Danger’s Promise

Now, as she sidestepped puddles and listened to the eerie call of wolves, she had to wonder if she shouldn’t have tried to convince the warlord that her letters were dated. They were not at all a true reflection of her feelings. It wasn’t Alec who occupied her thoughts, waking and sleeping, but Christian and all his myriad complexities. Getting to know him had been the most disturbing and, ironically, the most rewarding experience of her life.

If only he knew how desperate she’d been when she wrote her pleas.

The road curved, bringing her around a shadowy mound of earth. Clarise looked up and spied the outline of Rievaulx against the starry sky. She drew to a halt. A tremor of dread shook her as she thought of the sickness fouling the air there. She wished suddenly that she could turn back and trust Christian to come to his senses. It was too late now. She’d said she would have nothing to do with the beast, even if he crawled on his knees, begging her mercy.

She lifted her chin and struck out boldly for Rievaulx. Her stride was jaunty, even confident. Her heart sank like a stone down a wall.

Christian knew what it felt like to be a hound after an elusive hare. He felt desperate enough to foam at the mouth, perhaps even bay at the sun rising over the treetops.

The laundry maid cum lady-in-waiting was as crafty as any rabbit. She had led him in a pretty chase this morning, disappearing from the very places where she’d been seen just seconds before.

She had not been in Lady Clarise’s chamber when he knocked at her door that morning. What he’d found instead was enough to make him forget the speech that kept him awake the night before. What he’d found had made his blood run cold.

The lump under the blankets was not Clarise. The gowns that he had gifted her were neatly folded in the open chest. Her slippers had been cast beside the bed and forgotten. Her chemise had been flung over the top of the dressing partition. She was clearly gone, and from what he could tell, she was naked to boot.

He’d dashed to the great hall to advise his master-at-arms.

“Find the lady’s maid,” Sir Roger retorted, smirking over his mug of morning beer. His eyes said, You get what you deserve.

Christian made inquiries. A page had seen Nell in the kitchen breaking her fast. But when he raced to the separate building, the girl was already gone. “Laundering,” said Dame Maeve in her terse manner. “You will find her by the well.”

He skirted the main keep to avoid Sir Roger’s mocking salute. The courtyard was alive at this hour with servants rushing through their chores. Stalking across the courtyard, the warlord drew more than a few startled gazes. He scattered the chickens pecking at their feed, upset a bucket of water placed by the well, and ran smack into a wheel of cheese that a youth was rolling to the kitchens. Nell was nowhere.

He spied Sarah making her way toward the gates with a basket in her arms and jogged to intercept her. “Have you seen your sister?” he demanded, blocking her path.

The girl squared her shoulders and stared at him stoically. He recalled that he’d threatened to make her scrub the garderobes for life. Given the look on her face, he’d get nothing from her.

“I saw her by the well but a nonce ago,” the maid said mildly.

“Obviously, she’s not there,” he countered, gesturing toward the well.

“I ne do not know where she be,” Sarah insisted. She glanced nervously toward the brew house.

The direction of her gaze betrayed her.

Without a word he strode to the squat brick structure that was a stone’s throw from the kitchens. The scent of hops wafted from the brewery’s open windows. He dived straight into the dark rectangle of the open door and collided with a figure in an apron.

Nell squealed in fright.

“There you are,” Christian said, laying hold of her. He could feel her trembling beneath his firm grasp. His eyes adjusted to the gloom, allowing him to see the many barrels stacked against the wall. A fire flared at the end of the room, making it unmercifully hot. Servants paused to observe the interchange.

“Where is she?” he asked, drilling Nell with a look that had always earned him quick results.

“Wh-who, m’lord?” the servant stuttered.

He tightened his hold for good measure. “Don’t play games with me, Nell. This is not the time to forget where your loyalty should lie. Or have you no dreams for your brothers?” he threatened.

In contrast to the glaring fire, her face was as pasty as a lump of dough. Yet he saw the same flash of defiance that he’d seen once before. “She said ye would withdraw yer promise,” she accused, her voice wobbling.

“What?”

“Ye made me a promise!” the girl insisted. “Ye said me brothers would have land o’ their own. And ye made milady a promise to defend her against the Scot. Ye haffe lied on both accounts now!”

Christian sucked in a breath and released her. He glanced at the servants who huddled together for safety’s sake. There was more contempt than fear in their faces. “You grow impertinent, Nell,” he said under his breath. “Yet I give you credit for your bravery. My offer to your brothers stands,” he said, raising his voice. “As does my intent to defend Lady Clarise from Ferguson.”

“But ye tolde her ye would return her to the Scot!” the maid insisted.

And he had. But that was two days ago, when he’d spoken in haste. Since then, he’d had two interminable nights to help him reconsider. And he’d concluded that he couldn’t live with himself if he executed his threat. “For reasons of security, I can tell you nothing more. Suffice it to say that I have no intention of returning the lady to Ferguson. She has made herself your mistress. I will make her my lady.”

Smiles of delight lit up the servants’ faces and took the edge off his own humiliation. “The fact is that if she is not within these walls, then she is very much in danger. Tell me where she went,” he pressed, turning on the lady’s maid once more.

“Tell him, sister,” urged a youth, coming forward.

Christian looked into the sweaty countenance of a young man and saw at once his resemblance to the laundry maid. The youth looked him bravely in the eye, but he did so with respect. “Aiden or Callum?” he wanted to know.

“Callum, m’lord,” said the young man, tugging his forelock. “Spare me sister and I’ll tell ye where the lady be.”

“Nell will be spared,” Christian reassured him. He thought, with some disgust, that he was all bark and no bite these days.

“The lady haffe gone to the abbey,” said the boy succinctly. “She wears me best tunic and braies.” He cast an accusing look at Nell.

Christian’s gut tightened in response to the news. So, she had fled to be with the man she loved, he thought gloomily. Yet how would they meet, when the abbot had sealed the doors as tightly as a tomb?

Nell touched his sleeve. Her eyes were bright with hope. “She made mention of a secret entrance, m’lord. The good abbot Ethelred tolde her how to find it. But she ne woulde tell me where it was.”

A secret entrance! He felt like putting his fist through the wall. “God’s teeth and bones!” he hissed, pivoting toward the exit. Had she been meeting Alec after all?

Nay, everything inside him refused to believe it was true.

Alec had never read Clarise’s passionate letters, he was certain of it. If he had, then he would have rescinded his vows long ago. Her words could have convinced the pope himself to defend her.

If not for love of Alec, then, she had left Helmesly for one reason alone: he had driven her out. His own violent humors had betrayed him.

By God, it was up to him to get her back. If he did not, then he’d lost his only chance for redemption.

The bells at the abbey tolled the ninth hour of morning when Clarise stumbled on the cave. By then she was convinced she would never find it. Someone was bound to see her scurrying along the rows of barren trellises and send a person up—or down if they happened to spot her from the abbey—to question her.

There were hundreds of rocky overhangs. This alcove of rock was no different from the ninety-nine she’d already peered inside of. In fact, it was so shallow that she could hardly bring herself to bend over and peer inside. But when she spied a hole the size of an animal’s burrow at the rear of the cave, the sight gave her pause. Ethelred had said the hole was small.

She squatted down and shuffled under the overhang. From here she had a view of the bare vineyards, the steep slope, and the river stitching through the town below. The cave was cooler than the air outside. She was tempted to remain where she was and forget all about her foolhardy mission. But then she thought of the Slayer’s threat and the good abbot’s plight. She could not afford to be passive.

Using her hands, she widened the hole that had apparently grown over. Sunlight disappeared into the dark maw. She would have to crawl through a space no wider than her shoulders, no taller than a small child. She imagined briefly coming across an animal, dead or alive. She wished she’d thought to bring her flint and taper.

Well, she could sit here all morning dreading the task at hand, or she could put it behind her.

Like a swimmer plunging into unknown waters, Clarise took a deep breath of air and crawled into the tunnel hewn from earth. The scent of mineral stone and moisture assailed her nostrils. With every hair on her body cocked in anticipation of creeping insects, she nosed blindly forward.

Pebbles gouged her knees, yet she could feel that the land was sloping upward. Her cheek brushed a root that dangled from above. The air grew thicker, and she breathed through her mouth, gasping for air to feed her thudding heart. She knew a real and sudden fear that the ceiling would collapse and drown her in rock and dirt. Yet she was too deeply entrenched to reverse direction. The passage was too narrow for her to turn around.

Just when a cry began to gurgle at the back of her throat, her hands met with a low wall. Had she come to a dead end? Nay, it couldn’t be, for a rush of cool air kissed her cheeks. Patting down the floor and walls, she found them smooth, cut by man and not by nature. She realized the roof was no longer right above her head, and she cautiously stood.

It was then that she spied a line of light overhead, so faint that she feared she imagined it.

She put her foot over the low wall and discovered it was a step. She was standing at the bottom of a set of stairs! With relief and mounting excitement, she climbed it. The stairs were steep and slick. They seemed to rise forever.

At last, with her temples throbbing, she gained the last step. Light filtered around the edges of the door before her, yet the door was made of stone. She pushed. It didn’t budge.

Running her hands over the slimy surface, she discerned two iron pulls. Tugging them toward her, she was astonished when the door popped inward and rumbled to one side. It traveled in a stone trough, giving off a sound like thunder.

Her lungs swelled as she waited to be discovered. She realized she would give anything at that moment to have Christian with her, wielding his monstrous broadsword.

No voices called out. All was still in the sunlit chamber before her. It was a little workroom, cluttered with desks that were designed for the illumination of manuscripts. Hundreds of loose sheaves littered the tabletops. Jars of gold-leaf paint and horns of black ink lined the edges of the parchment. But the scent of ink had long run dry. Dust motes swirled in the rays of sunlight streaming through the window. The brilliance of the detailed paintings was dulled by time. Projects seemed to have been abandoned in midsentence.

The scourge, thought Clarise. She wished she had brought a sachet of herbs to cover her nose.

Stepping into the room, she dusted the dirt from her hands and knees and kept her ears pricked for sounds in the hallway. The abbey seemed as deserted as it had on the day she’d inquired at the gate. Finding grooves in the stone door, she hauled the door shut again. It closed with the finality of a crypt. She knew an urge to push it open and leave while she could.

She took a moment to consider how to execute her rescue. To skulk around the abbey unnoticed, she would need a monk’s robe. Such apparel might be kept in the cells where the monks slept. No one would likely be there, she comforted herself, providing they were well enough to be about their prayers.

The stark hallway was devoid of human life. She raced down the lengthy passage to the window slit at the end and caught a glimpse of the abbey’s gardens. Beautiful! Who would have suspected such variety of color behind the austere walls?

She took the stairwell to the right. It spiraled upward to a higher level where she supposed the men slept. The sounds of many voices had her hesitating. Was the refectory above her? she wondered. She had imagined it on the first level, as it was in most holy buildings.

Hugging the wall, she crept upward, if only to orient herself. As her gaze rose over the topmost stair, she was astonished to see a large chamber filled with rows upon rows of cots. Each bed was occupied by a groaning invalid. Only a few men tended them, moving among the rows to ease their companions’ suffering.

An infirmary, Clarise decided, freezing in terror at the grotesque scene. The ill lay struggling for breath. The pustules that reddened their skin seemed most virulent about the mouth. As she listened to the coughing and wheezing, she wondered if the blisters coated the victims’ throats.

Swallowing hard, she backed down the stairs, desperate to escape the horror. She could not go through with this plan. God forgive her, but she was mad to leave the Slayer’s castle and to strike out on her own. She would rather face Ferguson than this!

She did not even see the shadowy figure slipping up the stairs behind her. He clapped a hand on her shoulder, and she screamed so loud that her voice reverberated in the stairwell. The hideous countenance of Horatio swam into her view. As he grinned at her, his grip became an unbreakable hold.

“What have we here?” he leered in a rusty voice. His gaze was greedy as it absorbed the boyish garb. He wrenched off her hat, and her hair came tumbling down. “Hah!” proclaimed the monk in wonder. “So, yer back. The abbot will be pleased to see you.” He dragged her, kicking and cursing, down the stairs with him.

Above them, in the infirmary, a monk rose slowly from the side of a cot and listened. He’d thought he heard a woman screaming. The sound of it still rang in his ears, defying the logic that said he’d imagined it.

Two nights ago the Abbot of Revesby had halted him, while following Gilbert to his office chambers. He’d grasped his arm and quickly divulged two pieces of news that had him reeling with concern. Clarise DuBoise was looking for him, the abbot had said, and the Slayer wanted to give him back his lands.

Alec frowned as he stirred mush in the wooden bowl. It must have been the abbot’s words exciting his imagination. The woman who screamed had sounded just like Clarise, but that was impossible. She would not have been admitted to the abbey with the quarantine in place.

He shook his head in puzzlement. It was just one more mystery in the conundrum of riddles at Rievaulx. Why did the ailment afflict only some men at the abbey and not others? What were the animal cries that rent the nighttime quiet?

Something more than the scourge disturbed the peace of the tranquil monastery, and Alec dared discover the true nature of evil lurking in its halls.

Chapter Sixteen

Clarise measured the width of the windowless chamber, using the torchlight in the corridor to guide her steps. Seven . . . eight . . . at nine paces, her toe hit the stone wall. It was ten paces deep, and barely tall enough to keep the dripping spiderwebs from sticking to her hair.

She backed up to the middle of the room and wrapped her arms around her shivering frame. Her gaze was drawn to the chains dangling from the wall. This room was clearly used to detain prisoners.

What would an abbot need with manacles? she asked herself. Criminals were sometimes granted asylum in the holy houses, but never imprisoned in their cellars. Perhaps the chains were not for prisoners, but to discipline the monks. Aye, that made more sense, given Gilbert’s grim hold at Rievaulx.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor had her scurrying in vain for somewhere to hide. Yet there was no escape in a cell with only a crude table, a mat of hay in one corner, and a waste hole in the other. Clarise heard the jangling of keys. She saw the tonsured pate of a monk through the bars at the top of the door. When the abbot edged into the room, her worst nightmares seemed to be materializing.

She would rather have the grotesque Horatio keeping her company. The abbot had read her letters. She felt violated by him already.

He bore a tray in his hands, with a cup, a loaf of bread, and a candle on it. The flame sparked a mad light in his countenance, making him look oddly happy to see her. And yet the cruel twist to his mouth told her that his joy was a perverse one, whatever the reason for it.

“Clarise DuBoise,” he crooned, shutting the door behind him. Her gaze darted to the loop of keys he carried on a cord around his hips. “How good of you to come.” He laid the tray on the rickety table. The gems at his fingers caught the glow of the candlelight.

She backed cautiously away from him, saying nothing. The door was unlocked, she thought. Perhaps she could make a run for it.

“Like a proper host, I have brought you food. Sit,” he invited, nodding at the lice-ridden pallet. “Take nourishment. God knows how long you will feel well enough to eat. The illness is likely in your veins already.” Baring his sharp teeth in a smile, he came forward and extended the cup to her.

Clarise knocked it from his grasp, casting a sheet of wine onto the wall beside her.

The abbot gaped with astonishment and then hissed in outrage. “Why, you perfidious bitch! Have you any idea how precious that wine was?” He flew at her, arms raised like bat wings. His palm made stinging contact with her cheek.

Clarise reeled back. One of his rings had bruised her cheekbone. With righteous anger giving her courage, she barreled past the abbot and raced toward the closed door, pulling on it. The door swung open with astonishing ease. She threw herself into the corridor and ran headlong into a human wall.

Horatio. He’d been standing guard.

He held her fast, and she screamed until her throat felt raw. Certainly someone at the abbey could hear her. The corridors seemed to magnify her shrill cries.

“Chain her,” said the abbot, coming up behind them. He straightened his silk stole and handed Horatio the keys. “Give her nothing to drink until she begs for it,” he added in disgust. “Then post yourself outside the door. If the Slayer comes to call again, I will send another in your stead,” he added to his henchman.

Horatio manhandled her back into the cell. She was made to face the wall and breathe its damp, musty odor. The manacles banded her wrists with cold implacability. Using the keys, he locked them tight.

“I am sore tempted,” grunted Horatio, “to treat you like a lady.” He allowed himself the liberty of squeezing her buttocks. Clarise yelled in outrage and struggled to kick him.

Horatio grunted as her booted heel slammed against his shin. He stepped back quickly and spat at her.

She closed her eyes, willing him to leave. At the sound of his retreating footsteps and the click of the outer lock, she wilted in despair. The chains, with their short leash, kept her from reaching either the loaf of bread or the candle that beamed upward in the stillness.

You’ve done it this time, Clarise, she railed at herself. She had always been too impulsive, too quick to act before thinking. Rather than plead with the warlord, she’d come to Rievaulx alone and defenseless. In doing so, she had spurned the only person mighty enough to dispatch Ferguson. No, that wasn’t right. He had spurned her.

Dear God, don’t let me die here, she prayed, dropping her forehead against the wall. It was hardly comforting to learn that her instincts were right. The Abbot of Rievaulx had some wicked plot afoot, though she could not imagine what it was.

She huddled for warmth against the hard wall, feeling homesick. Only it wasn’t Heathersgill she missed, but Helmesly. She was assailed by the memory of Christian’s scent, his disturbing kisses. He would have made her his mistress. So what? She could have accepted that much for the time being. Then eventually, she would have done something to secure her footing.

She could have taught the warlord to love her.

She could have convinced him to marry her, for Simon’s sake.

But now it was too late. He wouldn’t know where to look for her, so long as Nell kept quiet. And she would waste away in this bleak, damp hole under the abbey.

Hot tears filled her eyes, spilling over her lashes to track down her dusty cheeks. What would become of her mother and sisters if she died in this musty cell? They had less than a month to live before Ferguson would hang them.

“Oh, Father,” she choked, invoking the memory of Edward DuBoise, “I have tried to protect Mother, Merry, and Kyndra—I have. But everywhere I’ve turned for help, men have betrayed me. I’ve done all that I can do. Please forgive me.”

Over the sound of her weeping came a low humming that recalled her from her pain. Clarise caught back her sobs and listened. The sound seemed to be coming through the wall. She pressed an ear to the stone. Someone was chanting a canticle in the chamber next to her. “Who’s there?” she called, unwilling to alert Horatio, who was standing guard in the hallway.

