"What others?"
Clare scowled at the approaching riders. "There are supposed to be at least three other knights from which I shall choose a husband. These men all appear to ride beneath one man's banner."
"Aye, well, this Hellhound of Wyckmere is nearly as large as three men put together," William said with great satisfaction. "We don't need any others."
Clare narrowed her eyes. The Hellhound was not that big, she thought, but he was certainly formidable-looking. He was not at all of the moderate proportions she had requested.
The gray knight and his entourage were almost in front of her now.
Whatever else could be said, the new arrivals were providing a wondrous entertainment for all present. It would be interesting to see if the other suitors could improve upon this display of steel and power.
She was so caught up in the unusual sights and sounds of the event that she barely noticed another ripple of whispers as it washed through the crowd. She thought she heard her own name spoken, but she paid no attention. As the lady of Desire, she was accustomed to having her people discuss her. It was the way of things.
Margaret peered up at her. "Clare, you had best return immediately to your hall. If you stay up here on the wall, you will not be able to get back in time to receive this grand knight in a proper manner."
" Tis too late now, madam." Clare raised her voice to be heard over the din of voices and thudding hooves. "I shall have to wait until they have gone past before I can make my way through the street.
I am trapped here until the crowd has dispersed. Joanna and the servants will see to the business of greeting our visitors."
"What are you saying?" Margaret chided. "Joanna and the servants can hardly provide the sort of welcome the future lord of Desire will be expecting."
Clare turned her head and grinned down at Margaret. "Ah, but we do not know if this gray knight will be the future lord of Desire, do we? In fact, I think it highly unlikely. From what I can see, he is not at all the right size."
"Size, my child, is the least of it," Margaret muttered.
The thunder of hooves and the rattle of harness ceased abruptly. An astonished gasp from William and the sudden hush that had fallen over the throng brought Clare's head back around very swiftly.
She was astonished to see that the troop of mounted men, which had been making slow, stately progress through the center of the village, had came to a complete halt right in the middle of the street.
Directly in front of where she sat on the wall.
Clare swallowed uneasily when she realized that the gray knight was looking straight at her. Her first instinct was to slide back over the edge of the wall and drop discreetly out of sight into the garden.
But it was too late to flee. She would have to brave it out.
Clare was suddenly acutely conscious of her dirt-stained gown and windblown hair. Her palms grew moist as she gripped the edge of the sun-warmed stone wall.
Surely he wasn't looking at her.
He could not be looking at her.
There was no reason she should have caught the attention of the gray knight. She was just a woman sitting on a wall watching the spectacle along with the rest of the villagers.
But he was looking at her.
An odd stillness settled over the scene as the silver-and-smoke knight gazed thoughtfully at Clare for an endless moment. It seemed to her that even the very breeze had ceased. The leaves of the trees in the convent garden hung motionless. Not a sound could be heard, not even the snap of a banner.
Clare looked into shadowed, unreadable eyes framed by a steel helm, and prayed that the Hellhound of Wyckmere would take her for one of the villagers.
At some unseen command, the great dappled gray stallion started toward the convent wall. Those who stood in the beast's way instantly melted aside to clear a path. Everyone's eyes went straight to Clare.
"He's coming over here, my lady," William squeaked. "Mayhap he recognizes you."
"But we have never met." Clare's fingers tightened on the stone. "He cannot know who I am."
William opened his mouth to say something else but closed it abruptly again when the massive war-horse halted directly in front of Clare. The gray knight's gaze was level with her own.
Clare looked deeply into brilliant, unsmiling eyes that were the color of smoky rock crystal. She saw the cool, calculating intelligence that blazed in the depths of the crystal and knew in that moment that the gray knight was aware of her identity.
Clare held her breath, trying frantically to think of a clever way to deal with the situation. She had never faced such an awkward moment in her life.
"I seek the lady of Desire," the knight said.
A curious tremor flashed through Clare at the sound of his voice. She did not know why she reacted so strangely to it, because it certainly suited him. It was low and dark and vibrant with controlled power.
She clutched at the stone in order to keep her fingers from trembling.
Then she raised her chin and straightened her shoulders. She was mistress of this manor and she intended to conduct herself in a manner that befitted that title, even if she was facing the most formidable-looking man she had ever met in her life.
"I am she whom you seek, sir. Who are you?"
"I am Gareth of Wyckmere."
Clare remembered the whispers. The Hellhound of Wyckmere. "I have heard that you are called by another name."
"I am called by many other names, but I do not answer to all of them."
There was a clear warning in the words. Clare heard it and decided to fallback upon the safety of good manners. She inclined her head in a civil fashion.
"I bid you welcome to Desire, Sir Gareth. Allow me to thank you on behalf of the entire village for the fine entertainment you have provided for us this day. We are rarely fortunate enough to be allowed to view such grand spectacles here in our small village."
"I am pleased that you are satisfied with what has transpired thus far, my lady. I trust you will be equally pleased with the remainder of the performance." Gareth released the reins, raised his mailed hands, and removed his helm.
He did not glance over his shoulder nor give any signal that Clare could see. He merely held the gleaming helm out to the side. Another knight rode forward at once, took the steel helm from Gareth's hand, and retreated back to join the other warriors.
Clare studied Gareth with a curiosity she could not completely conceal, even for the sake of good manners. This was one of the men who had been sent to vie for her hand, after all. She was surprised to discover that something deep within her was oddly satisfied by the look of him.
He was definitely too large, but somehow that glaring fault did not seem quite as alarming now as it had when she had composed her recipe for a husband. The reason was obvious. In spite of his size and obvious physical power, something told her that this was not a man who would rely on brute strength alone to obtain his ends.
Gareth of Wyckmere was obviously a trained knight, well versed in the bloody arts of war, but he was no thick-skulled fool. Clare could see that much in his face.
The sunlight gleamed on his heavy, shoulder-length mane of near-black hair. There was that about his fierce, stony features which reminded Clare of the great cliffs that protected her beloved isle. In spite of the intelligence that gleamed in his eyes, she sensed that he could be implacable and unyielding.
This was a man who had fought for everything he wanted in life.
He watched Clare as she examined him. He did not appear to object to her scrutiny. He simply sat waiting calmly and patiently for judgment in a manner which suggested that the verdict did not concern him. It struck her then that he had his own ends and he intended to achieve them regardless of her decisions and conclusions.