"Impossible," Clare said.

"You doubt me at your peril, lady. It has long been known that whenever Brother Bartholomew appears within the walls of this convent, someone dies a violent death soon thereafter."

Clare sighed. "Beatrice, the legend of Brother Bartholomew and Sister Maud is naught but an old tale that is told to children. Tis used to frighten them into minding their elders, nothing more."

"But I saw the ghost myself, I tell you."

"When was that?"

"Shortly after midnight last night." Beatrice made the sign of the cross. "There was enough moonlight to see that he wore a black cowl. The hood was drawn up over his head to conceal his unfleshed skull. He stood in front of the gatehouse and when Sister Maud did not appear to join him, he went straight through the gates to seek her out."

"The gates are locked at night," Clare said patiently, "and Sister Maud has been dead for more than fifty years, God rest her soul."

"The gates opened for the ghost," Beatrice declared. "No doubt he used the black arts to unlock them. I saw him enter the grounds and go through the garden. Then he disappeared."

"You must have been asleep and dreaming, Beatrice," Clare said. "Do not concern yourself. Brother Bartholomew would not dare enter the grounds of this convent. He knows very well that he would have to face Prioress Margaret. She'll not tolerate any trouble from a mere ghost."

"You jest, lady of Desire, but you shall know the truth soon enough,"

Beatrice said. "Your marriage to the Hellhound of Wyckmere has roused the ghost of Brother Bartholomew, I tell you. Death will soon follow in his wake, as it always does."

"Mayhap I should come back here tonight and have a long chat with Brother Bartholomew," Clare said.

"Similar to the conversation you had this morning with Sir Gareth?"

Joanna arched her brows. "Would you put this ghost in his place, just as you did your future lord?"

Clare grimaced. "I vow, we did very well here for years without being obliged to put up with all these difficult men traipsing about the manor. Now we seem to be dealing with one annoying male after another."

Beatrice shook her head dolefully. "Woe unto all of us, lady. The Hellhound has summoned the demons of the Pit. Brother Bartholomew is merely the first."

"I am certain that Sir Gareth would not summon any demon that he could not control." Clare reached into the sack suspended from her girdle. "Before I forget, here is your cream, Beatrice."

"Hush, not so loud, lady." Beatrice poked her head through the window.

She glanced anxiously up and down the street, apparently to reassure herself that no one else stood nearby. Then she snatched the pot of scented cream from Clare's fingers and whisked it out of sight.

"No one would ever accuse you of succumbing to worldly temptations merely because you use my cream on your skin," Clare said. "Half the women in the village use it or one of my other potions."

"Bah, people will say anything and think worse." Beatrice stashed the pot in a cupboard and came back to the window.

"Oh, there's Sister Anne:" Joanna lifted a hand to catch the attention of one of the nuns who had just emerged from the gatehouse. "Pray excuse me for a moment, Clare. I wish to have a word with her about a new embroidery design."

"Of course." Clare watched as Joanna hastened off to chat with Sister Anne.

Beatrice waited until Joanna was out of earshot. "Psst, Lady Clare."

"Aye?" Clare turned back to her with a smile.

"Before you go to your doom on the morrow, I would give you a small gift and some advice."

"I'm going to my wedding, not my doom, Beatrice."

"For a woman, there is often little to choose between the two. But that is neither here nor there at the moment. Your fate was sealed on the day your father died. There is nothing that can be done about it." Beatrice thrust a small object through the window. "Now, then, take this vial of chicken blood."

"Chicken blood." Clare stared at the vial in astonishment. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Keep it hidden near the bed on your wedding night," Beatrice whispered.

"After the Hellhound has fallen asleep, unseal the vial and pour the chicken blood on the sheets."

"But why in Saint Hermione's name would I want… Oh." Clare felt herself turn a dull red. "Obviously my future husband is not the only one who fears that I am no longer virgin."

"As to that, 'tis neither here nor there as far as I am concerned. But men take a different view." Beatrice peered intently at her. "Why take chances? I say. This way honor will be satisfied all around and the Hellhound will not be angered."

"But I?" Clare broke off at the sound of hooves thudding on the road behind her.