The chanting stopped. She heard the eerie scrape of chain across stone. “ ’Tis I, Ethelred. Lady Clarise, is that you?” She barely recognized the good abbot’s voice. It sounded raspy, weak.

“It is I, Your Grace,” she answered with happiness and sorrow intermixed. She was so relieved not to be alone, yet so remorseful for not bringing help.

“Why did you follow me? Is anyone else coming?”

She swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. The abbot sounded terrible. He must have caught the scourge, after all. Those lesions she’d seen on the monks’ mouths must be popping up on his throat and tongue.

“Lord Christian has come to the abbey twice now,” she sought to encourage him, “but they won’t admit him. He’s sent an urgent message to the archbishop. Oh, Your Grace, please forgive me,” she added, bursting into tears anew. “I ought to have told the others how to get inside the abbey, but I didn’t. I followed you on my own.”

“Why?” he asked. She thought she could hear him sinking onto the floor.

Why, indeed? What in heaven’s name had she hoped to accomplish, but to prove to Christian that she didn’t need his help—not that he had offered it. “Lord Christian and I had a falling out,” she admitted.

Ethelred said nothing for so long, she thought he’d fallen asleep. “Don’t drink the wine, my child.”

“What’s that?” She pricked her ears to his sudden warning.

“Don’t drink the wine,” he rasped. “You will . . . seem to show the symptoms of the plague.”

“Show the symptoms? I don’t understand. If the wine makes you sick, then it cannot be the plague.”

“ ’Tis a simulation.”

“Quiet in there!” Horatio shouted through the bars. “You two are not meant to talk.”

She obeyed the monk, too stunned by Ethelred’s news to think of anything to say. So, the disease was a fraud, no doubt made possible by the many plants growing in the abbey’s garden! What on earth was Gilbert hoping to accomplish by poisoning his monks?

When she whispered this question to Ethelred moments later, she got no reply. He had either fallen asleep or fainted. The chill of isolation struck her to the bone, and she sank to her knees. The chains weren’t long enough to let her sit. She was left in a posture of penitence that was supremely painful. How long could she stand it? she wondered, beset by panic.

Ironically, this was the treatment she had feared from the Slayer. Instead he’d given her a feather mattress and colorful gowns. Even when he learned the truth of her identity, he’d forgiven her and offered her his sword arm. His stipulation had been simple enough. A warm embrace. A body willing to receive him.

Hadn’t he proven that his touch was more than tolerable? She spent a moment warming herself with the memory of his intimate caresses. Oh, what she would give to feel his arms around her now, to curl herself into the security of his sure embrace.

Then she remembered her anger and his cruel words. Was his threat prompted by jealousy? Did he really think her in love with Alec?

She found a ray of hope in the thought. If he were jealous, then it meant he truly cared for her. Her heart expanded, then folded in on itself. His feelings would have little impact on her situation now. No one knew where she was, at least not until Nell admitted to their scheme.

How long would that take? Knowing her lady’s maid, no more than three days. Could she live that long without a drop to drink?

“Psssst. Clarise, is that you?”

Clarise shook her head. In her misery, she must have imagined the ghostly whisper.

“Lady, look to the door!” This was said more urgently.

She looked. Her eyes widened, and her heart leaped up at the sight of Alec’s boyish face. He peered through the bars at her, looking amazed and nonplussed. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

She struggled to her feet, her chains jangling noisily. Alec, of course! She’d forgotten all about him and the possibility of his help. “Where is Horatio?” she asked, hopeful that Alec had clubbed him over the head.

“Supping in the refectory.”

Some of her elation dimmed. Alec didn’t have the keys to set her free. “Oh, Alec,” she stammered, not knowing where to start. “I’ve been trying to reach you.” Now that she could finally speak to him, she found that the words she had poured to him on printed page would not come forth. “I have long needed your help,” she managed lamely.

“For what?” he asked, glancing fearfully over his shoulder.

He was afraid. She understood that he would fear his abbot, and yet his temerity only dampened her spirits.

If he couldn’t even face Gilbert, there was simply no hope that he would battle the burly Ferguson. “Can you get me out of here? The Abbot of Revesby is in the chamber next door. They have tortured him, I fear. He sounds unwell.”

Alec gazed at her, stricken by her predicament and clearly stunned by her words. “I have no key,” he said after a moment. “But I will try to get it. I don’t understand what brought you here.”

She sighed. “You left me to live with Ferguson,” she accused him flatly. “You abandoned my family to his treachery and fled to Rievaulx.”

“The Slayer seized Glenmyre,” he defended himself, curling a hand around one of the bars. “I had no choice. He killed my father; he would have killed me, too!”

She shook her head at him. “He had no intention of killing your father. He’s been trying for weeks now to give you back Glenmyre.”

“That’s what Ethelred told me,” the young man admitted. “But why would he do that?”

“Remorse,” she answered simply. “He only meant to put an end to our marriage alliance. Your father, who was no doubt given false information, mistook his intentions.” She changed subject midstream. “You never wanted to marry me, did you?” She felt only calm acceptance in the asking; her bitterness had faded.

Alec took his time in answering. “Clarise, my calling was always clear to me,” he said uncomfortably. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t love you.”

“As one Christian loves another,” she finished for him.

He gazed sadly into the light of the candle.

Clarise looked, also. The candle’s wax was melting at an alarming rate. Soon the cell would be plunged into darkness. “You have to help us,” she told him firmly. “Your abbot is a madman. Listen to me. The wine here is poisoned, you mustn’t drink it.”

“I never have,” he said. “I’m allergic to elderberry.”

So that was why he hadn’t caught the illness. “Gilbert is making the monks here very ill. I don’t know what his purpose is, but Ethelred knows. That’s why he is imprisoned here. Gilbert fears that he will reveal his depravity to the archbishop.”

Alec’s brow furrowed with disbelief. “But he preaches the Word of God. How can this be?”

She had once found his innocence appealing. Now she wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled. “Alec,” she said succinctly, “your abbot is making me thirst until I beg for the wine. You must find a way to set us free. There is another way out of the abbey besides the gate. Just get these doors open, and no one will know it was you who helped us. We will disappear without a trace.”

He gazed at her with thoughtful gravity. “I will find the key,” he promised at last.

Her knees quivered with relief. “Horatio has it,” she said. “Hurry.” She put her forehead to the wall. When she next glanced at the door, he was gone.

The disappointment he had seen in Clarise’s eyes reminded Alec of the looks his father had often sent him.

Alec tried to force his mind back to his morning meditations. Normally he didn’t notice how hard the flagstone flooring was or that his legs had fallen asleep beneath him. But this morning he could not abandon himself to spiritual ecstasy. Reality intruded. The knowledge that Clarise had been chained in a cold cell all night kept him from peace with his God. The knowledge that the abbot was causing innocents to suffer disturbed him greatly. But who was he to rebel against authority?

If not you, who else? asked his conscience. His bedridden brethren were useless, though he’d dumped all the wine he’d come across down waste holes, giving water to the sick, instead. If he had doubts about the poisoning, he had only to consider the evidence. He was one of a handful who hadn’t yet fallen ill.

There were other things about Gilbert that had troubled him over the months. The unseemly fits of laughter, the stains on his hands and vestments. He had overheard the abbot boast that he would heal the ill at Rievaulx with his knowledge of herbs. Perhaps he meant to make a name for himself by reversing the process he’d initiated.

With a sigh Alec abandoned his prayers and stood. Fortunately, most of his other brothers had left the chapel before him. He bowed to the host and wandered to the nearest window slit to look outside. The walls at Rievaulx were impossibly high, obscuring the view of the countryside from nearly all the windows but this one.

What man could concoct evil in the midst of such beauty? The morning sun spun a coppery web across the sky. The land below undulated like a counterpane quilt, with patches of earth tones, patches of green. Helmesly loomed in the distance, a mighty stronghold, holding up the horizon with its four towers.

Alec’s gaze fell to the winding cart road that passed below. A cloud of dust told him that even at this early hour, horsemen were approaching the abbey. He hoped mightily that it was the archbishop, come to make inquiries. He, Alec, had never been one to take initiative. To defy his abbot and the vows of obedience required more of him than he had to give.

Perhaps he would be spared having to wrestle Horatio for the keys. The envoy drew closer. He counted five horsemen all together. It wasn’t the archbishop. These men were heavily armed.

The warrior at the lead was the largest. His very darkness compelled Alec to focus on him. When he spied the white cross at the corner of the black shield, he gasped with recognition. The Slayer was coming a third time to Rievaulx.

Rumor had it he’d come twice before while Alec had been busy tending to the ill. The last time he’d seen the warlord with his own eyes, he’d been watching his father’s ambush from the wallwalk at Glenmyre. He’d seen his father’s chest crack open like a nutshell under the Slayer’s sword. And then he’d run.

If Clarise had spoken the truth, then the warlord was neither vicious nor greedy. He wondered how she would know that. Perhaps she had gone to the Slayer with her plight. Perhaps the man was looking for her even now.

Hope dawned like a blinding sunrise. Here was the answer to his prayers! With speed he’d forgotten he possessed, he bolted to the steps that would carry him to the courtyard. Normally Horatio answered the bell at the abbey’s gate. This time Alec would answer it and let the Slayer in.

Christian ground his back molars together and tugged with impatience on the bell rope. He had no hope that the monstrous creature who usually answered the summons would let him in. Nor would he let him speak to the abbot. He was wasting his time.

He would have to find the secret entrance that Clarise herself had used. God knew how long that could take. He had no idea where to begin looking for it.

The sound of someone running caught his attention. The peephole snapped open. There stood a young monk, panting from his haste and staring at him through wide, gray eyes. “Are you looking for Clarise?” he said.

Amazement kept Christian mute a moment. “Are you Alec?” he guessed.

“I am,” said the monk, paling slightly. He glanced anxiously over his shoulder. “She is on the lowest level, the Abbot of Revesby, also. Both of them are chained. Will you help me?”

“Open the gate,” said Christian steadily.

Alec drew back the bolt and pulled the gate open. Christian motioned for his men to dismount and follow him. They led their horses into the empty courtyard. Iron shoes rang smartly against the cobbles. The monk seemed to shrink into the shadows at the noise. “Leave the horses,” Christian instructed, dropping his reins. He looked at Alec. “Show us the way.”

Alec took a visible breath, then darted across the courtyard. The men followed him. As they passed under the archway with its Latin message, Hic laborant fratres crucis, Christian felt a blade of fear bisect his spine. The monk had said Clarise was chained. He couldn’t stand to think of her enduring any mistreatment, especially when he was responsible. He should have governed his jealousy!

They strode along the abandoned passageway. The stink of illness seemed to permeate the cool shadows. Christian ignored the stench and stared at the baldpate on Alec’s tonsured head. The youth was as handsome as an angel. In his eyes he read not only fear, but determination and honesty. No wonder the lady loved him. Walking in the monk’s wake, he felt like an animal, rawboned and scarred.

Could she bring herself to love the Slayer?

He focused his attention on the route they were taking. At one point Alec froze in his tracks. As the murmur of voices drew closer, he motioned the men to retrace their footsteps. They took an alternate route and managed to avoid detection.

At last they stopped wandering through the maze of corridors. “They’re down here,” said the young man, pointing down a flight of stairs. “Horatio is guarding them. You will have to fight him.”

Christian knew a moment’s surprise. “Aren’t you coming?” he asked.

Alec glanced down the stairwell. “I set aside my sword when I joined the brotherhood.” A self-conscious blush made his ears turn pink.

The warlord felt suddenly better about himself. “Does that mean you will remain here?” he asked. “Have you no desire to rule your people?” Marry your betrothed?

Alec lifted an earnest gaze at him. “Clarise told me of your offer. I never expected such magnanimity of spirit. If you show equal kindness to my father’s serfs, then Glenmyre is better in your care than in mine. In truth, I would be too often in my prayers to rule wisely.”

So much was said in so few words. There wasn’t time now to beg the handsome monk for his forgiveness. Christian looked into his trusting countenance and his heart gave a pang. He thrust his hand out and prayed the man would take it.

Alec put his own hand forward. The squeeze of his fingers was a balm to Christian’s soul.

“Hurry,” Alec encouraged as he glanced down the stairwell. “You may find Horatio sleeping. He sometimes naps through prayers at prime.”

Christian pulled his broadsword, Vengeance, from its leather scabbard. “Stay here,” he told his men. “Don’t come unless I call for you.” He wanted to rescue Clarise single-handedly. Holding the sword before him, he ducked his head and charged down the shadowy stairway.

The light of a torch steered his passage. He rounded a turn and came face to face with a robed figure. It was the monk who normally answered the gate.

Horatio’s flat face registered surprise. His mouth popped open and he backed up, giving Christian a view of the space behind him. A row of doors lined one side of the wall. The silence behind the barred windows was alarming.

“I’ve come for the abbot and the lady,” he growled, sizing up his enemy. Horatio was a hulking man and not to be taken lightly.

“Humph,” the monk snorted. “Ye cannot have ’em. They’re ill,” he added, showing his rotten teeth in a snarl.

“Stand aside, monk, or I’ll shave your head with my sword.”

“Not exactly a fair fight with that sword o’ yours is it?” Horatio taunted. “But then I don’t expect fair play from the likes o’ you.”

“You know nothing about me.” Christian slammed Vengeance back in its resting place. “I don’t kill clergy.”

The monk gave a grin that betrayed his relief. He put his fists up, ready to fight.

The man’s hands were the size of hams. Christian gave an inward groan. It was a tiresome thing to have scruples, he thought, putting his fists up slowly. Then, without warning, he sent a jab at Horatio’s nose that brought a fountain of blood gushing out of it.

The monk howled and gingerly touched his wound. When he looked at Christian again, there was fury in his eyes.

“My lord, is that you?” called a woman’s voice from one of the closed cells.

The sound of her voice was so welcoming that he forgot about Horatio. Wham! A full set of knuckles slammed into his right eye and had him staggering against the wall. Christian regained his balance just in time to see another fist flying toward his face. He twisted out of the way. His gaze snagged on a heavy iron cross hanging on the wall beside him. Without a second’s hesitation, he wrenched it off the peg and, taking advantage of Horatio’s forward momentum, landed a stunning blow to the monk’s head.

Horatio stared at him in amazement. Even with a crimson stain spreading on the side of his skull, he remained on his feet for what seemed an eternity. Then he keeled over, face first, onto the stone floor. A cloud of dust rose up around him. Christian glanced gratefully at the cross and hung it back on the wall.

“Clarise,” he called into the sudden stillness. “Where are you?”

A soft cry guided him toward one of the closed doors. The torches wagged eerily, making him fearful of what he would see. He peered through the bars into the darkened cell and made out a figure in the corner. “Lady? Is that you?”

The figure moved. “Oh, you are a blessed sight!” she cried. “Horatio has the keys on his belt.”

He hurried to the unconscious Horatio, then returned to the door and unlocked it. Wrenching it open, he peered in as the torchlight illuminated the cell. Clarise flinched from the glare, and he faltered at the vision of her, shackled like a thief to the wall. Her hair hung in a disheveled curtain about her pale face. A great surge of emotion rose up in him. He didn’t know whether to unlock her first or clasp her to his pounding chest.

He fell to his knees on the hard floor. “You’ll be free in a moment,” he rasped. His fingers shook as he guided another key into the manacles’ locks. Her wrists were chafed and swollen. He released them as gently as possible.

“Ethelred is next door,” she whispered. “I fear he is fairing poorly. Either he has drunk the poisoned wine that is making the monks ill, or he is dying of thirst.”

The words were pouring out of her, almost faster than he could absorb them. As the last chain fell away, he scooped her into his arms and carried her from the cell. Stepping over the stricken monk, he rushed her up the stairs. He meant to pass her to one of his men-at-arms, but he found he couldn’t let her go. She had looped an arm about his neck and was holding him fast.

Instead, he gave the keys to his men and ordered all four of them to fetch the abbot from the other cell.

Waiting, Christian leaned against the wall and savored the feel of Clarise in his arms. The urge to shelter her shuddered through him. He had wondered if he would ever hold her again. There were so many dangers on the open road! A lone woman could disappear without a trace. What would have happened to him if he could never look into her glowing countenance again? He would have been lost to the darkness, forever.

At last she lifted her head from his shoulder and pushed the bright strands of hair from her face. He saw at once the shadows of exhaustion under her eyes and a vivid bruise on her cheek. He swallowed a curse.

“I prayed that you would come,” she admitted. Her soft mouth curved in a fleeting smile. “I suppose Nell admitted everything almost at once?”

“I had to find her first,” he drawled. He was startled to feel the heat of anger pulsing through him and growing stronger with each beat of his heart. It was a by-product of fear, he knew. He gripped her tighter, hoping to rein himself in.

“I am sorry for the trouble I have caused you,” she whispered, as though sensing his volatility. Her gaze fell to the swelling under Christian’s eye. “Oh, look what you’ve done!” she cried, lifting a hand to caress the angry flesh.

His anger subsided to a steady boil. After all his blustering and accusing, she found it in her heart to feel concern? He couldn’t speak for the humility that clogged his throat. Shamed by his unworthiness, he kept his eyes downcast.

“My lord, I want you to know something,” she told him, wresting his gaze upward. “I have not loved Alec for a very long time. Perhaps I never loved him but only thought I did. I was more in love with the hope that he would rescue us from Ferguson.”

Christian had to wonder if Horatio hadn’t killed him, after all. She didn’t love Alec? Not even a little? It sounded too good to be true.

“I only sought to appeal to him one more time, because . . . well, because you threatened to return me to Ferguson.”

He shifted her in his arms and looked away again, scowling. He had forced Clarise to do the very thing that had caused him to burn with jealous rage.

“Alec won’t leave the abbey anyway,” she added, without a hint of sorrow. “I’ve been wasting my time. He doesn’t even want his inheritance back.”

Their conversation was abruptly terminated by the reappearance of his men. The Abbot of Revesby was propped between them. The little man flinched against the sunlight in the open corridor. Christian assessed his health. His skin looked dried and shriveled. His shrunken frame betrayed starvation. But there was no sign of sores on his face.

The abbot moved his lips only to emit a croak.

“Find him water,” Christian commanded one of his men.

The man had taken no more than a step when Alec materialized again, bearing a full bucket and a loaf of bread. He placed it before the good abbot. Christian saw a flicker of gratitude in Ethelred’s eyes before he sank to his knees and began scooping water into his mouth.

