The knight tapped his fingers on the table. “Gilbert will question your right in due time. He means to absorb Glenmyre into the abbey’s holdings, mark my word on it. Alec knows nothing of your offer. Nor will he ever know. He is completely cut off from the world, just as the abbot designed.”

It was true. Alec had never replied to his offer.

He thought of the distress in Clarise’s letters. Alec, in the name of God, you must answer me.

A disturbing notion settled in the pit of Christian’s stomach. If Alec did accept the offer of Glenmyre, he stood to gain more than his own lands. He would need a bride to run his household, and he would logically ask for Clarise.

His teeth clicked together. Nay. If her love for Alec had been earlier revealed, then maybe. If he hadn’t raised his own hopes falsely, perhaps he could be generous. But it was too late now. Either he would have her for himself, or no one would get her!

The darkness in his heart mirrored the storm outside. He could not stand to think of another man touching her!

Suddenly a horrible notion struck him. Perhaps Clarise had come to Helmesly, not only to poison him, but to be closer to her betrothed. He turned around, his fingers curling into fists. He’d caught her trying to leave once. She’d said she was going to Abbingdon to hear the Abbot of Revesby preach in English. Hah! Likely she intended to steal off toward Rievaulx and tryst with her lover!

A sharp rap at the door jerked him to the present. “Who is it?” he shouted.

“ ’Tis Clarise,” called his nemesis. “I would speak with you about Ethelred.”

Christian darted a look at his vassal. The knight shrugged. “Come in,” he growled. He would have the satisfaction of witnessing her mortification. Aye, he would squeeze the truth from her this time and make her weep for the heaviness that was in his heart.

She tugged on the latchstring and pushed. He could see at once that she had his baby in her arms. His anger died to a seething bitterness.

Clarise wondered what lord and vassal were up to. They rarely cloistered themselves in the solar during the day. She hoped they weren’t discussing Ethelred’s plight without her. “Gentlemen,” she began, “I have something to tell you.” She had just closed the door behind her when she noticed the mess on the floor. It looked as though someone had lifted one end of the Slayer’s table and dumped its contents. “What has happened here?” she asked, staring down at the letter that was touching her toe.

With a sense of unreality, she recognized the handwriting on the edge of the vellum. Holding Simon to her body, she leaned over and plucked it up. Her heart began to pound in earnest. My Dearest Alec, she read.

She felt as though her feet were driven into the ground with spikes. Quickly she estimated the number of letters on the floor. She had written Alec over fifty pleas. There were at least that many here. A hot wave of self-consciousness rose toward her cheeks. “How did you get these?” she croaked.

“Gilbert sent them by messenger,” said the Slayer, watching her through half-closed eyes.

Clarise wasn’t the least bit fooled by his sleepy look. He was furious. “The Abbot of Rievaulx?” Anger rushed out to replace humiliation. “He gave you these!” she cried, her volume rising. “How dare he? How dare he meddle in something that has naught to do with him?” Even holding the baby, she managed to rip the parchment in her hands, tearing it first this way and then that. “I should like to put an arrow through his shallow heart!”

“Compose yourself,” the warlord warned. He looked nonplussed that she was shouting. What did he expect? Repentant tears?

“How simple for you to say!” she yelled, forgetting that the baby grew distressed at the sound of raised voices. “Do you know the hours I spent laboring over these letters? I called upon every creative power I had to persuade Alec to quit his studies and defend us. I’ll wager he never even got these letters. The abbot kept and read them for his own perverse pleasure!”

The warlord was looking at her very intently now. With her fury exorcised, she grew calmer, more aware of the currents weaving through the chamber. He, too, had read her letters, she realized. She felt exposed to him now, completely vulnerable. So many yearnings she had poured upon the page. But more than that, in attempting to entice Alec from the church, she had displayed the depths to which she would sink.

What did he think of her now? she wondered, laying the shredded letter on the chest piled with books.

“You think Alec never read them?” Behind the glimmer of his green eyes, she saw that his mind was busy calculating.

“I think he would have helped if he had,” she said with more certainty than she felt.

The warlord crossed the room to approach her. She locked her knees to hold her ground. As her gaze fell to his lips, she experienced the wistful urge to be kissed by him. When they kissed, she felt treasured and revered.

