Ulrich and Gareth had been together since that day. Their association was founded on friendship and anchored by trust and mutual respect.
Gareth had learned a great deal from Ulrich in the beginning and he still listened to the other man's advice. But somewhere along the way their relationship had gradually shifted from mentor and student to that of professionals who dealt with each other as equals.
It was Gareth who now gave the commands, however.
It was Gareth who had gathered a tightly knit, well-disciplined band of men around him and shaped them into a formidable weapon whose services went for a very high price.
It was Gareth who had selected potential employers and decided how and when to sell the services of his men.
He had assumed the role of leader not because of his connection to Thurston of Landry, but simply because it seemed natural for all concerned. For Gareth, the will to command was inherent, as unquestioned an impulse as breathing.
Ulrich had no great interest in the position of leader. His was an independent nature. He swore fealty to those of his own choosing and the lord to whom he gave his loyalty could be assured of unswerving service.
Four years earlier Ulrich had sworn fealty to the Hellhound of Wyckmere.
Ulrich knew Gareth better than anyone, including Thurston. He was well aware that Gareth had never before offered the Window of Hell to man or woman, lord or lady, master or mistress.
"I will admit that you have a way with grand and impressive gestures."
Ulrich stroked his jaw thoughtfully.
"With you, such gestures always conceal clever traps. But this was an unusual move, even for you."
"It was an unusual situation."
"Still, it was merely another snare, was it not? You left the lady little alternative but to accept the Window of Hell."
Gareth shrugged.
"It would have been awkward if she had turned the blade on you and tried to run it through your gut."
"She was hardly likely to do that. The greater risk was that she would refuse to accept it." Gareth held the scented soap to his nose and sniffed cautiously. "Does it seem to you that everything here on Desire smells of flowers?"
"The whole damned isle smells like a garden. I vow, even the village ditch is perfumed."
"It appeared that it was linked to the sea through a channel of some sort." Gareth frowned thoughtfully. "The refuse is no doubt washed out with the tide. The garderobes here in the hall empty into a similar sort of system. Very interesting."
"I have never understood your curiosity about clever devices." Ulrich drew in a long breath, inhaling the scent of spring that poured through the open window behind him. "Tell me, what would you have done if the lady had refused the blade?"
"It no longer matters, does it? She did take the blade."
"And sealed her fate, is that what you believe? I would not be too certain of that, my friend. I have a feeling that the lady of Desire is a resourceful female. From what you have told me, 'tis she who has kept this manor so fat and profitable."
"Aye. Her mother taught her the secrets of perfume making. Her brother apparently spent all his time riding from one tournament to another until he finally got himself killed. Her father was a scholar who had no interest in managing his lands. He preferred to spend his time in Spain translating Arab treatises."
Ulrich smiled slightly. "What a pity you never made his acquaintance.
The two of you would have had much to discuss."
"Aye." Gareth felt a sudden surge of satisfaction. Once wed, he would retire from hunting outlaws and return to his first love?hunting the treasures buried in books and manuscripts, such as those Clare's father had collected. Water cascaded off his big frame as he stood and reached for a drying cloth.
"Hell's teeth. I smell like a budding rose."
Ulrich grinned. "Mayhap your new lady will appreci' ate the scent. Tell me, how did you guess that the wench on the convent wall was in truth the mistress of Desire?"
Gareth made a small, dismissing movement with one hand while he dried his hair with the cloth. "Twas obvious she was the right age. And she was better dressed than any of the villagers."
"Aye. Nevertheless?"
"She bore herself with an air of confidence and authority. I knew that she must be either an inhabitant of the convent who had not yet taken the veil, or the lady of the manor.
I gambled on the latter."
Gareth recalled his first view of Clare. From his position astride his stallion, he had noticed her as she clambered up to sit atop the stone wall. She had been a lithe, graceful figure dressed in a green gown and saffron mantle. The neck, hem, and sleeves of her tunic had been embroidered in yellow and orange, as had the wide girdle. The latter had rested low on her hips, emphasizing a narrow waist and the womanly flare of her thighs.
To Gareth, the woman on the wall had been the embodiment of spring itself, as fresh and vivid as the fields of roses and lavender which carpeted the isle.
Her long, dark brown hair, loosely secured by a narrow circlet and a tiny scrap of fine linen, had gleamed with a rich luster in the sun. But it was her face which had caught and held his attention. Her striking, fine-boned features had been as alight with unabashed curiosity and excitement as the face of the lad who sat beside her. A gracious but unmistakable pride glowed in her expression, the look of a woman accustomed to command.
Her huge green eyes, however, had held a deep wariness. His own falcon-sharp gaze, schooled by years spent hunting outlaws to note the smallest of details, had not missed that look of caution. It had, in fact, provided him with the final clue to her true identity.
The well-dressed lady on the wall had a very personal interest in the knights who were invading her domain.
Gareth knew that he had taken a calculated risk when he had decided to ride over to the wall to confront her. He had been a little concerned that she would slip back into the convent garden. But she had done no such thing. As he suspected, she possessed far too much feminine arrogance to retreat.
He had noticed the dirt on her gown as he rode toward her, and told himself it was a good omen. The lady of Desire was not above getting her hands dirty.
Gareth shook off the memories. He tossed aside the herb-scented linen drying cloth and reached for a fresh gray tunic.
As he dressed, he glanced at one of the large tapestries that wanned the stone walls of the chamber. Flowers and herbs, the source of Desire's profits, appeared to be a common theme everywhere on the isle, he noted.
Even the beautifully woven hangings depicted garden scenes.
This was a land of scented blooms and lush greenery. Who would have guessed that the Hellhound of Wyckmere would come to such a pretty, sweet-smelling place to claim his own hearth? Gareth thought.
But he was well satisfied with the Isle of Desire. He sensed that it held that which he sought.
He fastened his long leather belt around his hips and then he padded barefooted past one of the narrow windows cut into the stone wall. The warm, perfumed breeze made him think of Clare's hair.
Gareth had been obliged to inhale the scent of her dark tresses as he had carried her before him through the village and along the road to the hall.
The smell of flowers had blended with but had not disguised the sweet, intriguing scent that was hers and hers alone. The fragrance had captivated Gareth. She smelled like no other woman he had ever known.
The subtle, heady perfume combined with the feel of her softly rounded hips pressed against his leg had done something to Gareth's insides. A deep, powerful hunger had stirred to life within him.
His brows drew together and his jaw tightened as he recalled the raw force of that hunger. He would have to make certain it stayed within bounds. He had not survived this long by allowing his emotions to rule him.