“Why not just demand that I be your mistress?” she asked with her back still turned. She needed more time to think.

He remained on his knees. “Two reasons,” he said. “The first is that you deserve more.”

She felt herself wavering toward acceptance.

“Secondly, I would like . . . a more permanent arrangement. I have a son to think of and no time for courting.”

A thorn of disappointment pricked her heart. She hoped he would admit to harboring a tendresse for her. After all, he’d once admitted that he liked her. Wasn’t love just a step above like?

She sternly put a stop to her runaway thoughts. Love was a fickle emotion. She’d fancied herself in love with Alec once, and those feelings had done naught but die a slow, frustrating death.

Nay, Christian was right. It was better to marry for the sound reasons he’d supplied.

As for his bleak reputation, she would let it work for her own ends. The Slayer would destroy her stepfather as only a ruthless warlord could. Following that, she could only pray that his sense of right and wrong would reemerge, bringing a balance of humors to his inner darkness.

With her decision made, she pivoted and came to stand before him. “Very well,” she said, ready to set a seal on the bargain. “I agree to marry you.”

His eyes blazed with triumph. He grabbed her wrists and tugged her down until she dropped to her knees before him. “You will never regret it,” he vowed, cupping her face.

She wanted badly to believe him. She was keenly aware of the leashed strength in his fingertips against her delicate skull. She shuddered with mixed ecstasy and dread as he pulled her close to claim her with a kiss.

Five days later Clarise descended the tower stairs with the feeling that moths were eating holes in her belly.

It was natural for any bride to feel nervous. Yet it wasn’t solely the prospect of marriage to a warlord that worried her; it was the knowledge that Ferguson had come to the wedding as planned. He had pitched his tents outside the walls in the very meadow where Christian had proposed to her. He had come believing that an alliance was about to be forged. He had no idea that the Slayer intended to kill him during a joust tomorrow.

It was Christian’s notion, drawn from the game Ferguson had invented when he sent her mother pounding at the gates of Glenmyre. Clarise had doubts that Ferguson would accept the offer: he’d wanted the Slayer dead, after all. But apparently the lure of having the Slayer for an ally was even more tantalizing than having him dead. The promise of a wedding and a tourney had lured the Scot to Helmesly. Clearly he was all too eager to expand his power.

Perhaps if Clarise knew more details about the Scot’s ultimate demise, she could focus on her marriage. But Christian had been stubbornly silent on the subject. “Am I not the warrior?” he’d pointed out one night. “Are you not the maid? You’ve carried the burden of your family’s plight long enough, Clarise. Leave the rest to me.” It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Christian; rather, it was Ferguson whom she did not trust.

“Do you see any wrinkles in my gown, Nell?” she asked, trying to recall the wedding vows she’d committed to memory.

“Nay, milady,” assured the servant, descending the tower steps behind her.

“What about my hair? Is it staying up?”

“Ye look perfect, milady. Like a queen.”

Her gown had been cut from a cream-colored bolt of Normandy silk, procured from a silk merchant who’d come to Abbingdon. It clung to every curve of her body before streaming behind her in a shimmering cascade. Her hair was caught up in a tiara of pearls with a matching girdle slung low on her hips. She believed that she had never looked lovelier in her life. Would it make the mercenary speak the words of love she still foolishly wanted to hear?

Given the scents wafting up the tower stairs, the wedding feast would be one befitting a queen. Christian and his master-at-arms had gone hunting every day to procure the necessary fare. Clarise doubted she would manage to eat any of it. What if Ferguson had a plan of his own? What if his toxic powders found a way into the food?

Surely Christian would have taken measures to prevent that. She considered the man she was about to wed. It still came as a shock to think of herself as the Slayer’s bride. At the mere mention of his name, peasants still crossed themselves and fled. The tragedy at Wendesby would live with him forever.

She asked herself for the hundredth time if she was making the right decision. His behavior since the day of their proposal had given her no reason to change her mind. He’d treated her with abundant generosity and unfailing chivalry, assigning her a seamstress to provide her with a new trousseau. A perfume merchant arrived yesterday morning bearing an assortment of oils and perfumes. A tapestry weaver, hired to create five new tapestries for the castle, had requested her input on the size and color of each. Her groom gave her leisure to do all this while he planned the details of the wedding and tourney.