Alec turned to Christian. He appeared a little shocked to see Clarise in the mercenary’s arms but not at all dismayed. His mouth hardened in a manner that reminded Christian of Monteign’s face beneath the visor of his helm. “Abbot Gilbert is in the herb garden,” he announced. “I told him that I turned you away from the gate.”

Again, Ethelred tried to speak. At first he choked, for he was still desperately drinking the water. “We need proof that he is sickening the monks,” he rasped. “The College of Cardinals must have proof to condemn him.”

“Sickening?” Christian asked. Clarise had said something similar when he freed her.

Alec summarized the abbot’s foul experiment, offering himself as evidence that the wine, which he never drank, had been tampered with. “He means to make a name for himself by curing the monks of the very sickness he conceived.”

“Do you know where he mixes his herbs?”

The young man nodded. “I will take you there,” he said. His gaze shifted to Clarise, who was watching from the circle of Christian’s arms. “I won’t let you down this time,” he told her.

She gave him a faint smile. “Thank you.”

Christian insisted that his men-at-arms take Clarise outside the gates. He was gratified to hear her protests.

“Nay, I will not let you go alone,” she said, with the same haughtiness that had drawn him to her in the first place. The worry in her eyes was a novelty. No one but Sir Roger had ever spared a thought for his safety.

“My lady, you are in no condition to accompany us.” He pried her gently from his shoulders and made her stand. Her knees folded under her weight, lending proof to his statement.

She cast him a pleading look.

“Go,” he commanded, forcing himself to sound firm.

Ethelred rose shakily to his feet. “I must accompany you,” he said. His voice had gathered strength.

The abbot was in worse condition than Clarise. “If he goes, then I am coming, too,” she argued, shaking off the arm of the man who tried to help her.

Christian rubbed his jaw with agitation. Clarise had no business in the abbot’s affairs, while Ethelred had initiated the inquiry. She would have to wait at the gate. “Give her some water,” he commanded to his men, turning quickly away so he wouldn’t have to face her pleas or her anger. “Then take her to the gate.”

“This way,” Alec gestured.

Christian put a helping hand under the good abbot’s elbow and trailed Alec down the corridor. He threw one last look over his shoulder and encountered Clarise’s worried stare.

Alec led them clear to the other end of the abbey. Their footfalls on the flagging invaded the hush of the long corridors. “Down here,” whispered the monk, pushing open a door.

The hinges gave a low moan. Stairs hewn from the rocky hillside beckoned them downward. The barest light guided their footsteps. Strange animal noises greeted them, fluttering, scuffling, and grunting. Alec paled and stepped aside. “I can go no further,” he admitted.

Christian noted the bead of perspiration sliding from the young man’s temple. “You have been most brave. Tell me how to repay you for the losses I have caused.”

Alec looked him in the eye, his expression somber. “Take proper care of Clarise,” he urged. “She is worthy of great loyalty and love, as those are the very traits she shows to others. I let her down. See that you do not.”

He nodded, seeing wisdom in the young man’s words. “Come, Your Grace.” He motioned for Ethelred to take his arm as they descended the stairs to the abbot’s laboratory.

The faint light, he ascertained, came through a ventilation slit at ceiling level. Christian was first impressed by the number of boxes and cages piled about the room. The chamber reeked of waste and feed and the overlying scent of drying herbs, suspended in clumps from pegs along the ceiling and walls.

Ethelred released his arm and headed toward a table. It was littered with mortars and pestles, a crucible for heating herbs, and bowls that overflowed with seeds, roots, petals, and leaves. A collection of blue bottles lined the shelves above. Ethelred unstopped a bottle and sniffed it.

His attention fell on a scrap of paper, and he turned it toward the window to read the scribbled words. “Infusion of Henbane,” he murmured and reached for another bit of paper. “Bark of Mezereon Spurge, just a pinch. Devil’s bit, with Honey of Roses.”

Christian caught sight of a scrap by his toe. Thinking it another ingredient, he picked it up and unrolled it. Archbishop Thurstan denies interdict at Helmesly. Ethelred comes today to make inquiry. As he read the warning a second time, the full implication of its existence came to him.

Someone at Helmesly had been spying on Gilbert’s behalf! It was just as Sir Roger suggested the day he was given Clarise’s letters. The evidence was overwhelming. The culprit could be just about anybody. He felt a stirring at the nape of his neck.

“Excellent,” said Ethelred, holding several bits of parchment together. “This should be enough to implicate Gilbert.” He looked at Christian. “I think we should go now.”

Christian heartily agreed. The damp air of the cellar was worming beneath his armor. He felt distinctly chilled. “Just one more thing,” he said, turning toward the cages behind him. Reaching high and low, he twisted the latches that held the animals captive. The first to break free was a filthy pig, who nosed his way free with a delirious squeal.

Ethelred gave Christian an approving look. Together they approached the stairs. With the good abbot still weak from his captivity, the climb up the narrow passage was laborious. Christian was tempted to pick the man up and carry him. There were so many matters to attend to.

They had ascended little more than halfway when the door above them yawned open. The Abbot of Rievaulx appeared with a candle in his hand. As they were disguised by the darkness, he failed to see them. But the noise of the liberated animals alerted him to trouble. He thrust the flame of his candle to a rush holder, and the tallowed rushes flared into life. The stairwell blazed with brightness.

“You!” cried Gilbert, his gaze sliding from one to the other. The sight of the Slayer so unsettled him that he dropped his candle. It sputtered on the steps and died. “What . . . what are you doing here?” he cried. “Brother Alec said he sent you away!”

“He misled you,” Christian answered coolly.

“What have you got there?” Gilbert demanded, his gaze lighting on the paper in Ethelred’s hands.

“Your notes,” said the good abbot, with more strength than he’d shown previously. “There is evidence here that you have sickened your monks. Soon you will be thrust from office.”

Gilbert began to breathe like a man running for his life. “You don’t know what you’re doing!” he cried. His hand went to the wall for support. “I have discovered a cure for the plague. If you destroy my work, the disease will continue to run its course. It will kill everyone, including you.” He pointed. “You should never have come here!” He backed up a step, distancing himself.

Christian doubted his conscience would trouble him if he overlooked his scruples just this once and sent Gilbert on his way to his just reward. Despite the trappings of a monk, he was surely no servant of the Church.

The abbot withdrew another step. Christian suddenly realized that he intended to bar the door, locking them in the cellar. His first thought was for Clarise. He’d promised her he would hurry. With the window too small to slip through, his only alternative was to reach the door before the abbot had a chance to lock it.

Just then, he felt something brush by his feet. He glanced down and recognized the tail of a weasel as it streaked past. Gilbert failed to mark the animal’s approach. A second later it rippled against his ankles. The abbot gave a cry of alarm and jerked his leg back. The weasel turned and sank his teeth into his leg.

Gilbert screamed. He tried to kick the weasel free. In the process, he lost his footing.

Christian watched in fascination as the abbot flailed. He seemed to hang for a moment in thin air before he lurched forward, pitching down the stairs. Christian snatched Ethelred out of harm’s way. The two of them hugged the wall as Gilbert tumbled past. Together they winced at the sound of snapping bones.

Gilbert came to a rest at the bottom of the steps. He didn’t move. A hedgehog trampled over him as it crossed the room.

It was clear even at a distance that the Abbot of Rievaulx had snapped his neck. His head lay at an odd alignment to his body. Christian and Ethelred shared a look. Without a word, they turned and followed the weasel up the stairs.

A reward for righteousness? Christian asked himself. So much had happened when he’d expected so little. It all seemed fantastical when considered in the light of logic. Yet of all the events of the morning, none seemed so miraculous as Clarise laying her palm against his cheek and announcing that she didn’t love Alec. That she likely never had.

Suddenly it seemed a simple thing to shuck the mantle of darkness that had consumed him for years and trade it for a cloak of another color.

Clarise DuBoise wanted a champion? He would be the noblest hero she could possibly imagine.

Chapter Seventeen

Clarise felt as light as a feather as Christian swept her onto the back of his huge destrier and swung himself into the saddle behind her. She felt no fear as the midnight warhorse plunged down Rievaulx’s steep hill, for his arm was locked beneath her breasts.

From the abbey’s open gate, Alec waved farewell. It was up to him to advise his brethren of their circumstances. They were all still shaken by the news that their abbot was dead, killed by his own fall down the treacherous stairs. Clarise was thankful Ethelred could corroborate the tale. The warlord’s reputation was such that he might fall under suspicion without a witness to the accident.

She glimpsed at Ethelred to see how he was faring. The good abbot rode double with one of the men-at-arms. It was agreed he would go with them to Helmesly to recover. Later he would travel to York and carry evidence of the abbot’s treachery to the archbishop. He looked pale, but stronger for the warmth of the morning sun.

The fresh scent of heather helped to nudge their shock toward relief. Everything would return to normal at the abbey. The men would shake off the effects of the malignant herbs and rise again to their prayers. The vineyards would enjoy pruning and reseeding and would soon yield a harvest of green grapes.

From the circle of Christian’s arms, Clarise gave a sigh of contentment. The wind rushed through her hair and whistled through the threads of her boy’s attire, carrying away the musty odor of her prison cell. The sun shone warmly on her face. She was pinned securely to the man who’d snatched her from the clutches of evil.

After all the lies, the difficulties she had brought to his entangled life, he was willing to shelter her. Did this mean that he would help her with Ferguson?

“Relax,” he said in her ear. “You are safe now.” The words seemed a message to her anxious heart.

They thundered into the valley, past the waddle and daub structures of Abbingdon. Merchants peered from their window shops to identify the passersby.

Clarise experienced the peculiar contentment of going home. She reminded herself that there were many unanswered questions, not the least of which was what the Slayer intended for her. He’d said nothing about his threat to return her to Ferguson. Rather, the tender way that he held her close gave her hope that he would not. The spark of anger she’d witnessed earlier was gone.

She could only assume he would ask her to be his mistress again. While that prospect hadn’t looked so grim from the vantage of a prison cell, it rankled her pride in the light of day. She would give anything to set her family free, but she couldn’t give the Slayer her body without also giving him her heart. And to get the latter, he would have to profess an emotion other than lust.

The rise and fall of the horse’s back lulled her into a trance. She stared at Christian’s grip on the reins. The sun had tanned his long fingers to a shade of golden brown. She remembered how gently, how persuasively those hands had coaxed her toward surrender. A sigh escaped her lips. Her eyelids grew heavy.

She must have drifted off to sleep. When the rhythmic movement of the horse ceased, she came awake. The warrior had pulled them to a halt in the meadow outside his castle’s walls. His men-at-arms filed over the moat and out of sight. “What are we doing here?” she asked, twisting around.

She felt him dismounting. Several strands of her hair were caught in his mail. “Ouch!” she cried, reaching up to save them.

He snatched her off the saddle with him and in the process lost his balance. They tumbled from the stirrups into the stalks of wildflowers, with Christian taking the brunt of their fall.

“Sorry,” he managed to groan. He lay flat on his back beneath her, peering up at her with worry. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” She took her weight off him, rising to her hands and knees. “My hair is caught in your armor.” She tried to free the troublesome snags. “Why did you stop here?” she asked again. The strands had worked their way between the links. She doubted she could pull them out without tearing them.

He didn’t answer right away. She stabbed him a look. “Well?”

“You said you would have naught to do with me even if I crawled on my knees begging your mercy,” he reminded her, his green eyes watchful.

Guilt elbowed its way to the forefront of her feelings. Her heart beat faster. “I said all that?” she asked, wincing inwardly.

He nodded very seriously. “I intended to apologize before we entered the castle.”

“You were going to apologize?” The very sweetness of the gesture made her light-headed. “Why out here?”

He gave her his endearing half-smile. “So no one would see me?” he admitted.

She punched him in the ribs and came away with bruised knuckles. “Oh! Help me get my hair out,” she snapped, shaking her wounded hand.

His clever fingers went to work, and in seconds she was free. “Thank you,” she said, rolling away from him. She came to her feet and brushed the grass from her boy’s braies. “You can get up now,” she told him.

He pushed himself to his knees and reached for her. “Give me your hand,” he said.

“My lord, you don’t have to do this!” She had to wonder if she wasn’t dreaming. The scenery was stunning. The petals of the flowers rippled under the breeze. The moat danced about the castle in sparkling, little waves. And the most notorious warrior in the borderlands was on his knees before her.

“Your hand, lady.”

With a sigh she stuck her hand out for him to take. Pleasure feathered up her spine as he stroked her palm and brought her reddened knuckles to his lips. “I am groveling,” he informed her as his mouth brushed her skin. “Perhaps you could still bring yourself to forgive me?” He darted her a pleading look from under his lashes.

The heat of his mouth reminded her of the scorching kisses they had shared the night he made his demands. “There isn’t a need to apologize,” she said breathlessly. “I brought it on myself. I was most deceitful, and I am sorry for the mistrust my lies had spawned.”

“Forgiven,” he said, cutting her off. “However, do you attempt anything so rash as worming your way inside an abbey again, you will answer for it.”

She regarded him closely. Was he angry or merely concerned? “Will you get up now? You’re going to snap the buckles on your knee-guards.”

“I’m not done yet. There is something else I need to ask you while I’m down here.”

“What?” The question came out on a breath of disbelief. Nay, surely he wasn’t going to . . .

“Will you wed me?”

She told herself the wind was rustling the stalks of wildflowers. “What did you say?”

“Lady, will you marry me?” The naked fire in his eyes matched the intensity of the question.

The sun gathered warmth on her shoulders, but still she couldn’t speak. Could this be the realization of her fantasies? Had a handsome warrior fallen helplessly in love with her? Did he want to cherish her always, give her children, gather her close on winter nights? “Why?” she asked in a thin, little voice.

He paused a moment. “Simon needs a mother” came his reasonable reply at last.

Some of her delirium dimmed. “Ah.”

“And you need a knight to challenge your stepfather.”

It was all so reasonable. She tugged her hand free and stalked a short distance away. Amidst a patch of tangle roses, she forced herself to forget her pique and think of the benefits.

He was right. She still required a champion. And Simon needed a mother—oh, how lovely it would be to claim him as her own! This was not some romantic fairy tale with a prince and a princess. He was the Slayer, for mercy’s sake! Tying her name to his meant accepting the darkness that hovered around him and rose to consume him at unexpected moments. Could she live with that?

“Why not just demand that I be your mistress?” she asked with her back still turned. She needed more time to think.

He remained on his knees. “Two reasons,” he said. “The first is that you deserve more.”

She felt herself wavering toward acceptance.

“Secondly, I would like . . . a more permanent arrangement. I have a son to think of and no time for courting.”

A thorn of disappointment pricked her heart. She hoped he would admit to harboring a tendresse for her. After all, he’d once admitted that he liked her. Wasn’t love just a step above like?

She sternly put a stop to her runaway thoughts. Love was a fickle emotion. She’d fancied herself in love with Alec once, and those feelings had done naught but die a slow, frustrating death.

Nay, Christian was right. It was better to marry for the sound reasons he’d supplied.

As for his bleak reputation, she would let it work for her own ends. The Slayer would destroy her stepfather as only a ruthless warlord could. Following that, she could only pray that his sense of right and wrong would reemerge, bringing a balance of humors to his inner darkness.

With her decision made, she pivoted and came to stand before him. “Very well,” she said, ready to set a seal on the bargain. “I agree to marry you.”

His eyes blazed with triumph. He grabbed her wrists and tugged her down until she dropped to her knees before him. “You will never regret it,” he vowed, cupping her face.

She wanted badly to believe him. She was keenly aware of the leashed strength in his fingertips against her delicate skull. She shuddered with mixed ecstasy and dread as he pulled her close to claim her with a kiss.

Five days later Clarise descended the tower stairs with the feeling that moths were eating holes in her belly.

It was natural for any bride to feel nervous. Yet it wasn’t solely the prospect of marriage to a warlord that worried her; it was the knowledge that Ferguson had come to the wedding as planned. He had pitched his tents outside the walls in the very meadow where Christian had proposed to her. He had come believing that an alliance was about to be forged. He had no idea that the Slayer intended to kill him during a joust tomorrow.

It was Christian’s notion, drawn from the game Ferguson had invented when he sent her mother pounding at the gates of Glenmyre. Clarise had doubts that Ferguson would accept the offer: he’d wanted the Slayer dead, after all. But apparently the lure of having the Slayer for an ally was even more tantalizing than having him dead. The promise of a wedding and a tourney had lured the Scot to Helmesly. Clearly he was all too eager to expand his power.

Perhaps if Clarise knew more details about the Scot’s ultimate demise, she could focus on her marriage. But Christian had been stubbornly silent on the subject. “Am I not the warrior?” he’d pointed out one night. “Are you not the maid? You’ve carried the burden of your family’s plight long enough, Clarise. Leave the rest to me.” It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Christian; rather, it was Ferguson whom she did not trust.

“Do you see any wrinkles in my gown, Nell?” she asked, trying to recall the wedding vows she’d committed to memory.

“Nay, milady,” assured the servant, descending the tower steps behind her.

“What about my hair? Is it staying up?”

“Ye look perfect, milady. Like a queen.”

Her gown had been cut from a cream-colored bolt of Normandy silk, procured from a silk merchant who’d come to Abbingdon. It clung to every curve of her body before streaming behind her in a shimmering cascade. Her hair was caught up in a tiara of pearls with a matching girdle slung low on her hips. She believed that she had never looked lovelier in her life. Would it make the mercenary speak the words of love she still foolishly wanted to hear?

Given the scents wafting up the tower stairs, the wedding feast would be one befitting a queen. Christian and his master-at-arms had gone hunting every day to procure the necessary fare. Clarise doubted she would manage to eat any of it. What if Ferguson had a plan of his own? What if his toxic powders found a way into the food?

Surely Christian would have taken measures to prevent that. She considered the man she was about to wed. It still came as a shock to think of herself as the Slayer’s bride. At the mere mention of his name, peasants still crossed themselves and fled. The tragedy at Wendesby would live with him forever.

She asked herself for the hundredth time if she was making the right decision. His behavior since the day of their proposal had given her no reason to change her mind. He’d treated her with abundant generosity and unfailing chivalry, assigning her a seamstress to provide her with a new trousseau. A perfume merchant arrived yesterday morning bearing an assortment of oils and perfumes. A tapestry weaver, hired to create five new tapestries for the castle, had requested her input on the size and color of each. Her groom gave her leisure to do all this while he planned the details of the wedding and tourney.

