The abbot withdrew another step. Christian suddenly realized that he intended to bar the door, locking them in the cellar. His first thought was for Clarise. He’d promised her he would hurry. With the window too small to slip through, his only alternative was to reach the door before the abbot had a chance to lock it.

Just then, he felt something brush by his feet. He glanced down and recognized the tail of a weasel as it streaked past. Gilbert failed to mark the animal’s approach. A second later it rippled against his ankles. The abbot gave a cry of alarm and jerked his leg back. The weasel turned and sank his teeth into his leg.

Gilbert screamed. He tried to kick the weasel free. In the process, he lost his footing.

Christian watched in fascination as the abbot flailed. He seemed to hang for a moment in thin air before he lurched forward, pitching down the stairs. Christian snatched Ethelred out of harm’s way. The two of them hugged the wall as Gilbert tumbled past. Together they winced at the sound of snapping bones.

Gilbert came to a rest at the bottom of the steps. He didn’t move. A hedgehog trampled over him as it crossed the room.

It was clear even at a distance that the Abbot of Rievaulx had snapped his neck. His head lay at an odd alignment to his body. Christian and Ethelred shared a look. Without a word, they turned and followed the weasel up the stairs.

A reward for righteousness? Christian asked himself. So much had happened when he’d expected so little. It all seemed fantastical when considered in the light of logic. Yet of all the events of the morning, none seemed so miraculous as Clarise laying her palm against his cheek and announcing that she didn’t love Alec. That she likely never had.

Suddenly it seemed a simple thing to shuck the mantle of darkness that had consumed him for years and trade it for a cloak of another color.

Clarise DuBoise wanted a champion? He would be the noblest hero she could possibly imagine.









Chapter Seventeen


















Clarise felt as light as a feather as Christian swept her onto the back of his huge destrier and swung himself into the saddle behind her. She felt no fear as the midnight warhorse plunged down Rievaulx’s steep hill, for his arm was locked beneath her breasts.

From the abbey’s open gate, Alec waved farewell. It was up to him to advise his brethren of their circumstances. They were all still shaken by the news that their abbot was dead, killed by his own fall down the treacherous stairs. Clarise was thankful Ethelred could corroborate the tale. The warlord’s reputation was such that he might fall under suspicion without a witness to the accident.

She glimpsed at Ethelred to see how he was faring. The good abbot rode double with one of the men-at-arms. It was agreed he would go with them to Helmesly to recover. Later he would travel to York and carry evidence of the abbot’s treachery to the archbishop. He looked pale, but stronger for the warmth of the morning sun.

The fresh scent of heather helped to nudge their shock toward relief. Everything would return to normal at the abbey. The men would shake off the effects of the malignant herbs and rise again to their prayers. The vineyards would enjoy pruning and reseeding and would soon yield a harvest of green grapes.

From the circle of Christian’s arms, Clarise gave a sigh of contentment. The wind rushed through her hair and whistled through the threads of her boy’s attire, carrying away the musty odor of her prison cell. The sun shone warmly on her face. She was pinned securely to the man who’d snatched her from the clutches of evil.

After all the lies, the difficulties she had brought to his entangled life, he was willing to shelter her. Did this mean that he would help her with Ferguson?

“Relax,” he said in her ear. “You are safe now.” The words seemed a message to her anxious heart.

They thundered into the valley, past the waddle and daub structures of Abbingdon. Merchants peered from their window shops to identify the passersby.

Clarise experienced the peculiar contentment of going home. She reminded herself that there were many unanswered questions, not the least of which was what the Slayer intended for her. He’d said nothing about his threat to return her to Ferguson. Rather, the tender way that he held her close gave her hope that he would not. The spark of anger she’d witnessed earlier was gone.

She could only assume he would ask her to be his mistress again. While that prospect hadn’t looked so grim from the vantage of a prison cell, it rankled her pride in the light of day. She would give anything to set her family free, but she couldn’t give the Slayer her body without also giving him her heart. And to get the latter, he would have to profess an emotion other than lust.

The rise and fall of the horse’s back lulled her into a trance. She stared at Christian’s grip on the reins. The sun had tanned his long fingers to a shade of golden brown. She remembered how gently, how persuasively those hands had coaxed her toward surrender. A sigh escaped her lips. Her eyelids grew heavy.

