Desire (27 page)

"Aye," Gareth said softly. "You are. And I am grateful for it."

She warmed beneath his gaze. He trusted her, she thought. It was a good start.

"While we are on the subject," she said gruffly, "I want to make it clear that I would not take a husband's betrayal any better than you would take that of a wife."

He smiled his rare smile. "You do not care for the thought of me in another woman's bed?"

"Nay, my lord, I do not." She felt flustered but determined. "I have my pride, too, sir."

"Pride. Is that why you object to the notion of me bedding another woman? Because it would wound your pride?"

Clare glowered at him. She was certainly not going to confess her love at this point. The Hellhound would take full advantage of such an admission. It would leave her even more vulnerable to him than she already was.

"What other reason could there be except pride, my lord?" she asked innocently. "In that regard I am no different than yourself. Surely it is pride that makes you feel so strongly about the matter of being cuckolded?"

"Aye." Gareth's eyes narrowed a little as he watched her. "A man's pride is a serious business."

"So is a woman's."

"Well, then, young Dalian must continue to sing of roses in the rain and other such dull matters." Gareth bent his head and brushed his mouth lightly across Clare's.

"Gareth—"

"Come. It grows late and I have many things to see to today." He grabbed her hand and swept her along the clifftops toward the village.

Ten minutes later Clare and Gareth reached the convent wall that marked the heart of the village. A cart piled high with thatching reeds clattered past. The thatcher nodded politely at Clare and Gareth. A shepherd did the same as he drove a flock down the center of the street.

Everyone turned to look as the lord and lady of Desire walked hand in hand through the small community.

Clare knew that most of the stares were for Gareth. She herself was too familiar a sight to draw such curious gazes. But Gareth was still new, a strange and largely unknown quantity to the people of the manor. They were only too well aware that their fate was in his hands.

"I must deliver the herbal cream to Beatrice," Clare said as she and Gareth reached the recluse's cell. "I'll only be a moment."

Gareth stopped and glanced at the window of the cell. "The curtain is drawn. Mayhap she is still asleep."

"Not likely." Clare chuckled. "Beatrice is always up and about very early. She usually opens her curtain first thing so as not to miss any news."

Clare went to the window. It was unlocked and ajar, as though Beatrice had recently been peering out into the street. "Beatrice?"

There was no response.

"Beatrice?" Clare hesitated and then reached through the narrow opening to push the heavy wool curtain

aside. "Are you ill? Do you need help?"

Only silence came from the darkened interior. Clare gazed into the small front chamber of the little house. At first she could see nothing at all. The curtain on the other window was also drawn shut, leaving the chamber drenched in shadow.

Then Clare's eyes adjusted to the gloom. The first thing she noticed was Beatrice's slippered feet on the floor.

"Beatrice." Clare gripped the stone sill and tried to get a better look at the prone figure inside.

Gareth frowned. He walked closer to the window. "What's wrong?"

"I do not know." Clare looked at him. "She is lying on the floor. She's not moving. Gareth, I think she may be badly hurt."

Gareth studied the interior of the anchorite's cell. "The door is locked. I can see the key hanging on the wall."

"How will we get insider Clare asked.

"Send someone for John Blacksmith. Be quick about it, Clare."

Clare did not need further urging.

A short while later the blacksmith jammed a forge tool between the stone wall and the crack of the recluse's door. Then he and Gareth put their shoulders to the heavy wood.

The door popped off its hinges on the third attempt.

Gareth went first into the small cell. He took one look at the body on the floor and shook his head.

"She is dead. And not from any natural cause."

13

"Murdered." Clare stared at Gareth in shocked disbelief.

"I do not believe it." Margaret, who had been summoned immediately, looked stunned. "Tis not possible. We have never had a murder here in the convent during the fifteen years I have been in charge."

Clare shook her head slowly. "There has not been a murder anywhere on Desire in my lifetime."

"This was most definitely murder." Gareth looked down at the open, sightless eyes of the recluse. He had seen enough of violent death in his time to recognize it.