She turned to see Gareth riding toward the anchor-hold. He was mounted on a sturdy-looking gelding, not his war-horse. He had Clare's small white palfrey in tow.

"Saint Hermione protect us," Beatrice whispered. " Tis the Hellhound himself. Quick, hide the vial." Beatrice reached through the open window to drop the small container of chicken blood into the sack that hung from Clare's girdle.

"Beatrice?"

"Now, then, you must heed my words, lady, if you would live through your wedding night."

"Live through my wedding night." Shocked, Clare spun back to face the recluse. "By Saint Hermione's nose, this is too much nonsense to tolerate, even from you."

"I fear for your very life, madam. I have heard that you swore to deny your husband his rights in the marriage bed."

"Gossip travels quickly. I spoke those words less than an hour ago. Do you imply that Sir Gareth might murder me if I refuse to share his bed?"

"He is the Hellhound of Wyckmere." Beatrice grabbed her wrist to hold her attention. "He is dangerous, Lady Clare. You must not risk his wrath by denying him his husbandly rights. Do not defy him on your wedding night."

"But Beatrice?" Out of the corner of her eye, Clare saw Gareth draw his horse to a halt. He dismounted leisurely.

"If you defy him, he will draw his sword." Beatrice's eyes were grim. "I have seen it in a vision. Blood will flow in the bedchamber. I fear it will be your blood, my lady. My advice is to do your duty as a wife and then use the chicken blood."

Gareth walked toward the window where Clare stood. "May I join this conversation?"

"It would be of little interest to you, sir." Clare summoned a determined smile. "Beatrice was giving me advice on marriage."

"If I were you, I would not pay any heed to advice on marriage that comes from the lips of a recluse.

She is bound to have a very limited view of the estate."

"Beatrice was merely trying to be helpful, sir."

"For all the good it will do," Beatrice muttered. " Tis pointless giving advice to young brides these days. They never listen."

" 'Tis just as well in this case." Gareth did not take his eyes off Clare. "I prefer to be the one who instructs my bride."

Fresh alarm etched Beatrice's expression. "I pray you, Hellhound, show some mercy to your lady on your wedding night. She has had no mother to guide her, and her father, God rest his soul, did not protect her as he should have done. Whatever has happened to her, bear in mind that it was not her fault."

"Beatrice, please," Clare hissed, exasperated. "That is quite enough advice for one day."

"Blood and death," Beatrice whispered as she retired deep into the shadows of her anchor-hold. "Blood will flow and violent death will come. I have seen the ghost."

Gareth looked at Clare with deep interest. "This grows more interesting by the moment. Is my latest rival a ghost?"

Clare glared at him. "Don't be ridiculous. Beatrice has a very lively imagination. What are you doing here, sir? I thought you were overseeing the departure of Nicholas and his men."

"Ulrich will attend to that. I came to find you."

"Why?"

"I wish to ask you to give me a tour of the manor."

"Oh." Clare could think of no immediate excuse to refuse. It was an eminently reasonable request. "But I should return to the hall as soon as possible. There is much to be done before tomorrow."

"Ulrich and your marshal have everything well in hand at the hall, and your friend Joanna is busy, I see," Gareth said. "Come." He took Clare by the arm and guided her toward the white palfrey. "I am eager to acquaint myself with Desire."


***

The ride to the top of the hill overlooking the village took fifteen minutes. It was accomplished in silence. Clare stole several sidelong glances at Gareth's calm, expressionless face in an effort to determine his mood and finally concluded that he was not angry.

She did not know whether to be irritated or impressed. She had never met a man possessed of such seemingly inexhaustible self-mastery.

"Tell me how you go about concocting your perfumes and potions." Gareth drew his gelding to a halt and looked out over the fields of spring flowers.

"Are you certain you wish to hear all the details, sir? Mayhap you will find them boring."

Gareth surveyed the brilliant patchwork of flowers and herbs that flowed across the gentle hills and valleys of Desire. There was cool possessiveness and keen interest in his gaze. "How could I be bored with even the smallest of details? I am responsible for the safety and protection of this isle. I must learn all that I can about it."

Clare stroked the palfrey's neck. "Very well. But please let me know if you grow weary. I have been told that I tend to wax overly enthusiastic about my subject."