Clare wrinkled her nose. "I do not think I'd put it quite like that."

"There is one thing that I would like to know," Gareth said.

"Aye, my lord?"

"Do you still love him?"

Clare froze. "Nay. I do not love Raymond de Coleville or Lucretius, or whatever he calls himself."

Gareth turned to face her. His jaw was rigid. "Are you certain? Because I shall very likely have to kill him, Clare."

She shuddered. "I'd rather you did not kill anyone."

"So would I. But this magician is a murderer."

"Beatrice?"

"It must have been he who strangled her."

"Aye, I suppose it was, although 'tis impossible to think of Raymond as a murderer."

"You must also face the possibility that he killed your father."

"My father." Clare was stunned. "But my father was killed by thieves in Spain."

"What did your father have that was worth his life?" Gareth asked softly. "Think about it, Clare."

"His book of translated alchemic recipes," she whispered. "The same thing that the magician seeks."

"Aye. We know the magician has killed once for the book. Mayhap he has killed twice."

Clare closed her eyes in pain. "'Tis hard to comprehend. I am very sorry that we here on Desire are proving to be such a great nuisance, my lord.

I know you had hoped for a quiet, peaceful life."

"Nothing comes without a price. Not even a quiet, peaceful existence. I am willing to pay the cost for what I want."

Clare opened her eyes and searched his face. "Aye. I know that. I only pray that one day you find what you seek."

"So do I." Gareth lowered his lashes, veiling his gaze. "You are certain that you do not love the magician?"

"I am very certain, my lord. In truth, I knew a long time ago that I could not ever love him."

"How did you?" Gareth broke off as if to search for the words he wanted.

"What convinced you that you were not in love with him? How do you know that you are not still in love with him?"

"There are two reasons. The first one you will likely not comprehend."

"What is it?"

Clare shrugged. "He never smelled right to me."

Gareth blinked. "I beg your pardon? Did he fail to bathe regularly?"

"Oh, no. He was most fastidious in his personal habits." Clare smiled faintly. "But he just did not smell right to me, if you see what I mean."

"Nay, I do not see what you mean, but who am I to argue?" Gareth paused briefly. "And your second reason for being so certain that you do not love him?"

Clare took a deep breath. "I cannot possibly be in love with the magician, my lord, because I am in love with you."

"Me?" Gareth stared at her.

"Aye. You do smell right. I knew that the first day when you plucked me off the convent wall and set me down in front of you. I believe I fell in love with you at that very moment."

17

Gareth stared at the soft smile that played around Clare's lips and felt his blood turn to ice.

"Do not jest with me." He crossed the chamber in a few swift strides, circled the desk, and reached for Clare with both hands. "Not about this."

"My lord, what are you doingr' Clare's smile vanished in a heartbeat.

She struggled to escape from the chair.

Gareth caught hold of her arms and hauled her upright. He lifted her straight off her feet so that she was eye-to-eye with him.

"I have warned you that I do not find amusement in the clever japes and sly words that cause others to laugh."

"By Saint Hermione's thumb, I was not jesting, my lord." Clare braced her hands on his shoulders and glowered at him. "Put me down at once.

This is precisely the sort of overbearing behavior that I find so objectionable in large males."

He ignored the command. "Say that again."

"I said, this is precisely the sort of overbearing behavior?"

"Not that nonsense." He looked straight into her eyes. "The other."

"The other nonsense?" She repeated weakly.

"Hell's fire, madam, I am in no mood for this."

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."