Even with a bitter taste in his mouth, he was not immune to Clarise’s desperation. Had she directed such words to him, he would have snatched up his sword and leaped on his horse at a full run. Yet, these pleas were not for him, which was precisely the rub. They were for Alec, her beloved, her Dear One.
In a violent gesture he scythed his arm across the table and swept the letters to the floor. “Enough!” he shouted, scraping back his chair. He stalked to the window and stuck his head outside to find a breath of air. The wind had turned and was coming from the north. Clouds bruised the afternoon sky, bringing the threat of a storm.
“ ’Twill rain,” Sir Roger observed from where he sat. “This front will bring relief from the heat,” he added.
Christian wondered how his man could even think about the weather. “What shall I do?” he asked, feeling perfectly violent. He rubbed his forehead where his scalp seemed to be pulled too tight. The alliance he had terminated by killing Monteign had been a love match! He reeled with the truth of it.
“What had you intended to do?” Saintonge inquired easily.
“Kill Ferguson,” he retorted. It had all been so simple. He would kill the Scot, thereby earning the right to wed Clarise. But everything had changed with the appearance of her letters.
“And then?” prompted Saintonge.
“Wed Clarise,” Christian admitted, feeling the bite of jealousy in his gut. He darted his vassal a warning scowl. “Don’t laugh,” he warned.
Sir Roger glanced at the letters scattered all over the floor. “Your plans have changed?”
A streak of lightning jagged from the clouds, drawing the warlord’s gaze outside again. “She loves Alec,” he said, forcing the words through his clenched teeth. “She would never have me.”
Trees foamed on the horizon. A breeze stirred his hair.
“Why would the abbot give you these letters?”
Sir Roger’s question forced Christian to think and not to feel. He watched the storm surge closer. “Clearly, Gilbert wishes to expose her,” he said. “He lives to strike misery into the hearts of everyone.”
“True enough,” said the knight. “But there is more to this picture than pettiness. Gilbert suspects that you covet the lady for yourself. He means to drive a wedge between you and Alec in the hopes that you will withdraw your offer to return Glenmyre to him.”
“How could he know such things?” Christian demanded, referring to his intentions toward Clarise.
Sir Roger shrugged. “He must have put a spy among us.”
That gave him pause. “You think he wants me to withdraw the offer to Alec.”
“Alec’s lands are forfeit to the Church,” the knight pointed out, “but only as long as he remains a monk.”
The warlord raked a hand through his hair. Following Sir Roger’s logic was like wending along an ancient riverbed; he never knew where it would lead him. “I presume we are speaking of Glenmyre, which is presently in my control.”
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.