“You don’t have to marry him!” Jeanette blurted. She seemed suddenly stronger than she had seconds before.

“I have a poison for you,” her younger sister added, pressing a satchel into her hand. “You can kill him ere he takes you to his bed.”

Clarise regarded them both with amazement. “Nay,” she said, “you misunderstand, both of you. I am not being forced in any way. ’Tis my choice. The Slayer is going to help us.”

“Hah, he’s another like Ferguson,” her mother insisted. “He has killed women and children. I heard he even killed his first wife.”

She gripped her mother’s arms. “Mother, I am not being coerced. You have to trust me in this matter. Christian is an honorable man, not a murderer. I will wed him of my own free will,” she insisted.

Merry hissed a breath through her teeth. “He’s put you under a spell!” she guessed, her green eyes enormous.

“Stop it!”

“How could you want to marry such a man?” her mother asked. “Do you want to end up like me?”

A movement drew Clarise’s gaze to the window. It was a pigeon, launching itself into flight. Could her mother be right? She shook her head. Nay, she believed in the better side of Christian de la Croix. Besides, if she didn’t marry him, who then would save her family from their misery?

No one.

In truth, she had no choice. But it didn’t help to have them planting doubts in her mind.

There was more to this marriage than the promise of Christian’s help, wasn’t there? After the tourney tomorrow, their marriage would hinge on something other than Ferguson. The question was, what?

Nell called her name. “Milady, Sir Roger doth give his summons,” she pointed out. Indeed, the knight had poked his head through the double doors and was signaling them to descend.

“Hear me out,” Clarise said firmly to her mother and sisters. “This marriage is our best chance at destroying Ferguson. Do not meddle in the matter. The Slayer is not like him,” she added. “He’s a far better man, an honorable man. I do not need this poison,” she added, thrusting it back at Merry.

“Come,” she added when they simply gawked at her. “The sooner this is done, the sooner you’ll be safe.” Taking her mother’s hand, she led them down the sweeping stairs and across the hall, where Roger held the doors. As they approached the knight, she could see the interest and the pity in his eyes as he beheld her mother. “My lady,” he said, bravely addressing her. “May I have the honor of knowing your name?”

Startled, Jeanette looked to Clarise for instruction.

“This is my mother, Lady Jeanette,” Clarise said, making the introductions. “My sisters, Merry and Kyndra.”

He repeated each of their names, giving them all a gallant bow. Then he turned his focus to Jeanette. “Will you grant me a token for the tourney tomorrow?” he begged her.

Flustered, Jeanette looked down at herself in vain, for she wore no jewelry of any kind.

“Give him one of your ribbons,” Clarise suggested.

It was a simple task to tear a pink ribbon from Jeanette’s dress. Sir Roger smoothed it reverently between his thumb and fingers. Then he led the way through the forebuilding to the chapel, gesturing for all the DuBoise women but Clarise to enter. He then offered her his arm, and she took it gratefully.

The harp fell silent at their entrance. Clarise was struck by the utter stillness of the vaulted chamber, especially given the number of witnesses standing wall to wall. Incense hung in fragrant spumes above their heads. The flames of a dozen torches kept a steady glow.

The aisle was a clear-cut path between the Scots on one side and the people of Helmesly on the other. Doris stood with Simon in her arms. As Clarise passed the baby, her heart swelled with love for him. Soon, my sweet, I’ll be your mother.

Her gaze slid over a row of familiar faces and came to land on her groom. The Slayer stood before a candelabrum of five bright candles. They cast a brilliant haze about his torso. He wore a tunic of emerald silk—not black, she marveled with a curious sense of relief. The tunic deepened the green of his eyes as his gaze probed hers. Awareness plunged through her, deep and keen.

She felt much the way she’d felt at their first encounter. She was still struck by the size and breadth of him. The aura of power radiated from his being. Yet now she knew that the look in his eyes was neither ruthlessness nor a quest for blood. Instead, he looked worried she might change her mind and bolt from the chapel.

She looked at Christian’s scar for the courage. More than anything, the scar was a reminder of the faithful child in him. The band of apprehension eased around her chest. She took a cleansing breath. Despite the doubts her mother and sister had spawned, she believed he would overcome the demons of his past. She had no choice but to believe it.

As she slipped her fingers into his warm grasp, she felt his squeeze of reassurance. “You steal my breath, lady,” he murmured in a voice threaded with awe.

Bemused by his compliment, she looked down at their hands. His strong, tanned grasp looked enormous in contrast to her pale, slim fingers. The sight was both reassuring and disturbing.

Ethelred launched into the Latin service. In a matter of minutes she was bound to the Slayer for a lifetime. For the sake of fulfilling her father’s request, she said, “I do.”

For the sake of her own private yearnings—a warrior to retake her home, a lover to cherish her, and a friend to keep her company through good and through evil—she sealed her promise with a kiss.

“Will my lady eat?” Christian asked in her ear.

Clarise eyed the lozenges of curd cheese, bacon and walnut stew, hazelnut crumble, and crustade of chicken with mistrust. The centerpiece was a whole, stuffed swan, dressed in its own feathers and swimming on a sea of lettuce. The fare surpassed anything she had ever seen before, but she couldn’t bring herself to take a bite.

“I cannot,” she admitted. She cut a distasteful glance at her stepfather and found him enjoying himself immensely. His beard was sticky with grease. A horn of ale was clutched in his left hand. He looked happy indeed thinking himself allied with the Slayer.

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.”