Danger’s Promise

With special thanks to my best friend and proofreader, Sydney Baily-Gould. You stood by me through many long years and many poor manuscripts. You deserve all the credit for this one!

For Alan, my soul mate. Thank you for believing.

For all my children and stepchildren: Conrad and Chauncey; Corey, Bryan and Tricia. May your lives be filled with magic and grace.

Chapter One

North York Moors, A.D. 1150

In battle, he fought like a man possessed. To the enemy, he gave no quarter. His nom de guerre sent shivers of horror down the spines of common folk. Yet, reflected in the gray depths of his newborn’s eyes, the Slayer looked like an ordinary man. A profoundly humbled man.

His baby had inherited his swarthy coloring and his stubborn nature, given that he was still alive. He was little more than a bundle of slippery limbs, but his chest swelled on a healthy breath, and his fists resembled iron mallets. With a wail that bounded off the ceiling and magnified, Simon heralded his own birth. Beyond the shutters, thunder boomed and lightning crackled.

The Slayer nearly smiled. Simon de la Croix would be the next Baron of Helmesly, not a bastard warrior like his father. Not a man forced to fight for all he had.

The portal burst open, startling the baby into silence. A draft beat up the torchlight and illumined the flapping sleeves of the midwife as she rushed into the chamber.

“Give me the babe!” screeched the wizened woman. She reached for him with her shriveled hands. “I must baptize it at once!”

Christian lifted his son above the woman’s reach. A pox on the midwife! Did she think Simon marked for the devil? “I told you to leave,” he said in his quietest voice.

The old woman stilled, her eyes moving beyond him to the lifeless form of the Slayer’s wife. “Mother of God, what have ye done?” she whispered.

Christian felt his horror bubble up, and he quickly squashed it down. “What have I done?” he snarled. “I’ve done naught but save my son from perishing with his mother. ’Twas you who let her die. Get you out before I think to imprison you for murder!”

The midwife blanched and scurried backward. Hastily she gathered her belongings: bottles of draughts and tisanes, knives and needles. They clanged together in the earthenware bowl as she scuttled from the room. With a furtive look, she darted away.

The door closed behind her. In the silence that followed, Christian heard the thudding of his own heart. His disbelieving gaze drifted about the room, touching on the mutilated body of his wife, the rosary beads lying useless in her palm, the half-embroidered altar cloth upon the chair. At last he looked down at the baby in his arms. Simon returned his gaze intently.

“Your mother is dead,” Christian whispered. And I feel ’tis my fault.

Until the midwife came, her labor had been unremarkable. Genrose had suffered the pangs of childbirth with the same saintly silence that she’d suffered her husband. Then, oh, so subtly, she had faded with the dying light of day.

There is naught more I can do, the midwife had declared. These things are in God’s hands.

The words perturbed him even now. Christian had cast the woman from the room and dared to alter fate’s design. He had cut Simon free of his fleshy prison, and even cut the cord that tied the baby to his ill-fated mother. And the baby had lived!

Lowering his son into the box of waiting linens, he wrapped him carefully against the cold. Simon held still, uncritical of his father’s ministrations. His somber gaze demanded something of him—a mother most likely.

With a deep breath Christian called upon the ruthlessness that had given him his nom de guerre, the Slayer of Helmesly. Then he turned to the task of rolling his lady’s corpse in cloth. It took all the sheets on the bed, plus those folded on the chest, to staunch the blood still spilling from her body. His movements were deft with practice. Yet in all his experience of war, he had never felt so sickened by his actions, so keenly plagued by guilt.

Had he loved the lady who had died to give him a son?

In the act of covering Genrose’s face, he hesitated. Her quiet features were hardly even known to him. She had been as pure as a novice when he’d wed her a year ago. Then, as now, he’d been unworthy of her sacrifice. His only comfort was the certainty that she was happier with God than she had been with him.

The baby gave a whimper in his cradle. Christian hurried to the box, worried that his son might yet be snatched away from him.

Who would nurture Simon? Who would feed him? The questions hit him like the broadside of a sword. Wiping the blood from his hands, he scooped the baby up and paced the length of the chamber.

Simon ceased to fret, his bright eyes watchful. The rain began to pelt the shutters. A knock sounded at the door.

“Enter.”

Sir Roger edged into the torchlight. The droplets on his cloak gleamed like diamonds as he ran an eye over the nightmarish scene. “My lord, you are covered in blood!” the middle-aged knight exclaimed, shutting the portal behind him.

