“Save your breath, lady,” he interrupted. “I’ve been called those things before. Go on now,” he added, jarring her with his demand that she leave. “Doris must be wondering where you are.”

To be thrust from his room was just as humiliating as his ultimatum. With a cry of outrage, Clarise cast her eyes about and spied an earthenware pitcher. Snatching it up, she hurled it with all her might at the Slayer. To her chagrin, it bounced harmlessly on the mattress and landed by his thigh. She wished, then, that it had been full of water. “Go to the devil!” she raged, marching for the door. Tears of humiliation smarted her eyes as she wrenched it open.

She gained small satisfaction in slamming it as hard as she could behind her.

With a low whistle of amazement, Christian fell back against the bed. Clarise’s passionate nature was evident not only in her body’s response to him but also in her formidable temper. He hoped he had not ruined everything by giving her such an ultimatum. And yet he’d decided that unless Clarise DuBoise was the prize, there was little allure in engaging in a long siege for the purpose of retaking Heathersgill. He already had his hands full with Glenmyre. Such chivalry was for other men, men who couldn’t bear to see a damsel in distress. Not he. He wanted to have a palpable reward for his efforts. He wanted Clarise DuBoise’s body for his sole possession. He wanted to be on her, over her, in her, and around her, always.

His body throbbed with a hunger too fierce to be ignored. Rolling down the tops of his chausses, he caught up his swollen shaft and eased it up and down. He had brought Clarise to a shattering orgasm! The truth of it exhilarated him; it excited him beyond bearing. Her body had been so responsive, yet so innocent with its tight sheath. He vowed he would have her soon.

The scent still lingered on his hands. He breathed it in, stroking his flesh as he lost himself to his imaginings.

Would she agree to be his mistress? He knew it was no light decision, giving her soul to the Slayer of Helmesly. Much depended on how badly she wanted Ferguson eliminated.

But for now, he pretended she would tell him yes. Then tomorrow at this time he would sink his aching shaft into her softness and know true fulfillment. The thought hurtled him to a speedy climax. Scalding hot seed spattered his tunic and wet his hand. He let out a groan, and realized later that he’d groaned Clarise’s name.









Chapter Thirteen


















Clarise read aloud the entire chapter on the life of St. Dunstan without absorbing a word of the text.

If you want me to kill Ferguson, you will have to give me something in exchange. What I want is you. All of you.

The Slayer’s words reverberated in her head, making other thoughts impossible. She found herself at the end of the chapter with no memory of what she’d read.

Across the trestle table Harold wore a wistful expression. His white hair was bleached by the sunbeams slanting through one of the windows. The lingering aroma of trout griddled in herbs filled the empty hall. Clarise had left Simon safe in Doris’s care in order to fulfill her promise to the steward. Reading, he said, was something his niece had done for him. The girl, apparently, had died quite recently.

“Did you like the story?” she asked, wresting his attention from a corner of his mind known only to him.

Harold smiled at her sheepishly. “Aye.” He sighed. “You read as well as my lovely Rose.”

“Was that your niece?” Clarise asked, closing the book. “Rose, that’s a pretty name.”

“Our pretty Rose has wilted,” he intoned in a singsong voice. His vague blue eyes darkened with loss.

Clarise felt a pang of sympathy for the old man. She reached across the plank table and touched his hand. “She is with the saints now,” she comforted, knowing Harold’s fascination for saints and martyrs.

Harold’s gaze drifted until it landed on her face. “My Rose had a baby,” he told her mournfully. He frowned as though struggling to remember something.

“Did she die in childbirth? ’Tis such a sad thing. Simon’s mother also died,” she reminded him.

“Not Doris,” he said, sounding relieved.

“Nay, Doris is well, thank God. ’Twas her babe that died,” she clarified, thinking him confused.

He scratched the bristles on his jaw. “So sad,” he echoed her earlier statement. “She was a baby once, my Rose. I rocked her on my knee. Here’s your horsey.” He clicked his tongue to imitate the clip-clopping of hooves.

“You must have been a wonderful uncle.”

“Harold, brother of John,” he said, as though introducing himself.

Awareness stirred at the edges of Clarise’s mind, but with her thoughts elsewhere, she failed to grasp what it was. Instead, she found herself recalling the conversation she’d shared with the Slayer over breakfast.

She’d had no intention of speaking to him at all, for she had no answer to his ultimatum. But hearing him recount for his men-at-arms Ferguson’s attack on Glenmyre, she’d realized he had seen her mother with his own eyes, and she longed for reassuring word of her. “How did my mother look?” she asked, buttering her bread to avoid eye contact. Nonetheless, her face flushed crimson, and she was certain that anyone who looked at her would guess her indignity of the night before.

He had turned his attention from his men to her. “Not well,” he’d said with a frown. “She seemed desperate to enter the gates.”

Desperate. The word sliced deep into her heart. “Could you not have tried to let her in?” It was useless to hide her dismay.

“I did try, lady.” He’d captured her hand, then, the strength of his grip reassuring. “The foot soldiers were too close, and a second wave of men hid in the trees. The most I could do was ensure she didn’t get hit by our arrows when Ferguson called her back.”

She had almost told the Slayer, then and there, she would accept to be his mistress. Ferguson had put her mother in the direct path of the enemy’s arrows! How could she risk the lives of her family by waiting another day?

But pride kept her in check. There was yet another option, one that did not involve the threat to her senses, the indignity of trading her body for the Slayer’s aid. With the Abbot of Revesby’s help, there was still a chance that she could contact Alec.