"Are you certain?" Margaret frowned. "Mayhap she fell ill in the middle of the night, attempted to call for assistance and did not make it to the door."

Gareth crouched beside the body. He touched one of the dead woman's fingers and found it limp. The stiffness that followed death had already passed. "She died during the night, but not from illness." He studied ,the folds of Beatrice's head covering. "Was she accustomed to sleeping in her wimple?"

"I do not know," Margaret said. "It would appear so. Mayhap it was an act of piety."

"More like simple vanity," Clare said quietly. "Beatrice was very concerned about the sagging line of her chin. She did not want anyone to see it."

"She loved to gossip and she was overly fond of Clare's perfumes and herbal creams," Margaret said. "Small failings, when all is said and done. Would that we all limited our sins to such minor transgressions."

Gareth raised one eyebrow. "Aye."

"She is in her night robe," Clare said thoughtfully. "Yet she is wearing her shoes as well as her wimple."

Margaret peered anxiously at Gareth. "Are you absolutely certain this is not the result of some grave illness, my lord?"

"It was murder." Gareth pointed to the wimple. The fine linen had been crushed and badly wrinkled in the region around Beatrice's throat. "Do you see those marks?"

Margaret leaned closer. "Aye."

Gareth started to lift the hem of the wimple.

Margaret put out a hand as though to stop him. "What are you doing, my lord?"

"I want to see her neck." Gareth peeled back the white linen.

The dark, ugly bruises on Beatrice's throat were obvious for all to see.

"Saint Hermione defend her," Clare whispered.

"God rest her soul," Margaret breathed.

Clare looked at Gareth. "You have seen such marks before?"

"Aye." Gareth lowered the wimple. "The recluse was strangled."

"But that is not possible." Clare's gaze went to the heavy wooden door that Gareth and John had recently forced. "Her door was locked from the inside. And the windows are too narrow for a man to pass through."

Gareth glanced toward the doorway. Through the opening he could see that a cluster of curious onlookers had gathered. Several of the nuns and novices as well as a number of villagers stood just outside, trying to look into the cell.

"Instruct everyone to be off about their own business," Gareth said to Margaret. "I do not want them trampling about out there in front of the cell any more than they already have."

Margaret eyed him consideringly. "Aye, my lord."

She went to the door and dispatched the small crowd.

Clare met Gareth's eyes. "The day before our wedding, Beatrice insisted that she had seen Brother Bartholomew. She claimed that she saw him enter the convent grounds. She said he walked straight through the locked gates."

"Brother Bartholomew?" Gareth recalled the conversation between Beatrice and Clare that he had overheard. "Ah, yes. The ghost. You never did tell me what that was all about."

"It is merely an old legend, my lord," Margaret said brusquely. "Brother Bartholomew was a wandering monk. He came to Desire many years ago to preach to the villagers and the members of this house. Tis said that while he was on the isle he seduced a young nun and persuaded her to run off with him."

"They fled during a storm," Clare explained. "Both were drowned when their boat overturned in the high seas."

"This occurred while you were in charge of this convent, madam?" Gareth asked.

"Most definitely not." Margaret was heartily offended. "I would never have tolerated such nonsense. Nay, the tale is from long before my time."

"And long before mine, also," Clare said. "The legend has it that Brother Bartholomew returns on certain nights seeking his beloved. Whenever he is seen on the convent grounds, disaster is said to follow."

Gareth got to his feet. "I can promise you that your recluse was not killed by a ghost. A flesh-and-blood man left those marks on her throat."

He walked to the door and looked out at the trampled grass. "Hell's teeth, I wish I had thought to keep the curious away. Now it will be impossible to see if there are any strange bootmarks in front of the cell."

"My lord." Clare's voice was quiet and thoughtful. "There is something strange here."

"Aye. Murder is always strange."

"I refer to an unusual odor."

Gareth swung around and fixed her with a sharp gaze. "I have great respect for your sense of smell,

madam. What odor do you detect?"

"Mint."

"Mint?" Gareth stepped closer to the body. He drew a deep breath, trying to taste the air. "Aye. Very faint."