She knew that the Abbot of Revesby would marry them. Ethelred had procured a special license while conferring with the archbishop. Elections were already in process to determine who would take Gilbert’s place at Rievaulx. It was no secret that Ethelred, desiring to see his former abbey flourish, would be happy to accept the position if offered.

One villain down, thought Clarise as she edged toward the balustrade to peer down into the bustling hall, and one to go.

She braced herself for the sight of her stepfather. She saw at once that Ferguson had brought more than half his men with him. Their pea-green plaid was unmistakable, as were their bare knees in kilts. They milled impatiently in the great hall, gathering closely about the fire pit as though anticipating the fires of hell that awaited them.

She backed up until her spine was pressed to the wall. Her mouth had gone dry at the sight of their too familiar faces. Kendal, Rowan’s father, stood with his shoulders hunched and his eyes glittering with the desire for vengeance. It came as little comfort that his only weapon was a costume sword, its scabbard encrusted with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Clarise didn’t doubt it was sharpened in anticipation of conflict.

She summoned the courage to look again. Her eyes sought and found her stepfather. He lounged behind his men, using them as a shield in the eventuality of a scuffle. The smirk that rode the edges of his orange mustache contrasted sharply with Kendal’s fury. He looked well pleased, she thought, thinking himself allied with the Slayer. Hatred and grief wound themselves about her throat and squeezed. He did not deserve to be happy, she thought, when he had brought her family so much pain.

Her gaze slid to the women huddling beneath the window, and she gave a gasp of mixed delight and dread. Her mother and sisters had come! Jeanette was even wearing a presentable gown, though her hair was still gnarled and her expression haunted. Merry looked nearly as distressed as her mother. Her fire-red hair had been covered with a headdress, but she stood with her arms crossed and her green eyes darting nervously. Only little Kyndra, her hand tucked in Merry’s arm, looked pleased to attend a wedding. Blond and guileless, she was too young to scent the current of danger in the air.

If God were merciful, Clarise thought, they would all be free of Ferguson by the morrow.

Suddenly a Scot caught sight of her. He nudged his partner, and a dozen curious gazes rose above the tapestry of the hunt. A rash of pinpricks broke out on Clarise’s skin.

“Daughter!”

The cry startled her. Her mother had seen her as well. Clarise watched with alarm as Jeanette struggled to claw through the wall of Scottish soldiers to get to her.

“Get back, wench,” one of them growled, shoving her into the wall again.

“Leave her go,” said Ferguson. His eyes glittered with contempt. “Let her make a fool o’ herself.”

Jeanette shot through their ranks, not waiting for her daughters, who trailed behind. Up the stairs she scrambled, leaving Clarise torn between panic and the desire to greet her halfway. She took several steps toward the stairs. Her mother gained the last step and raced forward, her eyes wild with alarm.

“Daughter!” she cried again. She flung her bony arms around her and held her tightly.

Clarise felt her mother tremble. Her own arms folded protectively over her. “Hush, Mother. Everything’s all right.”

“My dear, how have you been?” Jeanette cried. She pulled away and clasped her daughter’s face in her hands. “Oh, but you look so beautiful!”

She wished she could say the same of her once-lovely mother. Jeanette was as thin as a wraith. Her cheeks were now hollow, and her hazel eyes had lost their luster. “I am well, Mother,” she answered earnestly. Her gaze moved beyond her mother’s shoulder to Merry and Kyndra, now gaining the second level. “Sisters!” she cried, holding her arms out to them, also.

They huddled together, embracing fiercely, their eyes wet with tears, their hearts aching.

“I have found help,” Clarise whispered, taking care not to be overheard. “The Slayer will reclaim our home.”

The blare of a trumpet signaled that the wedding was about to commence. All and sundry began to file through the forebuilding and out to the chapel. “Stay with me,” Clarise implored, gripping them tightly. “You need not go with them.”

The Scots looked to Ferguson for permission to proceed. In a tightly knotted group, they marched toward the chapel, ignoring the women who remained on the gallery.

At last the only people left below were the servants laying out the fare.

“You don’t have to marry him!” Jeanette blurted. She seemed suddenly stronger than she had seconds before.

“I have a poison for you,” her younger sister added, pressing a satchel into her hand. “You can kill him ere he takes you to his bed.”

Clarise regarded them both with amazement. “Nay,” she said, “you misunderstand, both of you. I am not being forced in any way. ’Tis my choice. The Slayer is going to help us.”

“Hah, he’s another like Ferguson,” her mother insisted. “He has killed women and children. I heard he even killed his first wife.”

She gripped her mother’s arms. “Mother, I am not being coerced. You have to trust me in this matter. Christian is an honorable man, not a murderer. I will wed him of my own free will,” she insisted.

Merry hissed a breath through her teeth. “He’s put you under a spell!” she guessed, her green eyes enormous.

“Stop it!”

“How could you want to marry such a man?” her mother asked. “Do you want to end up like me?”

A movement drew Clarise’s gaze to the window. It was a pigeon, launching itself into flight. Could her mother be right? She shook her head. Nay, she believed in the better side of Christian de la Croix. Besides, if she didn’t marry him, who then would save her family from their misery?

No one.

In truth, she had no choice. But it didn’t help to have them planting doubts in her mind.

There was more to this marriage than the promise of Christian’s help, wasn’t there? After the tourney tomorrow, their marriage would hinge on something other than Ferguson. The question was, what?

Nell called her name. “Milady, Sir Roger doth give his summons,” she pointed out. Indeed, the knight had poked his head through the double doors and was signaling them to descend.

“Hear me out,” Clarise said firmly to her mother and sisters. “This marriage is our best chance at destroying Ferguson. Do not meddle in the matter. The Slayer is not like him,” she added. “He’s a far better man, an honorable man. I do not need this poison,” she added, thrusting it back at Merry.

“Come,” she added when they simply gawked at her. “The sooner this is done, the sooner you’ll be safe.” Taking her mother’s hand, she led them down the sweeping stairs and across the hall, where Roger held the doors. As they approached the knight, she could see the interest and the pity in his eyes as he beheld her mother. “My lady,” he said, bravely addressing her. “May I have the honor of knowing your name?”

Startled, Jeanette looked to Clarise for instruction.

“This is my mother, Lady Jeanette,” Clarise said, making the introductions. “My sisters, Merry and Kyndra.”

He repeated each of their names, giving them all a gallant bow. Then he turned his focus to Jeanette. “Will you grant me a token for the tourney tomorrow?” he begged her.

Flustered, Jeanette looked down at herself in vain, for she wore no jewelry of any kind.

“Give him one of your ribbons,” Clarise suggested.

It was a simple task to tear a pink ribbon from Jeanette’s dress. Sir Roger smoothed it reverently between his thumb and fingers. Then he led the way through the forebuilding to the chapel, gesturing for all the DuBoise women but Clarise to enter. He then offered her his arm, and she took it gratefully.

The harp fell silent at their entrance. Clarise was struck by the utter stillness of the vaulted chamber, especially given the number of witnesses standing wall to wall. Incense hung in fragrant spumes above their heads. The flames of a dozen torches kept a steady glow.

The aisle was a clear-cut path between the Scots on one side and the people of Helmesly on the other. Doris stood with Simon in her arms. As Clarise passed the baby, her heart swelled with love for him. Soon, my sweet, I’ll be your mother.

Her gaze slid over a row of familiar faces and came to land on her groom. The Slayer stood before a candelabrum of five bright candles. They cast a brilliant haze about his torso. He wore a tunic of emerald silk—not black, she marveled with a curious sense of relief. The tunic deepened the green of his eyes as his gaze probed hers. Awareness plunged through her, deep and keen.

She felt much the way she’d felt at their first encounter. She was still struck by the size and breadth of him. The aura of power radiated from his being. Yet now she knew that the look in his eyes was neither ruthlessness nor a quest for blood. Instead, he looked worried she might change her mind and bolt from the chapel.

She looked at Christian’s scar for the courage. More than anything, the scar was a reminder of the faithful child in him. The band of apprehension eased around her chest. She took a cleansing breath. Despite the doubts her mother and sister had spawned, she believed he would overcome the demons of his past. She had no choice but to believe it.

As she slipped her fingers into his warm grasp, she felt his squeeze of reassurance. “You steal my breath, lady,” he murmured in a voice threaded with awe.

Bemused by his compliment, she looked down at their hands. His strong, tanned grasp looked enormous in contrast to her pale, slim fingers. The sight was both reassuring and disturbing.

Ethelred launched into the Latin service. In a matter of minutes she was bound to the Slayer for a lifetime. For the sake of fulfilling her father’s request, she said, “I do.”

For the sake of her own private yearnings—a warrior to retake her home, a lover to cherish her, and a friend to keep her company through good and through evil—she sealed her promise with a kiss.

“Will my lady eat?” Christian asked in her ear.

Clarise eyed the lozenges of curd cheese, bacon and walnut stew, hazelnut crumble, and crustade of chicken with mistrust. The centerpiece was a whole, stuffed swan, dressed in its own feathers and swimming on a sea of lettuce. The fare surpassed anything she had ever seen before, but she couldn’t bring herself to take a bite.

“I cannot,” she admitted. She cut a distasteful glance at her stepfather and found him enjoying himself immensely. His beard was sticky with grease. A horn of ale was clutched in his left hand. He looked happy indeed thinking himself allied with the Slayer.

Just you wait, she thought.

Her groom leaned in closer. The warmth of his shoulder spread quickly through the silk of her gown. “The food has not been tampered with. I posted guards at every door. Look you, even Ferguson is eating.”

Nearly everyone was enjoying the feast. Trestle tables groaned beneath the weight of so much food. Wine and ale warmed the blood of those imbibing freely, especially the Scots who celebrated the forging of an important alliance. Tongues began to wag, and boasts could be heard over the jangling of the juggler’s bells. A minstrel of far better skill than Rowan sang both Scottish ballads and Norman tunes, while fighting men tapped toes beneath the boards. Given the bright ribbons that festooned the lord’s table, one might be deceived that the atmosphere was gay.

“You should not have let them bring their swords inside the walls,” she whispered tensely. “Look at Rowan’s father. See how much he hates you.”

The warlord cast Ferguson’s henchman a considering look. “Hush, sweetling,” he soothed. “Our broadswords can cut those paltry blades in half. There will be no uprisings. Mark you how they drink and eat. They think their futures secure. Besides, if there were danger, Sir Roger would sense it. He has a gift for that sort of thing, you know.”

She looked to Sir Roger for confirmation. The knight took his ease in a chair opposite her mother and sisters. He had eaten a good portion of his trencher and was sipping the mulled wine with narrow-eyed satisfaction.

“I’m worried about tomorrow’s tourney,” Clarise admitted, turning back to her husband. “How will you kill Ferguson without starting a war?”

He silenced her with a sudden kiss. Her eyes flew wide as she found herself gazing into his pupils. “Not now,” he whispered against her lips. “Tonight.”

The recollection of the night to come sent a cataract of chills down her spine. In response to her shudder, the warlord kissed her more deeply, his tongue stealing between her lips. The warmth of his kiss weakened her instantly. Over the thudding of her own heart, she heard the hoots of encouragement coming from the men at the boards. She imagined what she and Christian looked like to the assembly—newlyweds eager to spend time alone.

In her preoccupation with the tourney tomorrow, she had almost forgotten about their wedding night. Now, with his thorough kiss, she was startled by her own anticipation. If the preview he’d already given her was any indication, this would be a night she wouldn’t soon forget.

He lifted his head at last, and her eyes floated open. She found him gazing at her with toe-curling intensity, a hint of color in his cheeks. “Perhaps you would care to retire, since you have no appetite,” he suggested in a voice that made her stomach flutter.

She darted a look out the windows. It was shockingly early for them to retire. The sun was still a hot ball of fire sinking toward the west. “ ’Tis not yet sunset,” she protested, though the notion greatly appealed to her. She didn’t want to sit another minute watching Ferguson feast on his final supper.

The knowledge of tomorrow’s violence left her queasy. She felt strangely guilty for plotting Ferguson’s demise in such a cold-hearted manner. Moreover, it troubled her that Christian had not considered that war might break out.

“Will you come, too?” she asked. She yearned to speak with Christian in private, to calm her fears.

“In a while,” he promised. “You should take some rest.” His eyes glinted with sensual warning. “I vow you’ll need it.”

Her heart skipped a beat. To distract herself, she glanced toward her mother. Jeanette was seated next to Ferguson. She appeared to be in deep contemplation of her trencher. She had eaten no more than her daughter, though a fork was poised over the food in readiness. She hadn’t been given a knife, apparently.

Clarise couldn’t help but sense an air of determination about Jeanette. At Heathersgill, her mother had always behaved passively. Perhaps it was Sir Roger’s flattering gaze that caused her mother to sit straighter, to hold her chin higher.

But Merry was another matter altogether. Clarise realized how little she had seen of her sister, even before leaving Heathersgill on her dangerous mission. Merry had taken to living in the hills with the cunningwoman who taught her of herbs and their powers. Even with her flame-red hair out of sight, there was something wild and reckless about the look in Merry’s eyes. It pained Clarise to discover that her sister dabbled in poisons as well as herbs. Look what Ferguson has done to her, she thought. He deserved to die tomorrow. She wouldn’t waste another drop of guilt for plotting his death.

She turned back to her husband. The strain of smiling under so much tension had drained her. “I think I will retire,” she informed him wanly.

He pushed back his chair and helped her to rise. All conversation dimmed at once. Clarise concentrated on picking her way past the many guests at the table and ignoring the jests called out by brave or foolish soldiers. They wove their way among the trestles and came to the stairs. There Christian passed her on to Nell, who was waiting with the bloom of pleasure on her round cheeks.

“Anon,” the warlord promised, bringing his hand up to caress her jaw.

He seemed distracted, Clarise thought, turning away with Nell. She looked back at him once, overcome by curiosity. Was he up to something? she wondered. She found him studying her ascension to the second level. He raised his goblet in salute, and she blushed at the attention, looking away.

Above the solar door was a garland made from lily of the valley blossoms. She paused to admire it. With a proud smile, Nell opened the door to the bridal bower. The servants had thrown themselves into the wedding preparations. Even Dame Maeve had contributed her share of help, undertaking a frenzy of activities that included looping garlands around the bedposts and laying Clarise’s new wardrobe in the chest toted from her bedchamber.

The room smelled of summer lilies and heliotrope. The tallow lamps splashed white light onto the tapestries. Her new collection of perfumes was posited on the table next to Christian’s books. A nightdress fashioned from the sheerest silk lay across the bed like icing on a cake.

Clarise absorbed every detail with a sense of unreality. Was this just a dream? Everything had come so easily. Even the passion and romance one normally associated with a love match seemed to find its way into the atmosphere, despite tomorrow’s conflict. It left her wondering if she wasn’t trying to delude herself. This was just a marriage of convenience, after all. No one had mentioned a word of everlasting love.

The train of her gown crackled over the rush mat as she crossed to the open window. With the onset of evening, the horizon was turning pale pink. A cool breeze stirred the loose tendrils of her hair. She sent her gaze over the outer wall and spied the collection of Ferguson’s tents. Other competitors had come to test their skill at the tourney, adding a sea of bright canopies to the open field.

She turned away. This was her wedding night. Tomorrow would bring a deadly tangle of arms and the unexpected death of the Scottish leader. Would the Scots suspect foul play and rally behind their murdered lord? Would a war break out at Helmesly?

She wanted to address these fears to Christian, only he had avoided all discussion of it earlier. And now he was lingering in the hall, playing the gracious host.

Clarise pressed a hand to her roiling belly. She wished she hadn’t insisted that Ferguson be destroyed at once. Tomorrow’s violence diminished tonight’s possibilities. She felt as though something breathless and beautiful were on the verge of bursting from its chrysalis, only to be discouraged by the threat of winter. She wished she’d been more patient, allowing time for her marriage to mature.

Tonight, she wanted Christian to herself, with no worries intervening.

She comforted herself with the thought that she would have him every night hereafter, for the rest of their lives.

Chapter Eighteen

She was dozing against the heap of pillows when the door groaned inward. Clarise’s eyes snapped open. Her in-drawn breath congealed. She couldn’t see the door for the bed curtains that barred her view. The room was steeped in stygian darkness.

If the intruder were her husband, she would have heard the revelers accompanying him to the bridal bower. Tradition dictated that they create a great clamor, thereby advising the bride of the groom’s imminent appearance.

The door closed quietly behind the interloper. It couldn’t be Nell, for she’d sent the maid away after brushing out her hair, applying more perfume, and donning her nightdress. Besides, Nell’s footfalls were lighter.

A nameless fear raked Clarise’s spine. It had to be a Scottish intruder, intent on murdering the bride. Poor Christian, she thought, unable to move for the terror that gripped her. He would be accused of killing her himself, just as he’d been accused of murdering Genrose. She could not allow that to happen. For his sake, she must summon the courage to move.

Now! She threw herself to the far side of the bed and dived under the closed drapes. Thudding to the floor, she scrambled up again. Her heart strained against her ribs. She lurched blindly toward the door, intent on ripping it open and running onto the gallery to scream for help.

She never made it to the door. Two powerful arms snatched her from behind, lifting her into the air. She screamed, and a hand clasped over her mouth. “Quiet!” commanded a familiar voice. “ ’Tis I, Clarise. Why are you fighting me?”

Fear drained away in such a rush that it left her limp. She sagged in her husband’s arms, her legs useless to hold her weight. He lifted his hand from her mouth. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded, dumbly.

The arms that held her became a tender circle.

Clarise was grateful for his support and the radiating warmth that soothed her trembling. Would she always associate his scent with comfort and security?

“Come back to bed,” he urged, taking her hand. He stubbed his toe in the darkness and cursed. “Who doused the flames?” he asked irritably.

“They were never lit,” she said. “I went to bed when it was still light out.”

He pulled apart the bed drapes while keeping one hand on her silk-clad waist. “Did you rest?” His palm smoothed upward to linger under the weight of one breast.

“Aye.” His heat seemed to burn her through the flimsy fabric. “I was asleep when the door opened. I heard no revelers, my lord, so I assumed you were an intruder, intent on murdering me in my bed.”

“Hush, that’s an evil thought.” He cupped her breast, his thumb rubbing over the nipple, pearling it instantly.

