Bantam, $7.99, ISBN 978-0-553-56153-1
Historical Romance, 1993

Ah, Desire by Amanda Quick, a medieval romp that’s about as historically accurate as a knight in shining polyester. This 12th-century tale is the author’s first foray into medieval-era European historical romance, and boy, does it show. If you’re looking for authenticity, you might find more in a Renaissance fair porta-potty.

Let’s set the stage: Lady Clare, our plucky heroine, is the self-proclaimed boss of an island that’s the medieval equivalent of Bath & Body Works. She is required to have a husband after the death of her father, but she’s not going to settle for just any husband. She has a recipe for the perfect man, much like her recipes for herbal ointments, and for some reason she believes that the king will obey her dictates.

Unfortunately, what she gets is Gareth of Wyckmere, or Hellhound, a knight who’s about as humorous as a root canal and as cuddly as a suit of armor.

Now, I’d love to regale you with memorable moments from this literary masterpiece, but alas, it’s about as forgettable as last week’s mutton. The only scene that stands out is Clare’s Oscar-worthy performance on her wedding night, featuring enough fake blood to make Quentin Tarantino blush. Poor Gareth thought he’d brutalized her. That or he had married a human fountain.

Our heroine is cut from the same cloth as all of the author’s leading ladies—sassy, quirky, and possessing the self-awareness of a concussed pigeon. She’s also about as historically accurate as a medieval noblewoman with a Twitter, sorry, X account.

The author handwaves away Clare’s jarringly modern attitudes with the old “indulgent daddy” excuse. Please. This is just one of her 19th-century heroines slapped with a faux-medieval paint job that’s fooling exactly no one.

As for our hero, Gareth, his personality consists of being illegitimate, illiterate (oh wait, he can read—plot twist!), and emotionally constipated. He’s the medieval equivalent of a brooding high school bad boy, minus the leather jacket, just a lot of chain mail.

Now, I’ll admit, the idea of an island producing exotic, aphrodisiac perfumes is intriguing. Sadly, the author squanders this potential faster than you can say “anachronism.” Instead, we’re treated to contrived scenes of Gareth getting inexplicably horny every time Clare wafts by. It’s less Eau de Romance and more Eau de Boredom.

The suspense plot is so predictable, you could set your sundial by it. The villain might as well twirl his mustache and cackle “Mwahahaha!” as he explains his dastardly plan in excruciating detail.

The romance itself is as passionate as two pieces of damp parchment rubbing together. The author takes us through the motions like a bored tour guide: “And here we have the first kiss, followed by second base, the third base, and oh look, the heroine is in denial about the hero’s feelings. So original!”

Let’s be real: I’m somewhat offended by how little effort Amanda Quick put into making this story even remotely authentic. If you’re going to write a medieval romance, why not actually, you know, make it medieval? Why bother setting it in the 12th century if you’re just going to ignore everything about the 12th century? It’s like she threw a bunch of modern characters into a poorly researched Medieval Times dinner show and called it a day.

In the end, Desire leaves you desiring… well, anything else really. The only thing medieval about this book is how it tortures its readers. But hey, at least the island’s name delivers on the promise of the title, as it’s the only thing in this book that will leave you wanting more.