. "Do not concern yourself. Brother Bartholomew would not dare enter the grounds of this convent. He knows very well that he would have to face Prioress Margaret. She'll not tolerate any trouble from a mere ghost."

"You jest, lady of Desire, but you shall know the truth soon enough,"

Beatrice said. "Your marriage to the Hellhound of Wyckmere has roused the ghost of Brother Bartholomew, I tell you. Death will soon follow in his wake, as it always does."

"Mayhap I should come back here tonight and have a long chat with Brother Bartholomew," Clare said.

"Similar to the conversation you had this morning with Sir Gareth?"

Joanna arched her brows. "Would you put this ghost in his place, just as you did your future lord?"

Clare grimaced. "I vow, we did very well here for years without being obliged to put up with all these difficult men traipsing about the manor. Now we seem to be dealing with one annoying male after another."

Beatrice shook her head dolefully. "Woe unto all of us, lady. The Hellhound has summoned the demons of the Pit. Brother Bartholomew is merely the first."

"I am certain that Sir Gareth would not summon any demon that he could not control." Clare reached into the sack suspended from her girdle. "Before I forget, here is your cream, Beatrice."

"Hush, not so loud, lady." Beatrice poked her head through the window.

She glanced anxiously up and down the street, apparently to reassure herself that no one else stood nearby. Then she snatched the pot of scented cream from Clare's fingers and whisked it out of sight.

"No one would ever accuse you of succumbing to worldly temptations merely because you use my cream on your skin," Clare said. "Half the women in the village use it or one of my other potions."

"Bah, people will say anything and think worse." Beatrice stashed the pot in a cupboard and came back to the window.

"Oh, there's Sister Anne:" Joanna lifted a hand to catch the attention of one of the nuns who had just emerged from the gatehouse. "Pray excuse me for a moment, Clare. I wish to have a word with her about a new embroidery design."

"Of course." Clare watched as Joanna hastened off to chat with Sister Anne.

Beatrice waited until Joanna was out of earshot. "Psst, Lady Clare."

"Aye?" Clare turned back to her with a smile.

"Before you go to your doom on the morrow, I would give you a small gift and some advice."

"I'm going to my wedding, not my doom, Beatrice."

"For a woman, there is often little to choose between the two. But that is neither here nor there at the moment. Your fate was sealed on the day your father died. There is nothing that can be done about it." Beatrice thrust a small object through the window. "Now, then, take this vial of chicken blood."

"Chicken blood." Clare stared at the vial in astonishment. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Keep it hidden near the bed on your wedding night," Beatrice whispered.

"After the Hellhound has fallen asleep, unseal the vial and pour the chicken blood on the sheets."

"But why in Saint Hermione's name would I want… Oh." Clare felt herself turn a dull red. "Obviously my future husband is not the only one who fears that I am no longer virgin."

"As to that, 'tis neither here nor there as far as I am concerned. But men take a different view." Beatrice peered intently at her. "Why take chances? I say. This way honor will be satisfied all around and the Hellhound will not be angered."

"But I?" Clare broke off at the sound of hooves thudding on the road behind her.

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.