Clarise sat in a wooden tub, the water to her shoulders. Her hair was a damp, russet rope mooring her to the floor. The scent of lavender hung sweetly in the air. The brazier snapped with mellow light. She had not seen him, for her back was to the door.

Just as it occurred to him that he should turn away, she perched a long, slim leg on the edge of the tub and reached for the soap.

Like a hungry hound he salivated. He told himself to leave, but for the moment he was spellbound. With lazy movements she began to lather herself, starting with the leg she’d lifted and then switching to the other one. Limb by limb, she rubbed the scented bar into her skin. His fingers itched to follow the same path.

Go now, he told himself. ’Tis bad enough that you take advantage of her circumstances. Must you sink to new depths by spying on her?

Her head fell back, and she rubbed her neck, sighing softly as she eased the soap between her breasts. Christian swallowed a groan. Desire pulsed through his body with double vigor. Uncertainty followed close behind. What would he do if she refused him? His need for her could not be slaked by any other woman!

Something pounded on the door of his conscience, demanding to be heard. This is honor! shouted the entity. I demand that you free her family without reward.

But he ignored it. He was a bastard warlord, not an honorable knight. He needed Clarise DuBoise, and there was no way to get her other than by blackmail. Ladies of her ilk didn’t give themselves to baseborn mercenaries.

Unless they proved themselves worthy, replied the voice inside.

She caught up her hair and squeezed it, coiling it on top of her head. Then, without warning, she put her hands on either side of the tub and stood straight up. Christian’s gaze fell at once to the pink streaks lining her back. Nell had not been lying. “Jesu,” he cursed, unable to keep silent.

She turned with a gasp. “Who’s there?” she called, trying to see through the cracked door.

He swiveled guiltily and beat a hasty retreat.

Cur, he called himself, stalking furiously toward his solar. He wanted so badly for her to want him that he had stooped even beneath himself. There was more of his father in him than he cared to admit, he lamented, grinding his teeth.

Yet he had to capture her incandescence or else lose himself to the despair that threatened before she came.

In the sanctuary of his solar, Christian dropped his head into his hands, his temples throbbing. A promise to rebuild her home was not enough. Short of offering for her hand, nothing he did could cast his offer into a nobler light.

He straightened abruptly, startled by the workings of his mind. Offer for her hand? Nay, the thought was ludicrous! Absurd! The lady would take her own life ere she agreed to wed him. Wouldn’t she?

He forced himself to rationalize. There were factors in his favor, not the least of which was Simon, whom she adored. Then, too, he was not without the ability to give her a decent home, to feed and clothe her as befitting her station. Most important, he could give her what she truly desired of him: his sword arm to defend and protect those she loved.

It might just work.

His gaze fell upon a book that lay open on his table. It was Ethelred’s Mirror of Charity, the latest text brought for Christian’s erudition. He and the abbot made a practice of discussing the readings the abbot supplied. They’d had no time on this particular visit. But Ethelred had marked one of the pages with a ribbon in order to draw it to Christian’s notice.

Christian dragged the manuscript closer and read the indicated page. His attention was drawn in particular to the closing remarks. Put off the mantle of self-absorption and embrace the world unselfishly. For God, who sees all things, rewards the righteous heart.

Christian read the lines three more times. With fingers that had butchered and maimed, he smoothed down a wrinkle in the parchment. It was time for the Slayer of Helmesly to forget his bitter roots. For his son’s sake, he could not continue to be a fearsome warlord. Why not do as Ethelred suggested and shuck the mantle of self-absorption? What would it cost him? A mistress, probably.

What would he gain? Perhaps a wife.

God rewards the righteous heart, wrote the abbot. Christian hoped the abbot was right. He didn’t want to go through the trouble of redemption and not get what he’d set his sights on: Clarise DuBoise.









Chapter Fourteen


















“When did they leave?” Clarise asked Malcolm, who kept the mews.

The aged falconer regarded her through eyes as bright and watchful as the birds he tended. “They left but a second ’fore ye came,” he answered in a creaky voice.

She shot him a word of thanks and raced across the treacherous cobbles of the inner ward toward the first gate. Already, she was breathless from this morning’s activities. It had all begun at morning prayers when the good abbot failed to show himself.

Clarise had raced to Ethelred’s chambers, hoping that she would find him sleeping in exhaustion from his visit to Rievaulx the day before. His chamber was empty. His bed had not been touched.

Agitation fizzed in Clarise’s empty belly. Ethelred wasn’t safe at Rievaulx. She remembered the mad gleam in Abbot Gilbert’s eyes, the festering sores on Horatio’s face. If anything had happened to Ethelred, she would blame herself for encouraging him to visit the scourge-ridden abbey.

Clarise had looked for Christian, wanting to apprise him of the circumstances. He had already eaten, she discovered, not finding him in the great hall. She would not break her own fast until she delivered her news to him. If anyone could help the good abbot, it was the Slayer.

“He’s gone ahunting,” the stable boy had said, yawning with maddening apathy. At last the falconer had more definitive news. If she hurried through the shadowed barbican, she might catch the seneschal and his vassal before they left.

The sun was still creeping skyward at this early hour, promising a warm day as it tinted the air a peachy pink. Swallows dipped and whirled for their breakfast of bugs. A rooster crowed from the henhouse. Clarise caught sight of the Slayer and his master-at-arms disappearing on horseback through the second gate. Sir Roger’s gyrfalcon rode on its perch. Its jeweled hood gave a final wink as they passed under the barbican.

