"It helps if one's wife does not chatter continuously during the effort."

"Oh." Clare was chagrined. "My apologies," she said stiffly. "I did not mean to interfere with your concentration. I was merely trying to?"

"Hell's teeth, that is enough." Gareth sealed her mouth with his own.

Simultaneously he pushed himself slowly back into her, filling her to the limit.

Clare moaned, but not with pain.

Gareth withdrew almost completely and repeated the process.

Again and again.

Each stroke was carefully measured and delivered with excruciating control. The rigid lines of Gareth's face and the tensed muscles of his body told their own story. He was a war-horse straining at the reins, all leashed power and trembling readiness.

Clare held her breath and closed her eyes. But after a moment or two she realized the slow strokes of his body within her were not unpleasant.

She could feel the sweat on Gareth's back. It dampened his tunic. Yet despite the obvious effort he was exerting, his enthusiasm showed no sign of fading.

Her eyes flew open when he lifted her legs up over his shoulders. Before she could protest the new position, he moved his hand downward between their bodies and touched her.

Without any warning, the coiling tension seized her once more.

"Gareth."

"I told you to trust me."

He took the small, swollen nubbin between thumb and forefinger and plucked gently.

Clare screamed. The sound was muffled by Gareth's mouth. She dug her fingers into him and gave herself up to the wondrous ripples of pleasure that washed through her.

She was dimly aware of Gareth's ragged shout of satisfaction. It mingled with her own breathless cries as they both sank deeper into the sea of fragrant flower petals.

A long while later Gareth opened his eyes. He stretched luxuriously, unable to recall ever having felt so good in his life.

He squinted at a rose petal that was perched on top of his nose. He blew it off and watched as it fluttered into the air. He was practically buried in scented blossoms.

He smiled.

The heady fragrance of the heaped flowers was threaded through with another earthy smell, one that gave him intense satisfaction. He had made Clare his wife in every sense of the word. There would be no more talk of an annulment.

The mountain of flowers stirred and shifted. He turned his head and watched as Clare sat up. She fussed with her clothing and shook petals from her hair.

When she realized that he was watching her, she smiled shyly down at him. She didn't say a word.

"You may speak now. I did not intent to silence you forever." Gareth reached out to remove a yellow petal from her sleeve.

Clare grinned. "I do not know what to say."

"Neither do I." Gareth wrapped his hand around the back of her head and brought her mouth down to his for a lingering kiss.

Clare leaned closer. Her hair, smelling of fresh herbs, drifted over his face. Her fingers flattened on his chest and slowly worked their way down his body. Gareth felt himself throb gently in response.

"I believe your enthusiasm has been reawakened, my lord."

"I believe you are right." Gareth wrapped his fist in her soft hair. He pulled her closer.

A sudden pounding on the workroom door made Clare flinch. She straightened and sat up again quickly.

"My lord, are you in there?" Ulrich called loudly. "The blacksmith is here."

"Damn it to the Pit." Gareth sat up reluctantly. "I'd better get out there or by supper everyone in the hall will know what we were doing in here."

Clare frowned. "Surely you don't think they will guess that we?"

"Aye."

She turned a lovely shade of pink. "By Saint Hermione's thumb. Is that all anyone can talk about lately?"

"You must face the fact that the details of our marriage will always be of great interest to everyone on this manor."

"I do wish our people would find something else to talk about."

"It is doubtful that they will as long as we provide such interesting entertainment." Gareth climbed out of the flower bin.

He realized that Clare had referred to the inhabitants of Desire as our people. It was a good sign.

"My lord?" Ulrich shouted again. "Are you in there?"

"Aye," Gareth called. "I'll be out in a moment." He turned back to assist Clare out of the pile of flowers.

She was a rare sight. He gazed at her, momentarily enthralled. Dripping in soft, fragrant petals, she looked like a creature of magic rising from a woodland bed.

Then he saw the small red stain on her undertunic. He reached out to touch it. His jaw tightened.

"Did I hurt you very badly?"

"Nay." Clare wiped at the petals that clung to her skirts. "Off with you. You have business to attend to.

I must straighten my clothing."

Gareth could not tear his eyes from her glowing face. She was his now.

She belonged to him as she had belonged to no other man, not even Raymond de Coleville, her pattern of chivalry.

Clare might have loved de Coleville?mayhap she still did?but she had not given herself to him. She had kept herself for her lord and husband, the Hellhound of Wyckmere.

I know well how to protect what I have taken by my own hand, Gareth thought with a fierce rush of determination. And I will protect you, lady of Desire.

"In time you will forget him, Clare," he said aloud.

She gave him a blank look. "Forget who?"

Ulrich struck the door three more times in quick succession. "Shall I send the blacksmith home and tell him to return later, my lord?"

"Nay, I am on my way." Gareth turned away from the sight of Clare covered in flowers. He went to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the bright sunlight.

"Well, Ulrich? Where is our blacksmith?" Gareth closed the door firmly so that his friend would not see Clare.

"In the stables." Ulrich's gaze was amused. "You spent a great deal of time in the workrooms. I did not realize you were so interested in the mysteries of perfumes."

Gareth started across the courtyard. "You know me, Ulrich, I am always interested to learn how a thing works."

Ulrich fell into step beside him. "Aye, you are ertainly one to delve deeply into the most intimate details."

"I have certain responsibilities as the lord of this manor."

"Aye." Ulrich gave him a sage look.

"Only a fool would fail to acquaint himself closely with the inner workings of the source of his future income."

"No one has ever called you a fool, my lord." Ulrich eflected briefly.

"Bastard, Hellhound, Devil's Spawn, Opener of the Window of Hell, mayhap, but never a fool."

Several people turned to watch as the two men rossed the courtyard.

Gareth frowned when he saw a number of onlookers hastily avert their heads. He had a leep suspicion that they were concealing grins.

That suspicion was given more weight when Gareth noticed that John Blacksmith was gazing at him in open-mouthed astonishment.

"Is something wrong, Blacksmith?" Gareth asked with dangerous politeness. He had the distinct impression that he man was on the verge of bunting into laughter.

"Nay, my lord." John shut his mouth and wiped it on he back of his dirty sleeve. "The sunlight is very bright today. Blinds the eyes."

"I doubt that the sun is any brighter than the fires of our forge."

"Ah, true, my lord. Very true. Ye'd think I'd be ccustomed to the brightness, wouldn't ye?" John looked helplessly at Ulrich.

Ulrich merely smiled and said nothing. One of the men-at-arms who was standing nearby turned swiftly away rom the scene and rushed into the stables.

Gareth shrugged and let the matter rest. From long experience he knew it was useless for him to attempt to comprehend whatever it was that the blacksmith and everyone else found so amusing.