She must have drifted off to sleep. When the rhythmic movement of the horse ceased, she came awake. The warrior had pulled them to a halt in the meadow outside his castle’s walls. His men-at-arms filed over the moat and out of sight. “What are we doing here?” she asked, twisting around.

She felt him dismounting. Several strands of her hair were caught in his mail. “Ouch!” she cried, reaching up to save them.

He snatched her off the saddle with him and in the process lost his balance. They tumbled from the stirrups into the stalks of wildflowers, with Christian taking the brunt of their fall.

“Sorry,” he managed to groan. He lay flat on his back beneath her, peering up at her with worry. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” She took her weight off him, rising to her hands and knees. “My hair is caught in your armor.” She tried to free the troublesome snags. “Why did you stop here?” she asked again. The strands had worked their way between the links. She doubted she could pull them out without tearing them.

He didn’t answer right away. She stabbed him a look. “Well?”

“You said you would have naught to do with me even if I crawled on my knees begging your mercy,” he reminded her, his green eyes watchful.

Guilt elbowed its way to the forefront of her feelings. Her heart beat faster. “I said all that?” she asked, wincing inwardly.

He nodded very seriously. “I intended to apologize before we entered the castle.”

“You were going to apologize?” The very sweetness of the gesture made her light-headed. “Why out here?”

He gave her his endearing half-smile. “So no one would see me?” he admitted.

She punched him in the ribs and came away with bruised knuckles. “Oh! Help me get my hair out,” she snapped, shaking her wounded hand.

His clever fingers went to work, and in seconds she was free. “Thank you,” she said, rolling away from him. She came to her feet and brushed the grass from her boy’s braies. “You can get up now,” she told him.

He pushed himself to his knees and reached for her. “Give me your hand,” he said.

“My lord, you don’t have to do this!” She had to wonder if she wasn’t dreaming. The scenery was stunning. The petals of the flowers rippled under the breeze. The moat danced about the castle in sparkling, little waves. And the most notorious warrior in the borderlands was on his knees before her.

“Your hand, lady.”

With a sigh she stuck her hand out for him to take. Pleasure feathered up her spine as he stroked her palm and brought her reddened knuckles to his lips. “I am groveling,” he informed her as his mouth brushed her skin. “Perhaps you could still bring yourself to forgive me?” He darted her a pleading look from under his lashes.

The heat of his mouth reminded her of the scorching kisses they had shared the night he made his demands. “There isn’t a need to apologize,” she said breathlessly. “I brought it on myself. I was most deceitful, and I am sorry for the mistrust my lies had spawned.”

“Forgiven,” he said, cutting her off. “However, do you attempt anything so rash as worming your way inside an abbey again, you will answer for it.”

She regarded him closely. Was he angry or merely concerned? “Will you get up now? You’re going to snap the buckles on your knee-guards.”

“I’m not done yet. There is something else I need to ask you while I’m down here.”

“What?” The question came out on a breath of disbelief. Nay, surely he wasn’t going to . . .

“Will you wed me?”

She told herself the wind was rustling the stalks of wildflowers. “What did you say?”

“Lady, will you marry me?” The naked fire in his eyes matched the intensity of the question.

The sun gathered warmth on her shoulders, but still she couldn’t speak. Could this be the realization of her fantasies? Had a handsome warrior fallen helplessly in love with her? Did he want to cherish her always, give her children, gather her close on winter nights? “Why?” she asked in a thin, little voice.

He paused a moment. “Simon needs a mother” came his reasonable reply at last.

Some of her delirium dimmed. “Ah.”

“And you need a knight to challenge your stepfather.”

It was all so reasonable. She tugged her hand free and stalked a short distance away. Amidst a patch of tangle roses, she forced herself to forget her pique and think of the benefits.

He was right. She still required a champion. And Simon needed a mother—oh, how lovely it would be to claim him as her own! This was not some romantic fairy tale with a prince and a princess. He was the Slayer, for mercy’s sake! Tying her name to his meant accepting the darkness that hovered around him and rose to consume him at unexpected moments. Could she live with that?