“My lord, Sir Knight, wait!” she cried, dampening her slippers on the grass as she raced toward them. They failed to hear her, for the rushing of the moat.

The vigilant gatekeeper gave a blast on his horn, alerting them for her. Lord and vassal turned together at the end of the drawbridge. Their faces reflected alarm to see Clarise chasing after them, her hair flying like a banner.

She slowed to a brisk walk, wary of the Slayer’s enormous black mount, snorting impatiently to be on its way. The men were dressed in minimal armor. They bore all the accoutrements needed for a successful hunt, including bow and quiver slung over their shoulders.

“What’s amiss?” the warlord asked, his scowl taking up its usual post. “Is it Simon?” He looked ready to return at the least word.

“Not Simon,” she assured them, catching her breath. “The Abbot of Revesby. He went to Rievaulx yesterday, and he hasn’t returned. Something foul has happened to him, I can feel it.”

The Slayer’s alarm subsided into something more like consternation. He looked to his vassal for an opinion.

Sir Roger’s smile wavered and dipped. “He and Gilbert have never seen eye to eye,” commented the knight. “If Ethelred accused his colleague of dissembling, Gilbert may well have reacted without thinking.”

Clarise rubbed away the chill on her arms. She swallowed down the admission that she’d made her own request of the good abbot.

“But Ethelred has the backing of the archbishop,” Christian countered. “Gilbert can do nothing to deter him.”

Sir Roger gazed off in the direction of Rievaulx. “Still, if Ethelred doesn’t return by sunset, we should act.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Clarise repeated, admitting nothing for the time being.

The warlord returned his focus to her. His gaze was still as intense as it had been in the last two days. But a secret light now sparkled in his eyes, making them more green than gray. He seemed happier, almost gay—if such a word could be applied to a man who never laughed. As he stared down at her, his mouth curved in a hint of a smile.

Could he have been the one spying on her bath the other night? she wondered. The thought put butterflies in her stomach. She told herself that she’d imagined the whispered curse and that Nell had left the door cracked.

“Did you not lock the door?” she’d asked the girl, who’d appeared a moment later.

“Nay, milady.”

“Did you see anyone in the corridor?”

“Only Lord Christian. He means to make me brothers squires, milady. An’ he means to give them both a plot o’ land!”

That had been excellent news for Nell. But it also meant the warlord had been skulking in the corridor. Pacing like a fox for a rabbit to come out of its hole.

“We have to hunt,” he said now. He still looked secretly pleased. “There will be a feast if we are lucky.”

“A feast,” she repeated. The lightness of his spirits was contagious, if curious. “And what is the occasion?”

“You will know it soon enough,” he said. He turned faintly red beneath his tan.

“Can you not send others to do the hunting?” she asked, thinking of Ethelred. “There must be men-at-arms who would undertake the task.”

“Sir Roger’s falcon answers only to his call. My men remain at Glenmyre. That leaves only us.” He shrugged, looking like a handsome woodsman with a bow on his shoulder.

“Well, go then, but hurry back,” she relented. She made to turn away, but then remembered that she wanted to thank him for a recent kindness. “My lord, I thank you for moving Doris to the nursery. I am well rested for the first time in a month.” The cook had taken over Simon’s midnight feedings, giving Clarise the leisure to sleep.

The warlord’s half-smile faded. His expression became quizzical. “I would like to take credit for such thoughtfulness, but it wasn’t I.”

Not he? Then it could only have been Sir Roger. They both looked to the knight, who shook his head.

Possibly Harold, then, or Dame Maeve. Had the steward’s wife tired of their rivalry? Was she ready to make amends? “Do you object, my lord? I will, of course, watch him at all other times.”

His gaze caressed her upturned face. “You look better for your rest,” he decided kindly. “Doris may stay.”

“Thank you.”

“I wish to speak with you this afternoon, about my offer,” he announced. With those alarming words, he yanked his mount around. The destrier gave his tail a haughty swoosh, and they were away.

From the edge of the drawbridge, Clarise watched the two men cut a fresh path through the knee-high flowers. Daisies and loosestrife swayed beneath an easterly breeze. She only had eyes for the dark-haired warrior who rode so confidently in his seat, his sharp gaze focused on the tree line. She felt a clutching pang in her chest that she attributed to missing breakfast.

What was he going to talk to her about? Likely he wanted an answer right away.

She didn’t have an answer yet, though she’d imagined in vivid detail what it would be like to be his mistress. Despite his bloody reputation, she was certain he would treat her well, perhaps even come to feel affection for her. Breed children on her if he so desired.

Or marry again and leave her with her shame.

She recalled the things she had wanted for herself since childhood—the things she’d thought Alec could offer her: a marriage blessed by God, a husband who cherished her, children in her lap and at her feet. A longing came upon her, so deep and pulling that she sighed out loud. How could she settle for anything less and be happy?

She turned and plodded the length of the drawbridge. In light of the good abbot’s absence, her yearnings were selfish. Her mother and sisters suffered on, while she pined for something that was more than most women ever attained.

The Slayer offered her his sword arm and shattering physical ecstasy. Unless Alec could top that offer, it would have to be enough for Clarise DuBoise.

Was it a boar or a deer? Christian couldn’t readily tell by the color of its fur. The animal froze as though sensing that it had become a target. He pulled his bowstring taut until it creaked ominously in the silent clearing. The birds were dumb with terror. The leaves on the trees ceased to tremble. In the meadow nearby, the pure, high scream of the gyrfalcon signaled Sir Roger’s success in his portion of the wager.