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.