She turned back to her husband. The strain of smiling under so much tension had drained her. “I think I will retire,” she informed him wanly.
He pushed back his chair and helped her to rise. All conversation dimmed at once. Clarise concentrated on picking her way past the many guests at the table and ignoring the jests called out by brave or foolish soldiers. They wove their way among the trestles and came to the stairs. There Christian passed her on to Nell, who was waiting with the bloom of pleasure on her round cheeks.
“Anon,” the warlord promised, bringing his hand up to caress her jaw.
He seemed distracted, Clarise thought, turning away with Nell. She looked back at him once, overcome by curiosity. Was he up to something? she wondered. She found him studying her ascension to the second level. He raised his goblet in salute, and she blushed at the attention, looking away.
Above the solar door was a garland made from lily of the valley blossoms. She paused to admire it. With a proud smile, Nell opened the door to the bridal bower. The servants had thrown themselves into the wedding preparations. Even Dame Maeve had contributed her share of help, undertaking a frenzy of activities that included looping garlands around the bedposts and laying Clarise’s new wardrobe in the chest toted from her bedchamber.
The room smelled of summer lilies and heliotrope. The tallow lamps splashed white light onto the tapestries. Her new collection of perfumes was posited on the table next to Christian’s books. A nightdress fashioned from the sheerest silk lay across the bed like icing on a cake.
Clarise absorbed every detail with a sense of unreality. Was this just a dream? Everything had come so easily. Even the passion and romance one normally associated with a love match seemed to find its way into the atmosphere, despite tomorrow’s conflict. It left her wondering if she wasn’t trying to delude herself. This was just a marriage of convenience, after all. No one had mentioned a word of everlasting love.
The train of her gown crackled over the rush mat as she crossed to the open window. With the onset of evening, the horizon was turning pale pink. A cool breeze stirred the loose tendrils of her hair. She sent her gaze over the outer wall and spied the collection of Ferguson’s tents. Other competitors had come to test their skill at the tourney, adding a sea of bright canopies to the open field.
She turned away. This was her wedding night. Tomorrow would bring a deadly tangle of arms and the unexpected death of the Scottish leader. Would the Scots suspect foul play and rally behind their murdered lord? Would a war break out at Helmesly?
She wanted to address these fears to Christian, only he had avoided all discussion of it earlier. And now he was lingering in the hall, playing the gracious host.
Clarise pressed a hand to her roiling belly. She wished she hadn’t insisted that Ferguson be destroyed at once. Tomorrow’s violence diminished tonight’s possibilities. She felt as though something breathless and beautiful were on the verge of bursting from its chrysalis, only to be discouraged by the threat of winter. She wished she’d been more patient, allowing time for her marriage to mature.
Tonight, she wanted Christian to herself, with no worries intervening.
She comforted herself with the thought that she would have him every night hereafter, for the rest of their lives.
Chapter Eighteen
She was dozing against the heap of pillows when the door groaned inward. Clarise’s eyes snapped open. Her in-drawn breath congealed. She couldn’t see the door for the bed curtains that barred her view. The room was steeped in stygian darkness.
If the intruder were her husband, she would have heard the revelers accompanying him to the bridal bower. Tradition dictated that they create a great clamor, thereby advising the bride of the groom’s imminent appearance.
The door closed quietly behind the interloper. It couldn’t be Nell, for she’d sent the maid away after brushing out her hair, applying more perfume, and donning her nightdress. Besides, Nell’s footfalls were lighter.
A nameless fear raked Clarise’s spine. It had to be a Scottish intruder, intent on murdering the bride. Poor Christian, she thought, unable to move for the terror that gripped her. He would be accused of killing her himself, just as he’d been accused of murdering Genrose. She could not allow that to happen. For his sake, she must summon the courage to move.
Now! She threw herself to the far side of the bed and dived under the closed drapes. Thudding to the floor, she scrambled up again. Her heart strained against her ribs. She lurched blindly toward the door, intent on ripping it open and running onto the gallery to scream for help.
She never made it to the door. Two powerful arms snatched her from behind, lifting her into the air. She screamed, and a hand clasped over her mouth. “Quiet!” commanded a familiar voice. “ ’Tis I, Clarise. Why are you fighting me?”
Fear drained away in such a rush that it left her limp. She sagged in her husband’s arms, her legs useless to hold her weight. He lifted his hand from her mouth. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded, dumbly.
The arms that held her became a tender circle.
Clarise was grateful for his support and the radiating warmth that soothed her trembling. Would she always associate his scent with comfort and security?
“Come back to bed,” he urged, taking her hand. He stubbed his toe in the darkness and cursed. “Who doused the flames?” he asked irritably.
“They were never lit,” she said. “I went to bed when it was still light out.”
He pulled apart the bed drapes while keeping one hand on her silk-clad waist. “Did you rest?” His palm smoothed upward to linger under the weight of one breast.
“Aye.” His heat seemed to burn her through the flimsy fabric. “I was asleep when the door opened. I heard no revelers, my lord, so I assumed you were an intruder, intent on murdering me in my bed.”
“Hush, that’s an evil thought.” He cupped her breast, his thumb rubbing over the nipple, pearling it instantly.
“And not beyond the scope of Ferguson’s mind,” she added breathlessly. “Why didn’t I hear the revelers announcing you?”
They had been standing toe to toe in the darkness. Suddenly he stepped away from her, dropping his hand. “You must have slept through their noise,” he said, crossing to the table. She heard him strike a flint before the room flared into view.
Her husband looked forbidding with the light shining on his face. Indeed, he was scowling. His scar stood out in pale relief.
“I hope I haven’t upset you, my lord,” she said, dreading the appearance of his darker side. He seemed preoccupied.
“Hmmm?” He glanced up from the flame. “Nay, ’tisn’t you.” He gazed at her thoughtfully a moment. “Your sister Merry, has she always been so fierce?” he asked.
“Merry?” Oh, mercy, what has Merry done? “She didn’t try to poison you did she?” she asked, covering her mouth with her fingertips.
“Worse,” he said. “She cursed my manhood.”
Speechless, Clarise could only stare at him.
“ ’Twas during the toasting. She stood, and before the Scots and everyone, she said—let me see if I recall the words correctly—she said, ‘To the groom. May your ballocks shrivel and fall off if you dare ever to strike my beautiful sister.’ ”