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!”