Margaret's brow wrinkled in confusion. "What is so odd about the scent of mint? Mayhap the recluse recently used some to prepare a meal."

Clare's nose twitched. "Nay, the scent is on her night robe."

Gareth went back down on one knee beside the body. "You're right. 'Tis on the hem of her gown." He glanced at the green stains on the bottom of the recluse's soft leather slippers. "And on her shoes."

Clare wrapped her arms around her waist. "There is a large patch of mint in the convent gardens. Do you think that Beatrice went outside last night?"

"She never left her cell," Margaret said quickly. "Never in all the years I knew her. Do not forget, she was an anchorite. She wanted to be enclosed. Indeed, she once told me that she had a great dislike of being in the outside world."

"Aye, but if she really thought that she had seen the ghost of Brother Bartholomew," Clare said, "mayhap she would have been curious enough to leave her cell in order to follow him."

"Clare, surely you do not believe in that old legend," Margaret said.

"Nay, but Beatrice did."

"My lady wife has a point." Gareth looked at Clare. "Mayhap Beatrice did see someone last night, someone she took to be the ghost. And mayhap she went outside to see what he was doing."

Margaret shook her head. "It makes no sense. If she had seen someone she took to be a ghost, surely she would have been alarmed. She would have stayed in here behind a locked door."

"Who knows?" Clare said. "Beatrice was a very curious person. And she knew that no one believed that she had actually seen the ghost of Brother Bartholomew. Mayhap she sought proof of her story. And was murdered for it."

"But there is no one on this isle who had any reason to kill Beatrice," Margaret said.

Gareth kept his gaze on Clare's troubled face. "Let us have a look at that patch of mint."

Clare nodded. "It is planted near the library." She turned and led the way out of the cell.

Margaret set off after her.

Gareth took one last look at the murdered recluse. Then he followed Clare and the prioress down a garden path to a large square plot of dark-green mint located next to a stone wall. The signs of trampled greenery were evident immediately. The odor of crushed mint was strong.

"Someone stood here recently," Gareth said. He walked around the plot, examining it from all sides. Then he glanced up at the window in the wall. "The library is on the other side of this wall?"

"Aye," Margaret said quietly.

"I would like to look inside, if you have no objection, madam."

"Of course not, but I do not see what good it will do."

The heavy keys on Margaret's girdle rattled and clashed as she selected one.

"Another locked door," Clare murmured as Margaret approached the library door and inserted the key.

"Aye," Gareth said. "One would almost think that the murderer really was a ghost."

Clare frowned. "Surely you do not believe that?"

"Nay," Gareth said. "But it would appear that someone wishes us to believe it."

Margaret breathed an audible sigh of relief as she opened the library door and took a quick look around inside. "All is well in here. For a moment there I feared that we had been robbed."

"And that the recluse had been killed because she saw the thieves?" Gareth nodded. "A reasonable assumption."

He walked into the library. Clare followed at his heels. Together they examined the shelves full of heavy books. Many of the richly bound volumes were prudently chained to the wall.

Gareth was impressed. "You have a great many fine books, Prioress."

"Aye. And I'm pleased to say that we have never had a theft from our library during my time here as prioress," Margaret said proudly. "But one can never be too careful with things as valuable as books."

"My lord," Clare called from the last row of library shelves. "There is a volume open on one of the desks."

"Impossible." Margaret hurried down the aisle, clearly alarmed. "All of the books are properly stored after use. I have given strict orders to that effect."

Gareth walked down the aisle to where Clare stood beside an open volume. He glanced down at the beautifully decorated page filled with exquisitely wrought words. The elaborate design that framed the first letter on the page was done in gleaming gold, brilliant red, and rich blue.

"It is a treatise on herbs," Clare explained. "I have consulted it several times myself."

"I cannot believe that any of the members of this house would leave it open on the desk like this," Margaret said. "It is far too valuable to be treated in such a careless fashion."

Gareth glanced toward the window that overlooked the mint patch. The heavy green glass allowed sunlight to filter into the chamber. "I wonder if the murderer was about to steal this book when he realized there was someone outside watching him."