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.