“And not beyond the scope of Ferguson’s mind,” she added breathlessly. “Why didn’t I hear the revelers announcing you?”

They had been standing toe to toe in the darkness. Suddenly he stepped away from her, dropping his hand. “You must have slept through their noise,” he said, crossing to the table. She heard him strike a flint before the room flared into view.

Her husband looked forbidding with the light shining on his face. Indeed, he was scowling. His scar stood out in pale relief.

“I hope I haven’t upset you, my lord,” she said, dreading the appearance of his darker side. He seemed preoccupied.

“Hmmm?” He glanced up from the flame. “Nay, ’tisn’t you.” He gazed at her thoughtfully a moment. “Your sister Merry, has she always been so fierce?” he asked.

“Merry?” Oh, mercy, what has Merry done? “She didn’t try to poison you did she?” she asked, covering her mouth with her fingertips.

“Worse,” he said. “She cursed my manhood.”

Speechless, Clarise could only stare at him.

“ ’Twas during the toasting. She stood, and before the Scots and everyone, she said—let me see if I recall the words correctly—she said, ‘To the groom. May your ballocks shrivel and fall off if you dare ever to strike my beautiful sister.’ ”

“She didn’t!” Clarise gasped, appalled that Merry could have made such an unladylike threat. “I’m so sorry,” she added, trying to guess the extent of his upset.

He shrugged. “I don’t fear her threat,” he said. “Only cowards use their strength against the weaker sex. Besides, she was right.” He flicked her a look. “You are beautiful.”

“My lord, she doesn’t know you,” Clarise explained. “All she knows of warring men is what Ferguson has demonstrated. Do you see what he has done to our family?” She gestured. “He has made my mother but a shadow of herself. He has made my sister crazed!”

“Let’s not talk of Ferguson,” he curtly interrupted, turning to the window. As he opened the shutters, the light of the full moon flooded the chambers, lending an ethereal glow to their boudoir. “Perfect,” he said, with forced satisfaction. “Can you see the moon from the bed?”

She could see nearly the whole face of the moon through the open window. For modesty’s sake, she thought it better to keep the room in darkness. Clearly, her groom thought otherwise. “ ’Tis lovely,” she relented.

He turned and looked at her, and his expression transformed from brooding to awestruck. “Nay, ’tis you who are lovely,” he corrected her. His gaze fell to her bosom, outlined in a gown so sheer it might have been woven by spiders. She had a feeling he could see straight through it.

Her recent fright was forgotten. Tomorrow’s tourney seemed eons away. There was only the two of them now and a night that promised so much. His admiring gaze made her feel alluring, a siren beckoning him into the seas of bliss. Suddenly she was happy to let the moon reveal her best-kept secrets.

His hands went to the buckle on his belt. The thick strap dropped to the mat with a soft chink. He put one boot on the chest, unbuckled it and cast it off. The other boot followed. With his gaze still intently on her person, he unwound the leather strips that crisscrossed the length of his legs. The tunic he yanked over his head followed by his undershirt. In a single movement, he pushed his chausses over his hips, drawing them off, drawers and all.

Clarise could scarcely breathe by the end of his undressing. She reeled to find him suddenly naked, muscles oiled in moonlight. The size of the weapon jutting from the thatch of dark hair at his groin had her sinking weakly onto the bed.

Her gaze traveled wondrously over his naked form. Every muscle stood in stark relief, enticing the light to gleam on the upraised surfaces and the shadows to linger in the valleys. The closer he sauntered, the more details sprang into view. She felt herself growing dizzy.

“Are you afraid?” he asked, sitting smoothly beside her.

She marveled at the breadth of his chest, dark hair gleaming on it like a shield. “Nay,” she admitted, surprised by her own realization. She remembered the tenderness of his kisses. He would be gentle with her, she was certain.

He let out a long breath. “I am,” he admitted gruffly.

She looked abruptly at his face. “You are?” She would never have thought he would admit to such masculine insecurity.

“Afraid I’ll hurt you,” he told her, raking a hand through his savage hair. “You’re an untried maiden, and I am not a small man. I want to give you pleasure tonight, not pain.”

“Afraid of my sister’s threat?” she teased, glancing down at his upright member. “ ’Twould be a shame for it to wither and fall off.”

Despite the seriousness of the moment, she managed to make him laugh, a rusty sound that made her want to reach for him and kiss him soundly. “You won’t hurt me, my lord,” she added, smoothing a hand over the muscles of his upper arm. So much latent power! “I promise, ’twill be all right.”

He leaned slowly toward her. With aching tenderness, he kissed her mouth, gaining entrance so painstakingly that she looped her arms around him and pulled him harder to her. The feel of his bare skin was intoxicating. Both times he’d had her in his bed, he’d been fully dressed. Now, she could not get enough of his warm, densely muscled body. His skin felt like silk over steel. It smelled of manliness and juniper-scented soap.

He pressed her down onto the pillows, then rolled abruptly onto his back, taking her with him. “You set the pace,” he said, his hands searing through the fabric of her gown. She lay sprawled across his hard body, one leg between his. He waited.

“I . . . I have no idea what to do,” she said, flushing self-consciously.

“Aye, you do,” he replied. “Just kiss me.”

She shyly complied, putting her mouth to his, her hair falling in a silken curtain around them. He responded with retrained savagery, and she found it exhilarating to control how long, how deep. She drove him to hungry desperation, then pulled away, placing petal-soft kisses at the corner of his mouth, along his jaw. She nibbled daintily on his earlobe, drawing a groan from him.

His reaction mounted her excitement. She squirmed against him, seeking his hardness instinctively, not knowing where or how to focus the growing hunger inside of her, the ache in her breasts.

“Put your knees here,” he instructed, patting the mattress on either side of him.

He helped her, lifting the silk of her gown so it wouldn’t tear. Its hem rode the tops of her thighs, giving him a glimpse of her bright woman’s hair. Christian closed his eyes in pleasure as she settled down on him, not penetrating but touching thigh to thigh.

Stunned by their closeness, Clarise tensed, half fearful of the thick column pressed against her tender flesh. “Get used to me,” he said. “Touch me as you please.”

She obeyed, her hands trembling with awe as she spread them on his raised chest muscles. Her fingers tangled in the crisp mat of his chest hairs. She caressed the tiny male nipples that grew erect at her touch. She drew her fingers lower, across the armor of his rib cage to the flat plane of his belly, where a line of hair tapered to his loins. His indrawn breath made her ask in deight, “Are you ticklish, my lord?”

He grabbed her wrists before she could tickle him. “Don’t,” he warned.

She longed to make him laugh again, but then he released her to caress her thighs, and she forgot her intent. He caressed her, using the silk of her gown to enhance his touch. The cool glide of the material ignited a shimmering heat in her belly. She rocked her hips instinctively, encountering his hardness.

Very gently Christian rolled her over. It fulfilled an instinctive need in her to feel his weight pressing against her. She’d touched and explored him; she was ready to join with him if the time was right. He pressed a kiss to her temple, to her cheek, her jaw. He nuzzled her neck, making her giggle as the bristles on his chin tickled her.

“Are you ticklish, my lady?” he countered. Laughter became a gasp as he nipped the crowns of her breasts through the fabric of the nightdress. He slid the capped sleeves over her shoulders, baring her breasts one at a time to his view. The firm orbs glowed in the moonlight. He took them deep in the heat of his mouth, sucking as he’d done before. Clarise’s gasp became a moan. Pleasure arrowed downward, summoning warmth and wetness between her thighs.

Feeling his knee between her legs, she parted them, tensed for the thick invasion that was to come. But then he moved clear down the length of her body, pinning her thighs wide open with his hands. He kissed the insides of her legs where her skin was the most sensitive. She leaped and squirmed to keep the rasp of his jaw from scraping her.

All at once his mouth landed on the curls between her legs, and she froze in astonishment. She could scarcely breathe. Then Christian delved deeper, tasting her.

She lurched to her elbows. “What are you doing?” she gasped.

The firm, moist ridge of his tongue slid into the folds of her flesh. She tried to twist free, but he held her fast and repeated the scandalous caress. “My lord!” she cried, amazed by the searing pleasure washing over her. “Oh, heavens!”

“Relax,” he said. “Feel me.”

She fell back with a cry of surrender. How could she do anything but feel him? He caressed her intimately, acquainting his tongue with every one of her secrets. Driving her relentlessly to a place she’d never been before. Sensations built one on top of the other, threatening to wash over her.

He slipped a finger inside of her. She bit her lip to keep from screaming. He stretched her gently, never ceasing his scandalous caresses. Her muscles tightened. A scalding flush brought perspiration to her skin. She felt fevered, a little frightened by the intensity of her pleasure. Surely, if she let herself go, these feelings would consume her.

Without warning, he covered her again. His mouth sought hers, and he kissed her deeply, hungrily. Tasting her woman’s musk on his lips, she became a creature of instinct. Her hips rose to greet his tumescence, needing, longing for him to ease the sudden emptiness.

She expected some measure of pain, but it would be far worse a plight to be deprived of the sensations she’d just felt. He continued to kiss her as the tip of his manhood nudged her opening. Then with a sudden surge, he tore through her resistance, and sank himself to the hilt. The sting of pain was so intense, she failed to swallow her cry. She tried desperately to back away from it, but she could not. She was impaled by him.

Just as suddenly the pain receded. She let out a sigh of relief. And then she became aware of a gratifying, overwhelming fullness.

“Clarise?” he whispered, his voice strained by some private torment. “Are you all right?” He lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes glazed with passion.

“Fine,” she reassured him, though her own voice was thin and high. “The pain is gone.”

He pulled out of her slowly, leaving a trail of fire along her woman’s passage. Clarise hissed at the scalding heat, yet at the same time she felt a sudden deprivation.

He sank back into her softness, making her sigh. There was no pain this time, only a warm rush of fullness. “Again,” she cried, as the pleasure she’d felt before gathered unexpectedly.

“By God, I don’t deserve this,” he murmured, breathing heavily. “You are so lovely, so sweet.” He raised her legs higher, so that on his next thrust, he sank even deeper. Clarise moaned at the sweet satisfying sensation of his claim.

Their shadowed gazes merged. Buttered in the moonlight, he looked somehow familiar to her, his body ridged with passion. Had she dreamed him? Their lips gently touched. Their bodies came together, sweaty now, taut and straining. She arched her hips, craving more. He set a tempo that nudged her higher with every thrust. She fisted the bedsheets in one hand and clutched him with the other.

He began to whisper as he’d done before, scalding words that made her shiver and pant. She clung to his broad shoulders. I am one with the Slayer, she marveled. He is part of me forever. She opened herself to be ravished. Gently, but inexorably, he slid inside of her, again and again, deeper and deeper. He told her how she made him feel—how sleek, how wet, how tightly she held him.

His words pushed her over the top. With a soft cry, she came undone. Her pulsing muscles beckoned him to follow. He groaned against her mouth, thrusting three more times. Then he stilled, his heart thudding hard against her breasts.

After a moment he took his weight on one elbow and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Then he traced the graceful arch of her eyebrow, the full sweep of her lower lip. “You make me forget,” he whispered on a note of wonder.

“Forget what, my lord?” She could barely think, let alone remember anything.

“Christian,” he said, reminding her to say his name.

She smiled, cherishing the intimacy. “Forget what, Christian?”

He looked down at her breasts, pressed to his chest. “Who I am,” he said at last. His lashes swept up again. He gave her his semi-smile and kissed her, lingering with such tenderness it made her eyes sting.

She didn’t know what to say to his confession. She savored the closeness of their bodies, of their mind and spirits. “What will we be when tomorrow is over?” In the unguarded moment the question slipped out of her.

He held her more firmly. “What do you mean?” he asked, sounding as worried as she felt.

She smiled ruefully and looked away. “Never mind.”

“Nay, tell me what you meant,” he insisted.

How to put it in words? “Will I ever be more to you than a mother for Simon?”

Her question visibly startled him. He took a deep breath and pressed himself deeper. She fancied she could feel him swelling inside of her again. “You are already more,” he growled.

The answer pleased her, as did the echoing tingle at her core. He caught her mouth in a kiss that was frankly ravenous. His sudden hunger sparked her own. She met his thrusts with a deep, answering need.

A long time later they lay among the twisted sheets, a sheen of sweat on their skin. She asked him another question that was nagging her. “How will you kill Ferguson tomorrow and make it look like an accident?”

She felt him tense against her. “I don’t want to talk about the morrow,” he replied, his tone suddenly dangerous.

The sound of his voice made her shrivel inside, but she was not so easily turned away. “Why won’t you tell me what you’ve planned?” she persisted. “All you’ve said is that you’ll kill him in a joust. How, without rousing the suspicions of his men, without causing a war?”

A full minute passed, and still he did not answer. Disappointed, she laid her head back on his shoulder, fearing she had angered him.

“There will be no war,” he whispered with certainty.

She wondered how he could be so sure. She listened to the even thud of his heart. Her fingers coiled gently around the soft whorls of his chest hair. She closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of repletion.

They would still have this when tomorrow was over. Perhaps their passion would deepen to abiding affection. It was a simple thing to imagine, a natural thing. She snuggled closer. She felt treasured and replete. She had a strong arm to protect her. A lover to warm her on winter nights. It was more than most women had in a husband.

A soft snore followed on the heels of her observation. Christian had fallen asleep. At least he had the peace of mind to do it. Her mouth quirked. For herself, she doubted she would sleep at all on the eve of Ferguson’s demise.

At the crack of dawn Christian garbed himself in chain mail and led his mount across the drawbridge. With the visor of his helm open, he absorbed the scene that awaited him. Ferguson’s warriors were up and stirring, their green plaid buried under thick, steel hauberks. They had traded their costume swords for sturdier weapons.

They milled about a campfire, their expressions grim. What had begun as an alliance would end in war if Ferguson failed to meet the challenge the Slayer had put to him last night.

Christian recalled the Scot’s expression when he’d charged him of his crimes before the wedding guests. He had sent Clarise to their bridal bower to shield her from any potential ugliness. He wished he could have done the same for her mother and sisters, who’d looked on, as pale as ghosts.

At his challenge, the Scot had spewed ale across the table. He’d blustered and protested. He’d turned an alarming shade of red. Kendal had lunged across the table with his costume sword in hand, only to be restrained by his own men. The Slayer’s men-at-arms displayed the points of their swords to discourage the Scots from reacting rashly.

Ferguson’s protests could not sway the warlord from standing in judgment of him. To prove your innocence, Ferguson, you must meet me tomorrow in a contest of arms, a battle to the death.

In declining, the Scot would have found himself and his men slaughtered in the Slayer’s hall. The gauntlet had been tossed, and Ferguson accepted it, with no other choice.

How quickly the night had sped by! The sun was already edging over the treetops. Peasants tromped across the meadow from their far-flung huts in order to satisfy their curiosity. Did they know the tourney had given way to a deadlier sport? Christian wondered.

He glanced over his shoulder at the sharply rising wall of the castle. He couldn’t see the solar from his present vantage, but he imagined that his bride still slept. She was rarely up before mid-morning. Had he done the right thing to keep the truth from her? It had been hard to think of little else when he joined her in the bridal bower. But later, as he drew her tender body close to him, he’d felt a peaceful certainty in his soul. And then he’d slept—by God, he’d slept the entire night without waking! It had been the best sleep of his adult life.

He wondered, now, if he should have told her everything. She’d assumed the Scot would come to some accidental end, that Christian would kill him by devious means. She did not fully realize the metamorphosis for which she was responsible. The only way to prove his worthiness was to slay Ferguson by honorable means: by Ordeal by Combat. That way Ferguson, at least, could defend himself, and neither Christian nor Clarise would be troubled by their conscience later. He knew too well the torment of a troubled conscience. His wife would never suffer such agonies, he vowed.

Still, he wished Clarise could watch him do it. How he longed to be worthy of her! But her peace of mind and her physical safety came first. He could not trust her to remain an impartial observer. Clarise was too loyal, too protective. She forgot at times that he had spent his adult years learning to fight. She thought she could do it better.

Nor did he trust the Scots not to target her in some way, thereby forcing his surrender. Nay, it was best she remained where she was, sleeping peacefully in bed, her body soft and warm beneath the coverlet.

Sir Roger scurried around the front of his horse, breaking into Christian’s thoughts. “My lord, I have a bad feeling about this,” he volunteered, catching his liege’s arm.

Christian shook him off. This was not the time for Roger’s sixth sense to kick into action. “ ’Tis too late to change my mind,” he snapped at his vassal. All he could do at this late point was to calm his roiling nerves.

“Look for trickery, then,” Sir Roger cautioned, his scars bulging with concern. “He knows he cannot defeat you. He will try something underhanded, mark my word!”

They led their horses off the drawbridge and onto the road. Christian’s armor made a chinking sound with every step. “We fight hand to hand,” he told his vassal. “Do you remark any trickery, then by all means strike the Scottish forces. But do so hard. I would not have any finding their way into the castle. Signal for the drawbridge to close.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Should something happen to me—”

The knight cursed, looking away.

Christian stopped and put a gauntleted hand on his vassal’s shoulder. It took effort to push the words past the constriction in his throat. “Do whatever it takes to keep my lady content in life and to assure Simon’s inheritance. Remember we suspect a traitor in our midst.”

Sir Roger’s mouth thinned. “It will not come to that,” he growled, as if to convince himself.

The fighting had been moved from the outer ward to the meadow outside the walls. The field afforded them more room for maneuvering. It would keep the Scots from spawning mischief in the castle to distract them. “They’re waiting,” Christian urged, nodding toward the area that was already roped off.

As they neared the meadow, the sun spilled over the hill in a bloodred stain. Christian’s gaze fell upon a blackbird as it swooped from the sky to steal a hot bun dropped by one of the spectators. When he next looked toward the tents, he was looking at Ferguson.

The Scot had emerged from his tent wearing English armor, his helm in his hands. Despite his indulgence the night before, he looked fit and fierce. His eyes were focused and clear above his burnished beard. At the sight of his double-edged ax, several onlookers backed away, giving him clear berth to approach the field.

Christian looked for Ethelred, standing alone with his cowl pulled over his head. A more reluctant participant could not have been found to shrive the two combatants. The good abbot gave him an imploring look as they came closer.

