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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 appreciate 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 warmed 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