The scuffle of sandals roused her to the present. Just then, the good abbot stepped through the rear entrance of the hall. This morning’s service, followed by the sacrament of burial for Doris’s babe, had afforded no opportunity to catch him alone. Perhaps now, she thought, seizing what might be her only chance.

“Excuse me, Harold.” She abandoned the Slayer’s book on the table and hastened toward Ethelred. He had spotted her as well, and his face lit up. His short stride was charged with purpose. They met by the empty fire pit.

“Lady Clarise,” he greeted her. “I was told to seek your assistance in showing me the herb garden.”

“By all means. But I’ve only stepped foot in it once,” she admitted. “I believe Dame Maeve knows more about herbs than I.”

“It was she who bid me seek you out,” he said, looking puzzled.

“Ah, well, the housekeeper is feeling ill.” Suffering from a case of wounded pride, she nearly added. “Shall we find the garden now? I would speak with you about a certain matter.” She glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder. The hall was deserted at midmorning. The Slayer had left with his master-at-arms to run through drills in the outer ward.

“Lead the way.” The good abbot gestured.

“What exactly are you looking for, Your Grace?” she called a moment later. He paced the walkway of crushed seashells, looking hot in his black robe. Sweat dripped from his temples as he peered at the rows of aster, tansy, and feverfew. He stroked his beardless chin in contemplation.

“I wish I knew, lady,” he cryptically confessed. His gaze hovered over a bright patch of horeshound, then inspected the heavy stalks of foxglove. At last he glanced at Clarise. “Do you know much about healing?” he inquired.

She shook her head regretfully. “Not I, Father. My sister Merry is skilled in the herbal arts. What little I know I learned from her. Why do you ask?” she inquired, feeling a chill despite the heat.

He clasped his hands together and looked away. “ ’Tis a matter the archbishop has asked me to look into,” he answered vaguely. He turned away and paced down another shell-strewn aisle.

Clarise followed his gaze and managed to summon the names of just a few of the plants crowding the narrow beds. Pink lady’s mantle, pale Saint-John’s-Wort, and purple pennyroyal. There were others, but she could neither name them nor list their qualities.

For the moment Ethelred seemed content with his inspection. He approached her, smiling a bit grimly. “What is it you wished to speak to me about?” he asked.

Clarise’s heart began to pound. She had waited so long for a priest to assist her. At the same time she felt as though she were bent on a secret mission, one that the Slayer would disapprove of should he catch wind of it. “Your Grace,” she hedged, plucking the folds of her salmon-pink gown. “There is a novice monk at Rievaulx, an old friend of mine. I’ve been unsuccessful at reaching him, either by letter or in person. I fear,” she added, feeling the heat of embarrassment on her cheeks, “that he may be stricken by illness there.”

“What is this brother’s name?” the abbot asked. His probing blue gaze was not without sympathy, and Clarise took heart.

“Alec Monteign. He was once my betrothed,” she admitted, baring all. “He went to Reivaulx six months ago.” She was startled to find that the pain of his desertion had miraculously eased.

“I believe I met him once,” Ethelred mused. “Is he a man of average stature, with golden hair, light eyes?”

“He is!” she cried. “When did you see him?”

“This winter past. He was newly come to Rievaulx, quite zealous to live the life of an eremite. I remember he approached me and asked me questions about my book.”

Alec hadn’t shared his religious zeal with her. It came as a surprise to hear of it. Clarise had to wonder if he hadn’t agreed to wed her for his father’s sake.

“Is it at all possible to get word to him?” she asked, wishing she had more confidence in his skills.

Ethelred thought for a moment. He gave the garden a quick but thorough inspection. Walls surrounded them on every side. The air was saturated with birdsong and the distant gurgling of the moat. “I think I can,” he told her quite decisively. “As you know, I will go to Rievaulx to investigate the matter of the interdict. I will look for Alec while I’m there.”

“But what if Gilbert denies you entrance? After all, Rievaulx is quarantined. He can say that in your best interest you must keep away.”

Ethelred’s eyes sparkled with adventure. “I was master novice at Rievaulx for two years. While I was there, I discovered something Gilbert doesn’t know.”

“And what is that?” she asked.

“A second entrance into the abbey.”

“Verily?” She found herself smiling in wonder.

“Aye, in a cave on the side of the abbey hill, there is a hole, big enough for a wild animal or a small man like me. The cave leads to an underground passage and thence to the chamber where I used to gloss Psalters. Now, should Gilbert deny me entrance, I will still find my way inside.”

“But what of the illness? You must be careful. They say if you breathe through a satchel of herbs, you won’t catch the plague.” She looked helplessly at the garden around them.

He patted her hand. “The illness is the least of my concerns,” he assured her.

She thought him exceedingly brave. “There is one more thing, Your Grace. Lord Christian wrote Alec a letter in which he offered to return Alec’s inheritance to him. Would you ask him if he received the letter and whether he has considered the offer?”

The good abbot’s eyes narrowed with sudden comprehension. “Do you hope that he will take up arms on your behalf?”

“I have nowhere else to turn,” she admitted, feeling suddenly forlorn, though her chances of getting word to Alec had never been higher.

The abbot frowned in confusion. “I thought perhaps Christian would help you now that you’ve told him the truth of your plight. Perhaps since you care for his son, he would be willing to reclaim your father’s home for you. Have you asked him?”

She looked down at her knotted hands. “I’ve already asked,” she replied, willing herself not to blush. “He refuses to help.”