Unable to meet the abbot’s gaze, Christian focused on Ferguson instead. To bolster his enthusiasm, he recalled the nineteen peasants cut down at Glenmyre, the ravaging fire, Clarise’s mother begging to be let through the gate. He gave a thought to Clarise’s father, brought to an early demise by the Scot’s artifice. And lastly, he thought of the pink scars on Clarise’s beautiful back, put there by this barbarian.

By the time Christian’s soul was properly commended to God, he was fully ready to spill the Usurper’s blood.

“Choose your weapon, Ferguson,” Sir Roger charged, acting as intermediary.

The Scot gripped the handle of his ax and grinned like a cunning fox. Christian reached over his shoulder to pull the hilt of Vengeance from its sheath.

“You will begin at the sound of the horn. May the first to be unseated defend himself as best he can. Any violation of the code of honor shall end the tournament.” Sir Roger’s tone became threatening. He made it clear to everyone gathered that a breach of the rules would result in war. Behind them, men-at-arms watched each other warily.

“Mount your horses.” Sir Roger’s final words saw Ferguson spinning away toward his sorrel. Christian tightened the girth on his saddle. With nothing left to delay him, he heaved himself onto his mount and gave the destrier a jab. He trotted to his position on the far side of the field.

Turning by a copse of beech trees, he waited for the horn that would hurl him into combat.

Time stood still. Only the rapid beating of his heart assured him that the seconds ticked by. He found himself wishing suddenly that Clarise were in attendance after all. With the light of her eyes on him, he would feel himself cloaked in her protection. He imagined her standing at the edge of the field, a faint smile of encouragement on her lips. She’d believed in him last night. ’Twill be all right, she’d assured him. He repeated the words to himself. I promise, ’twill be all right.

He had to win. There was no room for defeat.

If he did not emerge the victor, he would never know if his plot to win her heart bore fruit. Or withered like an unplucked grape.

Chapter Nineteen

The blast of a war horn caused Clarise to bolt upright. The shutters were ringed with morning light. Memories of her wedding night flooded pleasurably into her mind, and she fell back onto the blankets with a sigh. Her muscles were sore, as was the tender place between her legs. But she felt like a new woman, a butterfly freshly sprung from its chrysalis.

How foolish she was to have feared that marriage to the Slayer would bind her to a beast! He’d been gentle, considerate, unbelievably giving. She dragged a hand over her sensitive breasts. No longer did she worry what would become of their marriage after Ferguson’s demise. A world of possibilities lay before them. With Christian’s sword arm to defend them, their security at Helmesly was unbreachable. They would raise a family behind Helmesly’s impenetrable walls and never know the terror of being overcome, displaced, violated.

Her palm smoothed the sheets where her husband had just lain. She found them cool to the touch. He’d been gone longer than she thought.

She sat up again, experiencing an odd sense of abandonment. Had the tourney begun already? Of course it had. A horn had just bayed outside her window. Being the host, Christian had no choice but to rouse himself early and attend it. He had kindly thought to let her sleep.

Flinging off the coverlet, she crossed the room and threw the shutters wide, heedless of her naked state. She sensed a great stirring of activity on the eastern side of the field, but the window gave only a view of the tents with their pennants snapping.

She heard the telltale thunder of two combatants coming together. The repercussion of the blow carried clearly to the window. A roar went up in the crowd, conveying a sense of urgency.

She had planned to bathe and dress in one of her finest new gowns. But something came over her, gripping her with nameless agitation. She couldn’t spare the time to bathe. She was galvanized to join the spectators right away.

Spotting the dress Nell had laid out for her, Clarise slipped it over her head, leaving the laces to dangle at her sides. Unable to locate her slippers, she gave up looking for them and dashed out of the room. The great hall below her was empty. Was she the only one missing the day’s events?

Barefooted, she skipped down the wide stairs, shot through the double doors and down the steps of the forebuilding. The courtyard was also deserted. She crossed it quickly, braving the cobbles that gouged her bare feet. She was hardly dressed like a proper hostess, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that something momentous was underway.

Lengthening her stride, she ran through the first gate to the outer ward. There she faltered at the sight of the empty lists. The tourney must have been moved to the field outside the castle. The urgency in her belly hardened into apprehension. Why would they have moved the tourney outside?

She bolted through the outer gates, pushing aside the guards that stood beneath the barbican. One of them tried to restrain her. “Let me go!” she demanded, sending him a look so fierce that he snatched his hands away.

She crossed the rough planks of the drawbridge, amazed to see that a throng had already gathered to witness the spectacle. More amazing still was the daunting display of weaponry on the men who jostled for a better view. She rose on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of the combatants. They must be well-known knights to have gathered so much attention.

Their mounts sailed off toward opposite ends of the field in preparation for another clash. She sought the insignia of the knight nearest her. When she saw the double-edged ax resting with deceptive ease on his thigh, she knew at once that the first opponent was Ferguson. Could this have something to do with the accident that would befall him today?

Her gaze swiveled to the second combatant. On the back of a huge black destrier sat a warrior of immense proportions. Her brain refused to believe what her eyes were telling her. But as his shield tilted in her direction, there was no mistaking the white cross on a black field.

She felt the blood drain from her face.

He’d never warned her that he meant to oppose Ferguson himself. Surely he didn’t intend to kill him now, in this very event! As they raised their shields in a signal for readiness, the truth slowly penetrated.

He did. He intended to kill Ferguson in hand-to-hand combat, nobly and without deceit. That was the reason the tourney had been moved outside the castle, to more neutral ground. She gave a cry of denial. Didn’t he realize it couldn’t be done? Ferguson knew dozens of deceitful ways to fell his opponent, and Christian would suspect none of them!

That awful realization kept her rooted to the dew-laden grass, her toes curling to keep her upright. With the sound of thunder, the combatants converged in the center of the field. She told herself to rise from what surely was a nightmare. They collided in a screaming tangle of steel. This was not a dream.

The crowd roared with dismay as the horses parted with no advantage to either man.

Clarise plunged into the throng of spectators and pushed her way to the rope that kept them off the field. The sound of ringing metal had her peering over a woman’s shoulder. She glanced up in time to see her husband thrust in slow motion from his horse. “Nay!” she screamed in denial. He managed to roll to his feet, but his helmet flew into the ankle-deep flowers, leaving his head vulnerable to attack.

Mercifully, the blow had also unhorsed Ferguson. The Scot was slower to rise, but his double-edged ax rose with him, singing a song of death as he arced it in a figure eight through the moist air.

With a distracted glance Clarise realized the woman in front of her was her mother. Jeanette stood very still by the rope partition. This morning she seemed in full control of her faculties. She watched the fight with steady eyes.

Clarise redirected her attention to the struggle now ensuing on foot. Why was this happening? Ferguson was to die in an accident, not in a blatant challenge. Not in a scenario where he could easily cheat to meet his ends!

What would happen if he won? My God, what would become of her if Christian were killed? What would become of her family?

The enemies circled each other cautiously. Ferguson was the first to strike. The blade of his ax slammed into steel as Christian lifted his shield at the last second. Clarise could imagine the impact shuddering down his arm. She winced for the pain he must be feeling.

Her husband stepped to one side, turning at the last moment to bring down his sword. The edge of Vengeance made sharp contact with Ferguson’s arm, and the Scotsman howled in pain, clutching his wound. Clarise smiled grimly, her confidence returning.

Of course Christian would win. Was he not perceived as the mightiest warrior in the borderlands? Hadn’t he earned the position of seneschal for his skill with a sword?

Ferguson recovered swiftly from the blow. Grinning beneath his helm, he calmly moved his ax into his left hand. The weapon whistled through the air as he closed in on his foe.

The Slayer bided his time, evading attack after attack with quick footwork and masterful use of his shield. His tactic was clearly to tire the Scot.

Soon enough, Ferguson’s ax grew heavy. He lowered the weapon, and it was Christian’s turn to be the aggressor. Vengeance caught and held the sun’s fire as it sang through the air, seeking weakness in the older man’s defense.

Though not as quick on his feet as his opponent, Ferguson held his ground. A blow from the broadside of Christian’s sword sent him staggering backward. He stepped into a low area where he lost his balance. Then he toppled sideways into a thatch of carrot weed.

A joyous cry escaped Clarise’s throat. It looked as though her husband would win the contest. Suddenly she realized that her mother had ducked beneath the rope and was racing into the field. Clarise called for her to stop, as interference at this point could escalate the conflict into war. But her mother was deaf to her cries, leaving Clarise with no option but to chase after her.

To her dismay, she saw her husband hesitate, his sword raised for the deathblow. The movement on the field distracted him. Her gaze flew to Ferguson, who was grappling in his boot for a second weapon. She screamed a warning to Christian.

But the shouts of the crowd drowned her cry. Ferguson surged from his crouched position. His hand sprang open, releasing a fine powder into the air. Christian staggered back, blinded by the invisible weapon. His broadsword fell heavily to the grass as he clapped his hands to his eyes and doubled over.

Ferguson adjusted his grip on the handle of his ax. Just as he hefted it to pursue his helpless opponent, Jeanette hurled herself onto his back. Clarise watched in wide-eyed shock as her mother sank a dinner knife deep into Ferguson’s neck.

The Scot roared in surprise and shook off his assailant. Pawing at the haft that stuck from his throat, he gurgled words impossible to understand. All the while, Jeanette watched his contortions with indifferent calm. Ferguson spat blood. His face drained of all color, and then he fell face-first into the fragrant grass.

A hush of amazement had fallen over the crowd. Clarise transferred her attention to her crouched husband. He had sunk to his knees, his hands still pressed to his eyes. In contrast to his dark hands, his jaw looked ghostly pale. She hastened toward him, skirting her mother, who stood with arms akimbo over her dead husband.

“Christian!” she cried, dropping on her knees on the clods of dirt left behind from their battle. She grabbed his wrists and tried to pull his hands away. “Look at me!”

He groaned in agony. “I cannot. My eyes are on fire.”

She gasped in alarm and twisted around to seek help. What she saw made her skin crawl. The Scots and the Slayer’s men bristled with weaponry. They paired off, posturing their willingness to fight. “Oh, God!” she cried.

A shrill war cry broke the feeble thread of peace. With roars in their throats, men clashed with the intent to spill blood. Women screamed and ran. Peasants broke for cover.

“We have to get out of here,” she told her mother and her husband in the same breath.

He made a sound like an animal in rage. “I cannot see!” he shouted.

“Hush, no one knows that but us. You must stand up. Stand up!” she ordered, tugging at his elbow. He came obediently to his feet, his palms still pressed to his eyes. “Take your sword,” she said, heaving the heavy blade from the grass and holding it out to him.

He put a hand out, and she thrust the hilt into his palm. It frightened her to note the trembling in his fingers. She glanced with dismay at the wet bubbles seeping from beneath his eyelids. “Now take my hand,” she instructed, darting a look at the men hacking one another just a few yards away. “Mother, stay close!” She grabbed her mother’s arm and tugged her companions toward the castle.

“The drawbridge will rise,” Christian advised them. “We must hurry.”

“We will run, then. Hold your sword before you, my lord. Do not let go of my hand.”

The three of them charged for the moat at a full run. Clarise steered them through the battleground. Screams of agony surrounded them. Blades bit into bone. The grass was slick with blood. Mercifully, no one challenged their passing.

At last they arrived at the drawbridge where the chains were already rattling the cogs. It was just beginning to go up. “Hold!” Clarise called, pulling her husband behind her.

Fury and the reluctance to flee from any battle made it difficult to persuade him. “You will come with us!” she insisted. “You are useless to your men right now.”

She glanced at the skirmish behind them. The conflict had broken into pockets of fighting. Sir Roger led the largest contingent of men in pushing Kendal and his followers away from the field and off into the woods. Several were breaking away, fleeing into the vegetation for cover.

“ ’Tis almost over,” she added to persuade him. “Sir Roger has it well in hand.”

As they hurried along the planks, Clarise’s temper rose in proportion to her relief. How dare her husband risk his own life just to kill her stepfather? For the first time in over a year, she had felt secure in the knowledge that she was wed to a man who could protect her. Yet he had nearly made her a widow within a day of her wedding. How dared he jeopardize that union as if it meant nothing to him!

“My lord,” she pronounced as they passed through the inner ward, “I am furious with you!”

Christian stared through the film that blurred his vision and pieced together Clarise’s features, relying as much on his memory as on what he could see. She sat at his writing table, reading the missive that had just arrived from Heathersgill. Her hair, recently washed and dried, gave off a luster that could be seen clear across the room. It fell in a glossy curtain over her shoulders, smelling of flowers. The scent reminded him of their wedding night, six long days ago.

He saw her mouth curve into a smile, and curiosity got the better of him. “What does he say?” he prompted.

She shifted, drawing up one knee. If he wasn’t mistaken, she was dressed in a linen chemise and little more. It was nearly the end of summer, and the sun injected its last blast of heat into the air before the winds of autumn would drive it away. His wife dressed appropriately—which was to say that in the environment of their bedchamber, she wore only her undergarments.

For a man who hovered on the brink of complete recovery, it was sheer torment.

Not that he was ready to admit that his vision was practically restored. Though he was fit enough to resume his duties as seneschal, it had been only six days. Why admit to recovery when his wife pampered and fussed and cosseted him like a child? Given such gentle treatment, he found himself tempted to trade in his broadsword for the life of an invalid.

Every afternoon she read to him. How he coveted the sound of her voice, modulated to fit the text in her hand. As she read of Ulysses’s trials at sea, her voice grew tremulous and brave. Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy made her soft and contemplative. Her emotional state seemed to alter with the direction of the wind at the window, while his could be summarized under the single heading of Randy as a Bull.

And there was no sign of relief in sight.

His wife’s gentleness belied the physical distance she strove to keep between them. Her stinging declaration still echoed in his brain, murdering the hopes that died with gasping stubbornness in his breast. I am furious with you!

How could she have said such crushing words when he had sacrificed his very life to win her? If such a profound act failed to draw a proclamation of love, then nothing would. He consoled himself with the knowledge that he would always have her near him. Whether he might yet win her affection over time remained uncertain.

He was sure that she cared for him. Why else would she read and pass all idle hours in his company? Was it simply to exacerbate his constant state of arousal that she bathed and dressed and flitted around the room half-naked? Or did she mean to comfort him with her chatter?

He’d heard her in-drawn breath yesterday when the patches over his eyes were removed. Had she gasped because his eyes were swollen and ravaged, or because she cared for his pain as he flinched against the brightness?

Can you see, my lord? she’d asked so tremulously. He could have sworn there was a sheen of tears in her own eyes, but then his vision was hardly perfect. And he was annoyed that she’d gone back to “my lord” over his given name, further distancing them from their intimate encounter. Was he fooling himself in his need to hear a confession of love, or did the woman comfort him because it was her nature to do so? One cold truth remained, mocking his hope that he could still win her. Ferguson was dead. She didn’t need him anymore.

“What does it say?” he repeated, refusing to give credence to his own depressing thoughts.

“All right, I’ll read it.” She cleared her throat and adjusted the letter. “ ‘My Liege and Good Lady, I greet you with news that the random attacks on Heathersgill have abated. Kendal’s followers have fallen off one by one, leaving him with too few soldiers to cause anything but spurious and ineffectual attacks. Our watches continue their vigilance at all times, and we will soon capture our foes, putting an end to this uncertain time.

“ ‘Lady Jeanette is much improved in health. She and her daughters have given the Scots’ goods to the peasants who continue to serve them. Revenue will be needed to restore the stronghold to its full potential. I would like your permission to purchase sheep. The terrain is craggy and the soil too shallow for planting, but the manufacturing of wool is quite promising.

“ ‘We pray daily for your quick recovery. All is peaceful both here and at Glenmyre. Let naught trouble your mind. Yrs, Sir Roger.’ ” She laid the letter down. “What do you think?” she demanded.

“About what?” The patterns of her thoughts still mystified him.

“About my mother. Do you think she will recover from the violence she’s endured and been a party to?”

He heard the thread of pain in her voice and it tugged at him. “Clarise,” he soothed her, “you fret about everyone but yourself.” He saw her look at him sharply, and he deliberately fastened his gaze on the wall beside her. “Your mother is stronger than you realize. She must have known about the powder in his boots. If she hadn’t acted, I would likely be dead. And fortunately, there is no one with any legal right to accuse her of wrongdoing. In time, she will recover.”

“She loved my father to distraction,” Clarise added wistfully.

“In time she will love again,” he promised. “She is but a rose in winter, awaiting the warmth of the sun.”

He could see his wife was looking at him strangely. A painful longing carved at his chest. He, too, awaited warmth—the warmth of her love.

Clarise uncoiled from the chair. He pretended to squint at her as she approached the bed and stood before him. Through the flimsy linen undergarment, he could make out the fiery red curls at the juncture of her thighs. He felt his manhood stir, but that was nothing new.

“Do you have a headache today?” she inquired.

“A small one.”

“Drink your infusion, then.” She reached for the goblet perched on the headboard and gave it to him.

Christian took a tentative whiff. “I think not,” he said, handing it back.

“Shall I dump it in the jake as you do?” she asked more sharply.

He’d been caught. He felt a blush stealing toward his cheeks, and he willed it away. “I’m a grown man, not an infant,” he grumbled. “I mistrust any herbal remedy, no matter who blended it.”

She thinned her lips and put the goblet back on the headboard. “How many fingers am I holding up?” She held her hands before his face.

He hesitated. Nay, he couldn’t lie that baldly and witness her disappointment. “Three,” he admitted.

“Excellent.” She started to turn away.

Christian grabbed her wrist and yanked her back. She fell sideways into his embrace, and he pulled her close, burying his nose in the fragrant mass of her hair. “I love this scent,” he admitted with a groan.

Predictably, she stiffened in his arms. He quelled his disappointment and held her tighter.

“Let me go,” she said, with a catch in her voice.

He thought about it. “Nay,” he said. “You cannot continue to avoid me, lady. I’m your husband. Think you that you can parade about the chamber in your chemise without rousing me?”

“I think your vision is more improved than you admit,” she answered coldly.

“Why must you be like this?” he asked, lifting his head. “Why are you angry at me when I only meant to do right?”

She struggled so earnestly that he let his arms fall away. She thrust herself from his lap but remained on the bed, scooting mistrustfully to the end. He watched her frown and scratch her shoulder idly. She was thinking about his words, at least.

“Would it have been the right thing to widow me and to orphan your son?” she demanded. She was angry now. Twin spots of color bloomed on her cheeks. “I married you for your protection, not to be left for the next opportunist to come along and alter my life! How dare you fight to the death and not warn me first. How dare you!”