“I should have you punished, lady,” he said in a voice devoid of emotion.

“Why?” she asked, taking a startled step back.

“You swore to me, no more lies.” Thunder rumbled outside, adding a menacing undertone to his words. “You told me you came here because Ferguson sent you to poison me.”

“I did!”

“Another lie,” he snarled. “You came to Helmesly to be closer to your beloved.”

“Nay, if I wished to be near to him, I’d have stayed in Abbingdon.”

“The day you wanted to go with the servants to pray, you had planned to meet with him, hadn’t you?” He tilted her face up, putting his fingertips beneath her chin. His touch was searing.

“I meant to speak with Ethelred,” she corrected, “so he could contact Alec for me.”

“Ethelred,” said the warlord, stunned. His mind was quick to grasp at clues. “Is he even now at your behest?” he guessed. “Is that why he’s gone to the abbey?”

“Of course not. He has gone to see the papal seal on the interdict.”

“Is that all?” he pressed, his gaze incinerating.

She jerked her chin free and stepped to one side. “Nay, that isn’t all,” she admitted, darting him a wary look. She had come to his solar to tell him the truth. So be it. According to Ethelred, truth was a stronger fortress than deceit.

The sound of rain showering the cobbles told her that the clouds had buckled. The room gave an eerie flash as lightning forked the sky. The warlord made a sound of disgust and stalked back to the window.

Clarise looked to Sir Roger for help. The knight sat straighter. “My lord, make no rash decisions,” he warned uncertainly.

Decisions? “What will you do?” she asked. Volatile currents filled the chamber, making her uneasy.

Simon seemed to sense her agitation. His round face crumpled with distress. He sobbed against her shoulder. Clarise felt like weeping with him.

The Slayer stood with his back to her. “I have had enough of your lies, lady,” he announced grimly. “I will not be used to reunite you with your lover. Nor can you convince me again to raise arms on your behalf. I will return you to Ferguson,” he announced, against the backdrop of pouring rain. “You and the Scot have more in common than you think. You are both dissemblers.”

She soothed the baby with automatic gestures. Shock settled over her, leaving her emotions in frozen limbo. “Return me?” she cried. “What makes you think Ferguson would want me back? He will see that I have failed and he will hang me, along with my mother and sisters. Aye, he’ll hang us all!”

The mercenary shrugged, still presenting her his back. “What does it matter to me, Clarise DuBoise? I have tried to turn myself toward righteousness, and you and others have taken advantage of me. Leave me to my sins. You had no intention of staying with me, anyway.”

Clarise frowned as she struggled to interpret his words. She gave up trying. All she knew for certain was that he’d sentenced her, her mother, and her sisters to be hanged. It was too horrific even to envision. Even the Slayer of Helmesly was incapable of such malice!

“Er, my lord, why not take some time to think about it?” Sir Roger asked. Alarm had turned his face into a map of battle scars.

The Slayer flicked him an obstinate look. “I have made up my mind,” he snarled, his profile unfamiliar against the screen of rain.

Sir Roger closed his eyes and dropped his face in his hands. He said nothing.

“You’ve forgotten about Ethelred,” Clarise offered in a quaking voice.

The warlord swiveled abruptly. “What did you ask him to do for you?” he demanded.

“Simply to see if Alec had received your offer.”

“So, you take on yourself to settle my affairs for me,” he observed, his eyes as silvery as the rain, “and in the bargain you get yourself a landed husband.”

If she had a knife, she would carve a matching scar on his right cheek. “He was my betrothed before you stripped him of his inheritance,” she shot back, fisting her hands.

Simon matched her volume with a deafening wail.

“I do not recall meeting him on the field of battle,” the warrior rebutted. “He ran like a coward for Rievaulx. Or mayhap he was simply grateful for a reason not to wed you!”

With his face still in his hands, Sir Roger groaned.

Clarise went perfectly still. The pain that diced her heart gave her something to cling to. “Do what you will with me, you monster.” Her voice turned fearless and resolved. “I pray one day that you will eat your words, for I will have naught to do with you even if you crawl on your knees, begging my mercy. You do not deserve this babe that I have loved. . . .” Her voice broke and the dam burst behind her eyes, flooding them. Before they betrayed her, she spun around and raced to the door.