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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."
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    "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.
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