Ah, now he understood the reason for her hurt. He leaned forward under the pretext of needing to see her better. “Sir Roger would have protected you,” he assured her softly. “Besides, I had no intention of dying.”

“You almost did! If my mother hadn’t interfered, Ferguson would have killed you, you said so yourself.” She snatched up a pillow like she meant to thump it on his head.

“By trickery alone,” he pointed out. “Had he fought honestly, he never would have defeated me. His weapon was too heavy; his feet too slow.”

“You challenged him on our wedding night, didn’t you?” she pressed with the dawn of realization in her eyes. “That was why I never heard the revelers approach the door. You challenged him and everybody left.” She jumped from the bed and began to pace the room.

Christian rubbed his eyes. It drove him mad to have her coming in and out of focus. “You have it all figured out,” he told her wearily. All but the most important part.

“You were in a dark mood yourself,” she added, putting more pieces together.

“Not for very long,” he said wistfully. Visions of their wedding night flickered behind his eyes.

She threw her hands up. “Why didn’t you do as I suggested? An accident was supposed to befall him. It happens all the time at tourneys!”

“Come here,” he commanded, desperate to make her hold still, and to understand.

She edged reluctantly toward him, but only in response to the threatening tone of his voice. He disliked having to speak to her that way. “Listen, Clarise,” he pleaded, locking her hands in his. “If we had designed some seeming accident, we would still have been guilty of Ferguson’s death. Aye, he was a blackguard and doomed to hell no matter the circumstances. But to execute him in cold blood would have made us no better than butchers ourselves. I have killed too many men, my love.” He squeezed her fingers to convey the horror. “I didn’t want the guilt of his death on my conscience. But mostly, I didn’t want it on yours.”

He could see that his words had hit their mark. She stood before him, revelation on her face. He wondered, hopefully, if she could see the love he harbored for her, if she would answer it.

“You risked your life to protect my conscience?” she inquired with wonder in her voice.

He loved how soft and breathless she could sound. “To prove myself worthy,” he said, releasing her hands.

“Worthy?” She held perfectly still. “Of what?”

He looked straight into her amber eyes. For a heart-stopping second, there were no walls between them. “Of your love,” he admitted.

It was not the answer Clarise expected. She forgot how to breathe. Of your love. The words replayed themselves over and over. Of your love. Of your love. She heard a humming in her ears. Her heart expanded and rose into her throat.

She had tried to convince herself that love was not an essential part of a good marriage. Until Christian said the word, she might have been content with the passion between them and the security of Helmesly’s high walls. But once it was spoken and hovered in the air between them, she knew that to be loved was the one thing she craved above all else. The one thing that assured her that her husband had overcome the demons of his past and let the light of goodness flood his heart.

“Oh, Christian,” she whispered. “How could you think that you had anything to prove?”

He gave her an incredulous look. “In case you hadn’t noticed, lady, I am feared by the people. I was born on the wrong side of the blanket. I have a scar running down one side of my face, and a wicked temper to match it.”

“I know how you came by that scar,” she told him, notching her hands at her hips. “And as for your temper, you are careful to guard me from it.”

“The people, my lady?” he prodded, entranced by her ability to reduce his fearsome qualities into nothing.

“The people have been fed lies by the Abbot of Rievaulx and by others. Gilbert wanted them to fear you. Elsewise he would not have poisoned their ears by predicting you would kill Genrose.”

Christian felt himself pale. “You know about that?” he asked.

She kneeled on the mattress beside him. “Husband,” she said, cupping his jaw in her delicate hand and forcing him to look at her. “There is something you should know about yourself; something someone should have told you long ago.”

“What is it?” he asked, feeling poised on the brink of self-discovery.

Her amber gaze warmed him like the sun. “You, my lord, are a good man. You are honorable and noble, chivalrous and incredibly brave.” This time he could not mistake the sheet of tears that slipped across her eyes and made them glitter. “And I am honored to be your wife. I am honored that you nearly laid your life down in the belief that it would make you worthy. But if you ever do anything so rash again, you will answer for it,” she added, using his own words against him.

He’d never been called those things before. Christian felt a silly smile overtake him. The urge to laugh out loud tickled his lungs, but he feared he would croak if he tried.

“I love you,” she added, throwing her arms around his shoulders. She buried her face in his tunic as if she would cry.

“I’m up here,” he reminded her, desperate for a kiss.

She beamed up at him. “I love you,” she repeated, pressing her mouth to his. “I have loved you since the night you prayed by Simon’s cradle. I knew then that you were not what people said, but a man with a pure heart and pure needs.”

Aye, and his manly needs were about to explode if they did not find immediate relief. Her words rushed over him like springwater over mountain stone. Their mouths fused in a heady blend of hunger and joy. As his hands sought the weight of her breasts, they fell back together in a frenzy of need, too long restrained.

An hour later Christian lay on his back, thoroughly replete and damp with sweat. “Will you always forgive me so thoroughly, wench?” he panted. He felt utterly relaxed.

Clarise rolled on her side to face him. “Think you that I’m done?” she asked, in mock seriousness.

He groaned in surrender. “Hundreds of warriors have raised their swords against me, yet you bring me to my knees with your wanton appetite.”

Clarise laughed out loud, delighted by his wit. How was it that she’d overlooked this lighthearted vein in him? Now that she considered it, she remembered several instances when he’d injected humor into their exchanges. She’d been too blinded by fear to see it.

“My lord,” she purred, rubbing her sweat-slicked body against his side. “Did you ever think that everything would end so well?”

He gave her a look, then fastened his gaze on the cobalt bed canopy. “Too cynical for that, I fear.”

“What is there to fear?” she asked. “The abbot is gone; Ferguson is dead.”

A moment passed when all that came from Christian was the sound of his breathing. “Someone at Helmesly was loyal to the abbot. They sent him missives informing him of certain matters. He was advised of Ethelred’s visit, for example. I saw the warning myself written on a small scrap of paper in Gilbert’s herbal.”

A chill settled on Clarise’s moist skin. “Will it matter now that Gilbert is dead?” she asked.

He hesitated again. “I cannot say. But as long as there is reason for caution, Simon is in danger. We should advise Doris never to let him out of her sight.”

She suddenly recalled the mysterious offerings of goat’s milk. “Do you recall the day that Simon fell ill?” she asked.

“How could I forget it?”

Gooseflesh prickled her tender skin. “The milk I had given him that day was not milk that I fetched myself,” she admitted. “I found a full bucket awaiting me that morning. I thought it might have been left behind by one of the milkmaids. Simon was due to waken at any moment, so I took it, loath to make him wait any longer. I think, perhaps, that it was poisoned.”

He stared at her in silence, lines of his face growing suddenly harsh.

“Please don’t be angry with me.” She put a hand to his cheek to calm his wrath. “Believe me, there is nothing you could say to me that would chastise me any more than I have chastised myself. But here is the strange part, my lord. The bucket was there again the next day and the next. I poured it out,” she hastened to assure him. “I may be impulsive, but I’m not stupid.”

“Of course not,” He rolled onto his side to face her. “Thank you for telling me. And thank you for using your wits, even though you ought to have told me the truth by then.”

“I need to go get Simon,” she said, overcome by sudden panic.

“Stay but a while,” her husband begged. He dipped his head and flicked his tongue across the sensitive peak of her breast. “I trust Doris to guard him.”

“Nay, I have to check on him. I will bring him here, and we can play with him until supper.”

“No rest for the weary,” he groaned, burying his face between the swells.

She nipped him on the shoulder, then wriggled quickly off the bed.

“Vixen!” he shouted, reaching out to pinch her buttocks as she fled.

The banter continued as she quickly washed and dressed. Brushing the tangles from her hair, Clarise glanced out the window. The ground was scorched and thirsty for rain. The wildflowers had wilted in the heat. Yet, deep in her heart, a river of contentment flowed.

But then she remembered Christian’s suspicions, and alarm shivered through her. Putting down her hairbrush, she hastened from the room, blowing a kiss to her husband as she went.

Chapter Twenty

Rushing up the tower stairs to relieve Doris, Clarise barreled into Harold, who was hastening down the stairs. “Oh, Harold, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

He mumbled an apology under his breath and kept right on going, his chin tucked against his chest.

Clarise watched him beat a hasty retreat. What was Harold doing on the third level? He didn’t usually venture beyond the great hall or the kitchens, especially in late afternoon with preparations for supper under way.

Determined to assuage her curiosity, she ascended the remaining steps as quietly as possible. Christian’s suspicions came sharply to mind as she tiptoed along the corridor. She peeked into the room she had formerly occupied and spied Doris, straightening the rumples from the bed.

Clarise drew back with a gasp. The evidence was overwhelming. Suddenly she knew who’d fathered Doris’s unborn child. It was Harold. Because of his mental infirmities and odd manner of speaking, she had placed him above suspicion. Now she recalled his agitation when Doris had gone into labor. He had feared that Doris would die as his niece had done.

Did Dame Maeve know about her husband’s liaisons? Could that be the reason for her bitterness and spite?

Clarise waited a minute longer, then stepped forward to knock on the door.

“Come, milady,” Doris sang out, clearly expecting her. As Clarise entered the room, the woman turned with the baby clasped to her ample bosom. “He is just waking from a nap,” she announced. Seeing the look on her mistress’s face, she faltered. Her doughty cheeks fell as her smile died.

“Doris,” Clarise said, sternly enough to make the nurse pale. “You have not been honest with me or, for that matter, with yourself.”

“Milady?” Doris croaked.

Clarise shut the door so they wouldn’t be overheard. “I just saw Harold leave,” she announced. “He was the father of your baby, wasn’t he?”

Doris cast a miserable look to the floor. “Aye, milady.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Twenty years an’ more.”

The answer staggered her. Twenty years! Her outrage frittered away like so much hot air.

“It were me he was going to wed,” Doris admitted, as great tears welled up in her hazel eyes. “But his father, bein’ a powerful man, arranged a marriage for him with a wealthy merchant’s daughter. He were forced ta wed Maeve, as he ne did have a choice. But ’tis me he loves, and I him.”

All this was uttered with such wrenching emotion that Clarise felt a rising empathy for the woman. She approached the former cook and gave her a searching look. “Does Maeve know?” she asked.

“Aye, milady. She watches us close, though not for love of her husband, but to own him. When she learned I would have his babe, she called the midwife. Together, they forced me to drink a potion boiled with brakefern bark. It expelled the little babe from my womb, as ye know.”

Clarise’s gaze fell to Simon, who blinked sleepily against the woman’s shoulder. “Jesu, Doris! Why didn’t you say something? ’Tis a horrible crime. Maeve should have to answer for it.”

The old woman blushed like a maiden in her prime. “Don’t ye see, milady? Harold and I would be publicly exposed. We were the ones what sinned in the first place.” She lifted the baby from her shoulder and passed him to her mistress with a wistful look. Clarise could tell that she was thinking of her stillborn son.

“ ’Tis not a sin to love for more than twenty years!” Clarise insisted, settling Simon in her arms. “You are wed to Harold in your heart, are you not?”

“Aye, milady. He is a good man, a gentle man,” Doris proclaimed on his behalf.

“Then I will tell Lord Christian of Maeve and the midwife’s attempt at murder. Mayhap she’ll be made to leave the castle and her marriage to Harold annulled.”

Doris staggered to the bed and sank heavily upon the mattress. “Do ye think so?” she breathed. Her eyes were filled with such longing that Clarise experienced a pang of doubt. She wondered if she’d raised the woman’s hopes too high.

“I will do my best for you,” she promised, turning away. “Oh, Doris, there is one more thing,” she added by the door. “We must watch Simon as close as ever. Lord Christian believes there is still good cause to fear for his safety.”

Doris nodded dumbly. As Clarise turned away, the nurse heaved a great sigh. “Oh, Harold,” she overheard her whisper.

Clarise lay in bed that night, too hot to sleep. Though the window was open, the air lay thick and close, making it difficult to breathe. The stars pulsed feebly in the midnight sky, shedding little light on the bed she shared with her husband. She should be sleeping in the happy knowledge that her husband loved her. Instead, she was plagued by dark suspicions.

Thoughts spanned her mind like intricate spiderwebs. Christian had agreed that Maeve should be tried for contributing to the death of Doris’s baby, but, he pointed out, she would have equal right to demand that Harold and Doris face judgment for their illicit affair.

Was there no way to ostracize Maeve from the castle and leave the lovers in peace?

Clarise replayed her various conversations with Harold, seeking the signs she’d missed that would have pointed her to the truth. Doris is well, she remembered comforting him. ’Twas her baby that died.

He’d seemed to confuse the death of his baby with the plight of his niece. She was a babe once, my Rose. I rocked her on my knee. Here’s your horsey.

Doris was right. He was a good man, despite his differences, and clearly well bred without an Anglo accent of any kind to blunt his Norman tongue. Likely he had been a dutiful son to his father, who Doris had said was a powerful man. Powerful implied noble. Yet as no noblewoman would want to wed a halfwit, perhaps Harold had been made to marry a merchant’s daughter, causing him to sink into anonymity.

Hadn’t he told her something of his family? She tried to reconstruct their conversation.

You must have been a wonderful uncle, she remembered telling him.

Harold, he’d said. Brother of John.

John. John who?

John of Eppingham, Baron of Helmesly?

Clarise sat up slowly, careful not to awaken her husband. Her heart thudded loudly in her chest. Perspiration coated her skin. Could it be? She racked her brain for any evidence that her wild guess was right.

If Harold was the brother of the Baron of Helmesly, then he was also uncle to Genrose, the baron’s only daughter.

Rose, that’s a pretty name.

Yet why didn’t anyone acknowledge Harold as a nobleman, as Lord Harold, the baron’s brother? She could only assume his family had been ashamed of his infirmities. Had they given him the title of a steward, found him a wife, and left it at that?

Yet no amount of concealment changed the fact that he was second in line to inherit the baronetcy.

Our pretty Rose has wilted.

He’d said those words in the lyrical voice he used when repeating people. The words, sounding so poetic at first, took on a sinister edge. Our pretty Rose has wilted. Who would have said those words for Harold to repeat them? Neither of Genrose’s parents, for Lord John and his wife were dead before their daughter.

A vision of the gnarled midwife sprang to the forefront of Clarise’s mind. With the midwife’s help, Maeve had managed to kill Doris’s baby. Could the pair of them have forced Genrose to drink an infusion of the same toxic bark?

Clarise smothered a gasp. Without a baby to inherit or a niece to deliver another son, the baronetcy would fall to Harold. And who was the driving force behind her husband but Maeve?

Galvanized by her guesswork, Clarise slid off the bed and stalked to the open window. She hoped for a breeze to bring relief to her fevered skin. But it was useless—there was absolutely no wind in the air tonight. To cool her neck, she gathered up the heavy fall of her hair and looked at her sleeping husband.

Should she wake him now and tell him her suspicions? She wanted to, but the darkness strained his eyes, and sleep was precious to him. Hadn’t he marveled just this morning that he had slept through two nights straight? She was loath to affect his recovery, even temporarily. Her news could wait until morning.

She turned and looked out the window again. Tension gripped her shoulders in a vice. Christian’s belief that Simon’s life was still in danger had overworked her imagination. Either that, or there was every reason to take action right away.

A tendril of fear tickled her nape. Clarise let her hair fall. She crossed to the desk and snatched up a tallow lamp and flint. In deference to her husband’s eyes, she closed the door before lighting the candle on the gallery.

The great hall below was deserted. Holding the candle aloft, Clarise lifted the hem of her chemise and approached the tower stairs to Doris’s chamber. She would check on Simon and at the same time ask Doris if her suspicions were right. The plump nurse clearly knew of Harold’s past.

The light barely illumined the steps beneath Clarise’s feet. They seemed to rise more steeply in the darkness.

At the top of the stairs she paused. She could hear Doris snoring from where she stood. The servant’s door was open. Gooseflesh ridged Clarise’s back. With her eyes wide open, she sought to see beyond the candle’s flame as she inched down the corridor.

Nothing is wrong, she told herself. Christian’s concerns were playing with her mind—that was all. She reached the door and peered inside.

The shutters were pulled shut. She could see no farther than the periphery of candlelight. Doris’s snoring sawed over her senses, increasing her agitation.

Clarise forced herself to march straight for Simon’s cradle. She did so, fully expecting to find the baby sleeping within. She would carry him downstairs, thus ensuring herself some rest. She stepped right up to the box with the flame held high. Gold light plumbed the depths of the empty cradle. Simon was gone.

With a gasp and a leaping heart, she spun around. The candle sputtered. She hastened to the side of Doris’s bed and yanked open the drapes. “Doris!” she cried. Her tone was so sharp that the woman lurched into wakefulness. “Is Simon in the bed with you?”

A disoriented pause came from the large woman. She patted down the bed around her. “Nay,” she answered in bewildered tones. “Is he ne in the box? I left him there but a nonce ago.”

Clarise had a feeling they were wasting precious time. “Hurry downstairs, Doris,” she commanded, already halfway to the door. “Awaken Christian and tell him Simon has been taken!”

Doris leaped from the bed. As the woman thundered down the turret steps, Clarise edged into the hall, not knowing where to start her search. The flame of her lamp dimmed as if deprived of air.

She thought hard, calling on every one of her senses to aid her. When she’d stepped onto the gallery, not a soul had stirred on the steps or in the hall. Every instinct shouted that the kidnapper either lingered on the third level or had taken an alternate route down. For Simon to be so quiet, he would either have to be sleeping or . . . nay, she couldn’t bring herself to think of an alternative.

She crept down the length of the hallway in the direction of the eastern turret. Hadn’t she encountered Dame Maeve on the stairs of that turret once before? A sound reached her ears and she drew up short, listening. There it was again, a metallic jingle that came from the garderobe, immediately to her right.

Clarise approached the shut door. She tugged at the latch and shoved it open with her foot. The room was poorly ventilated. Though not in heavy use, it reeked nevertheless on such a still evening. She caught her breath and bravely stepped inside.

It was then that she saw her. Maeve cowered in the far corner of the chamber, next to one of the holes that passed waste into the moat. Like a wild animal, her eyes seemed to glow in the lamp’s light, and like an animal she looked terrified at being cornered. Her breath came in ragged pants. In her arms was a swaddled bundle. Simon! Clarise’s heart threw itself against her ribs. My Simon.