She knew that the Abbot of Revesby would marry them. Ethelred had procured a special license while conferring with the archbishop. Elections were already in process to determine who would take Gilbert’s place at Rievaulx. It was no secret that Ethelred, desiring to see his former abbey flourish, would be happy to accept the position if offered.

One villain down, thought Clarise as she edged toward the balustrade to peer down into the bustling hall, and one to go.

She braced herself for the sight of her stepfather. She saw at once that Ferguson had brought more than half his men with him. Their pea-green plaid was unmistakable, as were their bare knees in kilts. They milled impatiently in the great hall, gathering closely about the fire pit as though anticipating the fires of hell that awaited them.

She backed up until her spine was pressed to the wall. Her mouth had gone dry at the sight of their too familiar faces. Kendal, Rowan’s father, stood with his shoulders hunched and his eyes glittering with the desire for vengeance. It came as little comfort that his only weapon was a costume sword, its scabbard encrusted with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Clarise didn’t doubt it was sharpened in anticipation of conflict.

She summoned the courage to look again. Her eyes sought and found her stepfather. He lounged behind his men, using them as a shield in the eventuality of a scuffle. The smirk that rode the edges of his orange mustache contrasted sharply with Kendal’s fury. He looked well pleased, she thought, thinking himself allied with the Slayer. Hatred and grief wound themselves about her throat and squeezed. He did not deserve to be happy, she thought, when he had brought her family so much pain.

Her gaze slid to the women huddling beneath the window, and she gave a gasp of mixed delight and dread. Her mother and sisters had come! Jeanette was even wearing a presentable gown, though her hair was still gnarled and her expression haunted. Merry looked nearly as distressed as her mother. Her fire-red hair had been covered with a headdress, but she stood with her arms crossed and her green eyes darting nervously. Only little Kyndra, her hand tucked in Merry’s arm, looked pleased to attend a wedding. Blond and guileless, she was too young to scent the current of danger in the air.

If God were merciful, Clarise thought, they would all be free of Ferguson by the morrow.

Suddenly a Scot caught sight of her. He nudged his partner, and a dozen curious gazes rose above the tapestry of the hunt. A rash of pinpricks broke out on Clarise’s skin.

“Daughter!”

The cry startled her. Her mother had seen her as well. Clarise watched with alarm as Jeanette struggled to claw through the wall of Scottish soldiers to get to her.

“Get back, wench,” one of them growled, shoving her into the wall again.

“Leave her go,” said Ferguson. His eyes glittered with contempt. “Let her make a fool o’ herself.”

Jeanette shot through their ranks, not waiting for her daughters, who trailed behind. Up the stairs she scrambled, leaving Clarise torn between panic and the desire to greet her halfway. She took several steps toward the stairs. Her mother gained the last step and raced forward, her eyes wild with alarm.

“Daughter!” she cried again. She flung her bony arms around her and held her tightly.

Clarise felt her mother tremble. Her own arms folded protectively over her. “Hush, Mother. Everything’s all right.”

“My dear, how have you been?” Jeanette cried. She pulled away and clasped her daughter’s face in her hands. “Oh, but you look so beautiful!”

She wished she could say the same of her once-lovely mother. Jeanette was as thin as a wraith. Her cheeks were now hollow, and her hazel eyes had lost their luster. “I am well, Mother,” she answered earnestly. Her gaze moved beyond her mother’s shoulder to Merry and Kyndra, now gaining the second level. “Sisters!” she cried, holding her arms out to them, also.

They huddled together, embracing fiercely, their eyes wet with tears, their hearts aching.

“I have found help,” Clarise whispered, taking care not to be overheard. “The Slayer will reclaim our home.”

The blare of a trumpet signaled that the wedding was about to commence. All and sundry began to file through the forebuilding and out to the chapel. “Stay with me,” Clarise implored, gripping them tightly. “You need not go with them.”

The Scots looked to Ferguson for permission to proceed. In a tightly knotted group, they marched toward the chapel, ignoring the women who remained on the gallery.

At last the only people left below were the servants laying out the fare.