Clarise’s eyes flew wide. He looked every inch a warrior tonight—immense, powerful, swathed in black. The links of his armor, dulled with soot, swallowed the light of the torches. His sword hung out of sight beneath a swirling, black cloak. As he threw back the hood, she could see that his hair was cut shorter and plastered wetly to his skull. It looked as if he hadn’t shaved in days. His eyes gleamed above the scruffy darkness of his beard.
Christian drew up short and blinked at the unexpected glare. The great hall was ablaze with torches and blinding reflections. Despite the gathering that drew him toward the stairs, he paused a moment to marvel at the changes that had taken place since his departure.
The scent of flowers masked the odor of so much burning tallow. The most immediate difference was the enormous tapestry that hung from the gallery to cover an entire wall. A row of blazing torches drew his gaze toward the high table, covered in snowy linens and bouquets of colorful flowers. On the eastern wall, silver platters, with their polished luster, reflected the gay scene.
The great hall bore little resemblance to the echoing chamber that his wife had made of it. A rush of contentment filled him as he beheld his home transformed. There was no doubt as to who was responsible for the changes. Just as suddenly, bitterness tinged his pleasure. How dare she taunt him with what he longed for most? She hadn’t come to shed her light into his morbid world. She’d come for a different reason—to spy or to hide. And yet she teased him with the illusion of what he craved.
He ripped his gaze from the wall hangings and shot her an accusing look. Clarise’s eyes reflected hope and fear in equal parts. Her pale face was framed by copper tendrils that had slipped from the knot on her head. Her mouth was slightly parted as if she struggled to inhale. Good, he thought, as betrayal stung him anew. She would do anything to procure his mercy.
A movement next to Clarise dragged his gaze to the cleric standing beside her. “Ethelred!” he exclaimed, surprised to see the abbot in his castle. He hurried forward and extended a wet hand. Water streamed off his cloak onto the fresh rushes. “ ’Tis a pleasure as always.”
“The good abbot has brought us excellent news,” Sir Roger interrupted, his smile at the height of crookedness. “You tell him, Father.”
Ethelred offered his boyish smile. “The interdict has been lifted from Helmesly,” he announced, pumping Christian’s hand as if he didn’t mean to let it go. “In fact, it never truly existed in the eyes of the mother church, for it lacks the approval of the Holy See. I am going tomorrow to question Gilbert about the matter.”
It seemed to Christian as if the hall were suddenly brighter, though that was impossible given its present brilliance. He looked from Ethelred’s blue eyes to Sir Roger’s happy smile and felt his vocal chords vibrate. The laugh that rasped free was almost an embarrassment. He darted a look at Clarise and found her gazing at him with wonder in her eyes.
He withdrew at once behind a façade of solemnity. “I owe it to you,” he said to the abbot, whose hand he still squeezed.
Ethelred let go with a muffled yelp. “Not at all, not at all,” he assured him affably. “The matter came up in casual conversation.”
Christian nodded. His thoughts had already turned to Lady Clarise, who stared at him like a paralyzed hare. Anger boiled in him anew. She had lied to him so many times that he found himself looking at a stranger. She wasn’t from Glenmyre. She was never Monteign’s mistress. He didn’t know whose child she had born out of wedlock, or had she lied about that, too?
He took a step that brought him close enough to hear her sharp intake of air. Her head tilted back, offering him a clear view of the hollow fluttering at the base of her throat. The fact that she was frightened of him meant that her purpose at Helmesly was a sinister one. She hadn’t come for protection or simply to hide.
He leaned over her, allowing his knowledge of the truth to blaze in his eyes. “You and I have much to discuss,” he warned her. He was perversely satisfied to see all color slip from her cheeks.
It was the glare of his infant son that distracted him from toying with her further. The baby, swaddled in royal raiment, glowered at him from the throne of Clarise’s arms. The little baron looked displeased with his father’s behavior.
Christian straightened guiltily. He thrust a finger out for Simon to squeeze, but the baby ignored him. The frown on his downy brow bespoke of grave disapproval. “He doesn’t remember me,” he said by way of explanation. Addressing the onlookers, he added, “Give me a moment to wash up, and I’ll join you for supper.”
Ignoring his vassal’s questioning look, he tackled the stairs two at a time. He couldn’t help but notice the effort that had been put into ensuring his mercy. On every step there stood a pot of wildflowers, artfully arranged.
Nevertheless, he thought, squaring his shoulders, she would have to pay a price for her deceit. She was guilty of putting a hunger in his heart, and he would not be satisfied until he forged his spirit in her fire.
Chapter Twelve
A murmuring of masculine voices was audible through the closed solar door. Clarise hovered on the gallery, uncertain whether to wait for their conversation to end or to knock. Though she trusted Doris to care for Simon in her stead, she could not leave the baby alone with the cook all evening.
She was eager to put this reckoning with the Slayer behind her. Throughout the meal, she had caught him sending her narrow-eyed looks, and she’d held her breath, awaiting a public denunciation, only it hadn’t come. At the same time she’d had to keep an eye on the food’s distribution as Harold struggled to perform his duties without his wife.
Following supper, the abbot had excused himself to visit the chapel. The Slayer had scraped back his chair and announced to his second-in-command that they should retire to the solar. Clarise was left to deal with a fussing baby. She withdrew to her own chamber, chafed by the delay in the inevitable confrontation.
Never before was she so hopeful of the Slayer’s help. He’d made it clear by his looks that he knew who she was. And yet he hadn’t mocked or publicly exposed her. Perhaps all her worries had been for naught.
The door of the solar opened suddenly, and Sir Roger stepped through it, stopping just short of plowing her down. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “I was just coming to get you. . . Clarise DuBoise.” At the purposeful mention of her name, she drew a quick breath and searched his face for condemnation. His expression was taut. The smile that hovered perpetually at one corner of his mouth had fled.
“Please,” she begged, grabbing his sleeve as he held the door for her, “I never wanted to lie to you. Please understand that I had a very good reason.”
“Go in,” he said, ignoring her plea, but his tone had mellowed. He gave her what she took to be a pitying look.
Her heart beating with dread, Clarise inched through the portal, expecting the worst. Her gaze flew to the Slayer, who was seated behind his writing table. With the candle behind him, shadows pooled in the hollows of his face, concealing his expression.
She looked back at the knight in a silent plea for his support. But then he shut the door between them, and she was left alone with her nemesis.
Two tallow lamps cast feeble light onto the tapestries. Rain beat loudly on the closed shutters. The room seemed full of menacing shadows, not the least of which was the Slayer himself, dressed in the black tunic he had worn to dinner.