“Give him to me,” she commanded in a voice that sent chills down her own spine. She stalked the woman.

“Get back!” Maeve cried, her eyes darting in desperation. “Get back,” she repeated, “else I’ll drop him through the hole!” With that, she ripped away his swaddling cloth and threw it down into the void. Simon cried out, protesting his rude awakening.

Clarise stifled a scream. A vision of Simon’s little body plummeting toward the moat stopped her short. “I’ll kill you,” she answered back, meaning it. “You’ve been caught now, Maeve. Even if you killed Simon and your husband were the only heir remaining, you would never live to see it! The Slayer will cut you into little pieces with his sword!”

Even in the murky shadows the woman’s visage seemed to pale. She took a furtive step toward the door, and Clarise moved to block her path.

With the knowledge that help was shortly coming, Clarise desperately sought to buy time. “Did you think you could manipulate so much and get away with it?” she scoffed. “I know that you poisoned your niece, Genrose. Mayhap you even killed her parents,” she added with sudden inspiration. “ ’Tis said they died of dysentery. Did you poison them as well?”

“Aye!” screeched the woman, losing her composure. Wisps of her hair had escaped her usually tidy bun. “I killed them all, and I’ll kill you, too. As soon as I’ve rid the world of this parasite.” Simon emitted another cry.

“You’ve tried already to poison him,” Clarise quickly interjected. “Was it you who left the buckets of milk in the nanny pen?”

“Aye, and you would have been blamed,” retorted the woman, even as she quaked with fear. “All the servants knew ye were a fraud.”

Not far away, Clarise heard her husband call, his tone filled with urgency. Dame Maeve heard it, also. With a muffled cry she stooped to toss Simon through the hole. Clarise dropped the lamp and leaped forward. As darkness swallowed them, her fingers groped for the baby. She encountered Maeve’s bony elbow and wrenched it upward. Simon tumbled from the woman’s arms, and Clarise barely caught him, her fingers closing around his thigh. She hung on tight. Shoving Dame Maeve against the wall, she rushed from the room, gathering Simon closer.

She came within an inch of skewering them both on her husband’s sword. “Clarise! My God, is he hurt?” he panted, reaching out to touch them.

Simon howled, forcing her to raise her voice. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maeve was going to drop him through the waste hole. Oh, my saints!” she exclaimed in the aftermath of horror. “She’s still in there!” She pointed, despite the fact that the hall was nearly black and he couldn’t see.

“Maeve? But why?”

“I’ll tell you later,” she promised. “Just get her. Kill her if you must, I don’t care.”

And she didn’t. A mother’s instinct had risen up in her, making her fiercely protective and completely unforgiving. “But how can you see?” She caught him back when he made to move past her.

“I’ve been blind for a week,” he reminded her.

The assurance was comforting. So was the sound of others pounding up the stairs, bearing torches and raised voices. Her husband disappeared into the garderobe. Clarise strained her ears for sounds of a struggle.

“Come out, old woman,” she heard him threaten, “else I’ll run you through with this sword. You know its name, do you not? I call it Vengeance. Wherever there is evil, Vengeance draws blood.”

Maeve whimpered loudly enough to be heard over Simon’s cries.

Clarise ran her fingers over the baby’s naked body, seeking signs of injury. There was nothing to cause her further alarm, save for his trembling distress. Men-at-arms came up behind her, hushing each other as they realized that their liege lord was already handling the villain in the stinking chamber.

“Should we go in?” one of them asked Clarise.

“Stand fast,” she said. “He will have her shortly.”

Indeed, he appeared at that very moment, escorting the woman out of the darkness, the edge of his broadsword pressed to her throat. She didn’t dare to struggle. Her eyes darted wildly as she took note of the many witnesses.

Clarise reached out and grabbed the ring of keys, snapping the cord that held them to the woman’s waist. She was stripped of her authority.

“Hagar,” Christian called, waving the dungeon guard forward. He lowered the sword only to thrust the woman into Hagar’s beefy hands. The mute man toted her off, deaf to the invectives that came spewing from her mouth the moment the Slayer set her free.

Simon’s screams quieted as the woman was dragged from sight and sound. The remaining men-at-arms awaited orders from their liege lord.

Christian tucked his sword under his arm. “May I hold him?” he asked hoarsely.

Clarise put the baby gently in his father’s hands. He laid Simon against his shoulder and turned from the glare of the torchlight to soothe his son. Or was it the babe who soothed his father?

A streak of moisture shone upon the warlord’s cheek. She didn’t know if her husband was weeping, or if the strain on his eyes had caused them to tear. Deciding it was the former, she put her arms around father and son. My men, she thought, feeling the fullness of her love.

“Return to your beds,” Christian rumbled, directing this suggestion to the men. “I thank you for your timeliness.”

“First, my love, I think we should send a party to arrest the midwife,” Clarise spoke up suddenly. “She and Maeve are responsible for the death of Doris’s baby, as well as”—she hesitated, loath to shock him—“as well as Lady Genrose.”

“Genrose,” he whispered, blinking away his disbelief. He lifted his gaze to the men’s stunned faces. “Do as she says.”

“Aye, my lord. What about Harold?” asked the oldest man.

“Harold is innocent,” Clarise supplied, before her husband could speak. “Question him if you must, but this plot was engineered by Maeve. You have my word on it.”

A thoughtful soldier left his torch for them and turned away, encouraging the others to follow.

The warlord stood gazing at her with amazement. “How did you come by all this knowledge?” he asked her. Simon’s sobs had become mere hiccups.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted. “I lay in bed, and my mind started churning. I knew that there was something I had overlooked. Something I could almost put my finger on if I thought about it hard enough. And then it came to me. I rushed upstairs to check on Simon, and he was gone.”

He shook his head in wonder. “God knows what would have happened if you hadn’t come sooner. Why didn’t you wake me?” he demanded, suddenly angry. “When will you learn to garner your impulsiveness and stay out of danger?”

She felt the flexing of his muscles under her fingertips. “If I hadn’t acted when I did,” she soothed him, “then Simon would likely be dead.”

He took a sharp breath and reined himself in. “She was going to drop him down the waste hole?” he asked incredulously. “Why?”

“I will tell you everything in a moment,” she promised, “but first we need to get a soiling cloth on Simon before he wets you.” She stepped over to fetch the torch and bring it with them.

“Are you hurt at all?” he asked, betraying his concern with worry this time.

“Not even a scratch,” she answered, urging him to follow. “Now hurry, or you’ll need another undershirt.”

He trailed her down the hall to Doris’s chamber. “You wrestled the babe from her, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. Think you that I would let that woman kill him? I’d have torn her into shreds first.”

Her proclamation impressed him into silence. She motioned for him to lay the baby on Doris’s bed while she foraged for linens. The heavy nurse had yet to return to her room. She would hear the news of Maeve’s arrest from the men-at-arms. And then she would go to Harold to explain matters to him. At last the lovers would be free to proclaim their affection for each other.

“This reminds me of the time I found Simon naked in his box,” he mused, looking down at his son. “Do you remember that night? My first thought was that you’d performed that mischief to avenge me.”

She remembered perfectly. The terror she’d felt for him then seemed unreasonable in light of their newfound love. “Maeve was likely the one to do it. She hoped he would take chill and die as many infants do.”

Christian’s fingers scraped the bristles on his chin. “I remember now that I sent her up to waken you. She had the perfect opportunity to kill him then. Why not take it?”

“She would have been suspect right away,” reasoned Clarise. “Better to drop him in the moat where his body . . . my God, I can’t even speak of it, ’tis so horrifying. I have so much to tell you, Christian,” she added, “but I think you should be sitting when I say it.” She looked around. “Have a seat on the chest,” she said, waving him toward the chest he’d sat on once before.

“Christ’s toes, what do you think me made of?” he exclaimed.

She turned toward his stunned expression. “I think your heart is far more tender than you realize,” she told him earnestly.

He glowered at her. “Think you so?” His bloodshot eyes gave him the appearance of a demon.

“I know so.” She picked up the securely girded baby. “When you hear the extent of Maeve’s wickedness, you will think yourself an angel by comparison.”

He gave a tortured sound that had her looking at him sharply. “What was that? Did you just laugh?”

His expression was composed. “I never laugh,” he said grimly.

“Hmmm.” She trusted her ears more than his words. “We have work to do,” she announced. “As you imagine yourself undaunted, I will tell you what I have pieced together on the way. Would you kindly bring the torch? And the keys, we’ll need Maeve’s keys, most likely.”

“Where are we going?” he asked, bewildered.

She scooped up the baby. “To look for proof.”

“Proof of what?”

“Proof that Maeve sent messages to the abbot. Proof that the two of them collaborated to see you thrust from Helmesly.”

“Maeve and the abbot? I doubt they even knew each other.”

“Don’t be so quick to judge, Christian. Think about it. What was the purpose of the interdict but to breed discontent among the people? The abbot instilled resentment into the hearts of the peasants. He wanted them to fear you. Elsewise he would not have predicted you would kill your lady wife. The idea was to cause the people to rise against you in the hopes that they would thrust you from Helmesly.

“You were too much a danger to Maeve’s plans,” she continued, leading the way toward the east tower. “She feared you would get a boy child on Genrose, which you did, of course. She then plotted to get rid of the baby. With the midwife’s help, she poisoned Genrose with the same infusion of brakefern that they gave to Doris.”

“Why the devil would Maeve do such a thing?”

Clarise touched her husband’s arm before delivering the coup de grace. “Harold is the brother of the late baron of Eppingham. After Simon, he is next in line to the seat of Helmesly.”

“What!” he cried, coming to a startled halt.

She quickly related the scraps of information she had pieced together. “Harold mentioned that his niece, Rose, would ofttimes read to him. I didn’t make the connection at first. All I knew was that they were close.” She urged Christian to precede her down the tower stairs, holding the torch aloft so they could see.

“Genrose never told me Harold was her uncle,” he puzzled aloud. “Neither did Baron John.”

“He was apparently an embarrassment to the family. As no noblewoman would wed him, his family settled on a merchant’s daughter, Maeve.”

“Who soon had ambitious thoughts,” he concluded, his voice echoing in the stairwell.

“Aye, only you ruined her plans by getting her niece with child. She couldn’t run the risk that the baby might be a boy, so she sought to kill him. If you hadn’t saved Simon, Harold would be baron, despite his shortcomings.”

“Especially if the abbot Gilbert sealed his right to rule.”

“Exactly.”

“How much farther?” he asked. The stairs were steep and slick with moisture in the lower regions.

“Maeve’s retreat is down with the storerooms. One more level, I think. I’ve been here before,” she volunteered when they reached the lowest level. “The goods that were stripped from the castle were piled in one of the storerooms like a hidden cache. Sir Roger said Genrose had wanted to give her parents’ riches to the poor. I suspect Maeve was holding on to them for the time when she would rule as baroness.”

They moved from door to door, finding the keys in precise order on the key ring. More goods littered the dusty floor.

“There’s another room around the corner,” Clarise informed him.

As they turned the corner, Christian pulled her back. “Wait,” he whispered. “There’s a line of light under the door.”

His vision was much improved, she thought, to discern the coppery glow. “Try the key,” she whispered. Nervously she patted Simon’s back, though the baby had already dropped off to sleep.

But the key wasn’t necessary. The door swung silently inward, and a pungent odor greeted their nostrils. The room was illumined with tallow candles, betraying Maeve’s recent presence. It was clearly an herbal of sorts, as a number of dried plants were suspended from hooks and littered the tabletops. What drew both their gazes was the cote of carrier pigeons. The birds fluttered in alarm as the couple edged into the room.

They stared at the cage in contemplation. “Was the message you discovered at Rievaulx small enough to be carried by air?” Clarise inquired.

“Aye,” said her husband, who had come to the same conclusion. He turned and gave her a respectful look. “It seems you have figured it all out, my love. I shall have to make you my chief tactician.”

She sketched him a curtsy. “We have yet to know the reason why Maeve and Gilbert would help each other.”

“Greed motivated both of them,” her husband guessed. “Gilbert desired power and fame.”

“And Maeve wanted to be mistress of Helmesly,” Clarise finished for him.

“They might have been lovers.”

She shook her head. “He could never have loved a woman. They were siblings, most likely, with those dark eyes so much alike. We have only to ask Doris. She is one of the few servants old enough to recall when Harold wed Maeve.”

He gave the rest of the room a quick inspection. “Maeve and Gilbert shared an interest in herbs as well. This herbal reminds me much of his.”

“It is done, then,” she said, feeling the tension rush out of her. At last the security and peace she had craved for so long was theirs to enjoy. “Simon is safe. Nothing else will ever threaten him,” she swore with a mother’s determination.

Christian’s bloodshot gaze lingered on her profile as she kissed the baby’s cheek. “Can we go to bed now?” he asked with his lids half shut.

“Oh, my love,” she said, remembering his condition with sudden contrition. “I hope you haven’t strained your eyes with all this nighttime activity.”

“Lady, you will turn me into a pudding-heart,” he swore, moving to snuff out the candles.

“Not at all. You are welcome to as much nocturnal activity as you please, so long as it’s restricted to the bedchamber.”

His answer was a laugh that was cut short.

Clarise allowed herself a smile. She had fulfilled the vow she had made to her father. She had surprised Simon’s would-be murderer and unveiled the plot to usurp the baronetcy from the rightful heir.

Making the Slayer of Helmesly laugh out loud was a challenge she looked forward to.

Epilogue

A man once called the Slayer gazed into the lilac eyes of his newborn baby girl and saw his reflection in her pupils. In a former life, he’d been a dreaded warlord. Now he was an ordinary man. A profoundly humbled father.

The infant who was no more than a minute old was still wet from her passage into the world. Her lungs swelled with air as she cried, heralding her birth. Sunlight streamed through the open shutters to guild her bright red hair. An April breeze carried the scent of hyacinths from the meadow. Her weary mother groaned.

“I am never doing that again,” she vowed, lifting her lashes to observe them.

Christian lowered their daughter to the bed so Clarise could share in the miracle. “Look,” he urged, his eyes stinging with boundless joy. “Look how beautiful she is!”

He watched his wife’s expression as she absorbed the baby’s heart-shaped face, the cherry-red hair and bowed lips. Their daughter ceased to cry. She stared back at her mother, as though in recognition.

“Her eyes are violet,” Clarise whispered.

It was a self-admitted weakness that the warlord loved to watch his wife’s expressive face. Her intelligence and pathos never ceased to stir him. And while he’d nearly sacrificed his life to be worthy of her, he couldn’t help but confess himself a blessed man.

Ignoring the young midwife who pressed a compress between his wife’s legs, Clarise bared her splendid bosom and guided one ripe, pink nipple into the baby’s mouth.

The infant thrashed just once before she fastened on. “That was easy enough,” she commented, with relief.

“You’ve had practice, remember?”

She flicked him a patronizing look. “I don’t want to hear a thing out of you right now. You could never have survived what I just went through.”

He loved it when she scolded him. “Likely not,” he agreed, thrusting aside the nightmare of her twenty-four-hour labor.

“I am not doing it again,” she repeated. Her head lolled upon the snowy pillow.

He indulged her in all things, but he could not agree to this whim. Already he was looking forward to the day she healed, so they could resume their lovemaking. There was nothing in the world remotely like the passion that they shared.

He leaned over the suckling baby and dropped a gentle kiss on his wife’s lips, bruised from biting down on them while pushing. “Did I tell you that you’re beautiful today?”

She gave a snort of disbelief. “A bald-faced lie,” she retorted. Her lashes floated upward. “Will you bring Simon in?” she said. “I want him to meet his little sister.”

“In a moment.” He smoothed a flyaway curl from her cheek and watched her eyelids sink closed. His daughter sucked contently. “What will we name her?” he asked as the question suddenly occurred to him.

Clarise gave a sigh. “Rose,” she murmured.

The name was perfectly suited to the baby’s coloring. “Harold will be happy,” he added, thinking out loud.

Harold executed his duties as steward these days with newfound confidence. His marriage to Maeve had been quickly annulled, thanks to the efficiency of Ethelred, newly elected Abbot of Rievaulx. Harold still wandered in his speech and lacked an awareness of his surroundings, but he was loyal. And loyalty meant a lot in the household of a future baron.

As for Maeve, she had succumbed to a fate similar to that of her brother, the Abbot of Rievaulx. But instead of falling down a set of stairs, she had hung herself with her own hair, in the dungeon of Helmesly.

“Rose,” Christian whispered, shaking off the memories of the past. He caressed the back of his daughter’s head, then gave in to the urge to put his arms around both wife and baby. The midwife had traveled all the way from York to attend the birth. He wondered what she would think to see a mighty mercenary cry like a baby.

I’ve grown soft, he admitted, swallowing down a sob. He would never say it publicly, though his wife accused him often enough.

He had outgrown the unreasonable need to stir fear in strangers’ hearts. Now he used his sword for practice only and for protection. With Heathersgill and Glenmyre under his supervision, peace and prosperity cast their blankets over the land. And both seemed settled in for good.

He couldn’t help but reflect how much his life had changed since the fateful night he’d cut Simon from the belly of his dead first wife. The pivotal point had been when Clarise marched into his world and snatched his son from certain death.

As he sat basking in the bounty of their love, a shaft of sunlight warmed the disfigured half of his face. He believed beyond a doubt that Clarise had come to him as a reward for righteousness. The words from Ethelred’s book had come true!

“My sweet?” he whispered, leaning forward. He was filled with a need to share his gratitude.

“Mmmmm?” she grunted.

“Thank you,” he told her, pressing his lips to hers.

She cast him a feeble smile and kept her eyes shut. “You won’t be needing a nurse,” she remarked over the musical sound of their daughter sucking.

“Nay, but I may have to send Roger looking for a leman,” he replied with mock despair. “My own lady has decided to forsake the marriage bed.”

She was silent so long he thought she’d fallen asleep. “Try it, my love, and you will have a second scar to match the first one,” she muttered acerbically.

He threw back his head and laughed out loud. “You know I couldn’t bring myself to look at another,” he added, nuzzling her neck.

“I made you laugh,” she pointed out.

“Aye, you did.” It was their favorite game. One of so many private games they shared. To hell with the midwife, he thought, letting a tear of joy roll unchecked down his cheek.

He was not ashamed to admit that the Slayer of Helmesly had shucked the mantle of darkness.