"That's all you know of him?"

Clare reflected on the question. "Aye, I believe so. He never speaks of his past."

"Or of the man who raised him?"

"Nay. I have the impression that he would prefer to forget both."

"Mayhap he cannot forget, although he tries."

"Aye. Some things cannot be conveniently forgotten."

"True. But a man who cannot forget must learn to deal with the devils that plague him." '"

"Give him time, my lord. He has only been with us for a short while."

"Tis the suddenness with which this new fit of melancholia has come upon him that concerns me. He was content and cheerful during the fair until the last day. I thought at first that he was suffering from lovesickness."

Clare smiled. "Young Alison?"

"Aye. I spoke to him of the matter, but he claims he is not afflicted with the illness." Gareth grimaced. "Thanks be to the saints for that. I have not the least notion of how to cure such a disease quickly and I have never known a doctor who could treat it successfully."

"I believe you once told me that you, personally, have not suffered from it for many years," Clare murmured dryly.

"Nay." Gareth shrugged. "Lovesickness is for poets and fools."

"Of course."

"A man in my position cannot afford to indulge himself in such an illness."

"Why not, pray? What harm can it do?"

"What harm?" Gareth scowled. "The harm is obvious. Tis a most dangerous fever. It destroys sound judgment and common sense."

"Of course. I do not know what I was thinking of to even ask such a foolish question. Well, then, about Dalian. What do you suggest?"

Gareth considered. "It would no doubt be best to give him something to think about that will take his mind off whatever it is that is plaguing him."

"An excellent plan, my lord. I have noticed that men have a great skill for ignoring certain pressing problems in favor of amusing themselves with other matters."

Gareth cocked a brow. "Have I said something to annoy you, madam?"

"Not at all," Clare assured him very smoothly. "What do you believe would successfully distract Dalian from whatever it is that is unbalancing his humors and inducing melancholy?"

Gareth glanced down at the book he was holding. "Mayhap I shall ask him to assist me in my experiments with sulfur and charcoal."

"I believe he will find that very interesting." Clare was briefly intrigued herself. "Let me know when you are ready to demonstrate the results of your work, my lord. I would enjoy witnessing them even though I do not much care for the odor of sulfur."

"I shall send word when I'm ready with the experiment." Gareth rose from the window seat, kissed her lightly on the mouth, and went toward the door.

Clare watched him leave. She experienced a twinge of melancholy herself as she reflected on their conversation. Lovesickness is for poets and fools.

She was neither a poet nor a fool, but she was very much afraid that she was suffering from lovesickness.

She did not enjoy suffering alone.

It was not as if Gareth were completely free of the softer emotions, she told herself. There were some encouraging signs. For example, he always smelled of the new fragrance she had given to him.

And there was no doubting the forcefulness of his passion, she thought.

He made no secret of his desire for her and he seemed pleased that she responded so completely to his lovemaking. In truth, he demanded a response from her.

She knew he respected her knowledge, skill, and cleverness in the matter of perfumes, but that was not saying much. Even Nicholas had possessed sufficient wit to appreciate her talent for making money.

What gave her the greatest hope was that, just as he had a moment ago, Gareth had begun consulting her more and more frequently of late before making a decision.

Their marriage was beginning to work just as she had anticipated when she had composed her recipe for a husband. She and Gareth were learning to share their duties and responsibilities. They were learning to trust each other.

In many ways she had gotten exactly what she had wanted in a husband, even if he was somewhat larger than she had specified.

But it was not enough.

She wanted love.

And as far as Gareth was concerned, love was for poets and fools.

Two days later Clare was again at her desk when a great thunderclap resounded across the courtyard.

Startled, she leaped to her feet and went to the window. She frowned when she realized that there was not a single storm cloud in sight.

Confused, she glanced down into the courtyard. A shout went up. A maid screamed. The stonemasons stopped work on the new wall. Men spilled from the stables in alarm. A horse whinnied and plunged in fright. Several chickens cackled madly as they darted across the yard.

And then great, billowing clouds of smoke poured from the windows of her father's workroom. Even as Clare watched, the door burst open and two figures reeled out into the sunlight. Gareth and Dalian were covered in gray ash.

Clare whirled and raced out of the chamber. She ran to the tower stairs and flew down them.

"Gareth. My lord, are you all rightr she shouted as she dashed out onto the hall steps. She stared at the ash-covered figures. The acrid scent of sulfur assailed her nostrils.

Dalian smiled weakly. He looked dazed but unhurt.

Gareth's teeth flashed in a triumphant grin through his gray mask. "It worked."

"In the name of Saint Hermione's night robe," Clare gasped as Gareth ran to her and caught her up. "What worked?"

"One of your father's sulfur recipes." Gareth swung her around in a circle. His laughter rang out across the yard. "It worked, Clare. It really worked."

"I can see that. But of what possible use is this sulfur mix?"

"I have no notion yet. The important thing is that the recipe worked."

15

Clare looked up at his smudged, grinning features and smiled with sudden and complete understanding. Gareth was euphoric with the thrill of discovery. She had experienced the sensation many times herself, albeit in a less spectacular fashion.

"Aye, my lord. Your recipe most certainly worked. Mayhap you have a career in alchemy ahead of you."

"It is certainly a far more interesting business than my former occupation of hunting outlaws."

Clare closed her eyes to shut out the distraction caused by the clash and clang of stonemasons' tools and the shouts of laborers. Outside her workrooms, construction of the new stone wall around the hall was proceeding apace. It created an unceasing din during the day.

It was only in the evening, after the men from Seabern had departed for the day, that a blessed silence descended. Clare hoped the project would be finished soon. She reached into the pot on the bench in front of her, scooped out a handful of the new mix of dried herbs and flowers, and held it to her nose. The hint of mugwort reminded her of Raymond de Coleville, for some reason.

Mugwort had made his eyes water uncontrollably and caused him to sneeze and gasp for air.

She recalled the day that she had surprised him with a pomander that had contained mugwort along with other spices and flowers. It was the only time that she had ever seen Raymond lose his temper.

"God's blood, get that perfume away from me," he had raged. "It must contain mugwort. What are you trying to do? Kill me?"

Clare had been horrified. She'd had no way of knowing that he could not tolerate the mugwort. She had apologized profusely and disposed of the pomander. Raymond had quickly returned to his normal charming self and that had been the end of the matter.