Sir Roger’s tilted smile was not in evidence tonight. The scars that forked like veins upon his face paled as he approached. He stopped before his lord, and his gaze fell to the swaddled infant. “A boy, my lord?” he queried gently.

“His name is Simon. He will inherit his grandfather’s title,” Christian answered, though Roger already knew his motives for marrying the baron’s daughter.

Gray eyes flicked once to the bed, then back to the baby. “I know not what to say,” confessed the knight.

“Say nothing.” Christian felt as if he wore a mask upon his face. Spots burst and swam before his eyes. “Tell me how the defense goes at Glenmyre.”

“The news isn’t good, my lord,” Sir Roger warned.

“Say it.” The struggle over Glenmyre was escalating into war. Between domestic matters and military preoccupations, Christian had little time for rest. “What has Ferguson done now?”

“He rode upon Glenmyre at dusk, when the peasants were returning from the fields. He slew them all.”

Christian swore viciously at the Scot’s perfidy. “How many dead?” he demanded.

“Nineteen men.”

A familiar queasiness turned Christian’s stomach. The Scotsman’s atrocities reminded him of his own past. Feeling his knees go weak, he thrust the baby at his vassal. “Find a nurse for my son,” he commanded. “I will ride to Glenmyre to bolster our defense.”

He took several steps toward the door, then turned to regard the dismal chamber. “See that my lady is buried alongside her parents,” he instructed.

Sir Roger looked older with an infant clutched to his hauberk. “As you will, sire,” he assured his lord.

Christian grasped the latch. “Ethelred must bury her. Do not let news of her death reach Abbot Gilbert.”

Again, Sir Roger nodded, and the Slayer took his leave. The lord’s chamber opened to a gallery, which overlooked the hall. Below, the servants gathered, awaiting news of the birth. As Christian clutched the balustrade for balance, the light of the fire pit deepened the bloodstains on his tunic.

The servants looked up at him in one accord. Shock flared in their eyes. At their collective gasp, he fell back into the shadows. Too late, he realized they were thinking of the abbot’s prophesy, cried out within the chapel just nine months ago.

Mark me well, people of Helmesly. This virgin bride will be slain by her husband!

Nay, not he! Christian longed to defend his innocence, but his protests would fall on deaf ears. The servants wouldn’t take his word over that of a cleric. He would never win their loyalty now.

He turned to the courtyard, seeking rain to wash the blood from his clothes. But before he reached the solitude of the tower stairs, a servant’s whisper rose with the smoke from the fire pit.

“Mother of God, he has killed Her Ladyship! Did ye see the blood?”

With blisters burning her feet, Clarise DuBoise tackled the hill to the Abbey of Rievaulx. The abbey commanded a view at the height of a crag, rising from the stalks of purple heather to lord over the valley below. Its walls seemed to waver in the hot July haze. She would not admit it was her vision blurring.

For two long days the sun had sat upon her shoulders and sucked the moisture from her moth. Beneath the cloth hiding her hair, Clarise’s scalp was drenched with sweat. The gown that disguised her as a peasant chafed her limbs where her shift failed to cover her. Her slippers were worn to tatters. She was lucky to be alive.

Ferguson, her stepfather, hadn’t cared about the dangers of the road when he’d cast her out upon her mission. He knew the threat to kill her mother and sisters was enough to ensure that she would fight to survive any hardship.

Ferguson had instructed her to go straight to the Slayer’s castle. Ye mon gain admission to Helmesly as a freed serf in need o’ work, he’d commanded. Drop the powder into his drink at the first chance ye get. If the Slayer isn’t dead in two months’ time, I’ll hang yer mother an’ sisters in the courtyard.

There were others he could have sent in her stead, men and women more adept at subterfuge. But Ferguson had a reason for sending Clarise to do his dirty work. She had attempted to avenge her father’s murder numerous times. Her sharp, strategic mind made her an ever-present danger to Ferguson. He could not control her except from afar.

The toxic powder was concealed in a pendant that hung on a chain about her neck. Clarise felt the weight of the pendant swing between her breasts as she pushed her way up the abbey’s hill. Ferguson’s plan was sneaky and cold-blooded. It was riddled with flaws. The likelihood that she would be exposed and hanged for spying was high, but that did not cause Ferguson any great concern. Clarise was as dispensable as her mother and sisters.

Only one alternative existed to the plan: that Alec could help her. Six months ago Alec had been Clarise’s betrothed; now he was a monk. The wedding would have taken place last Christmas, had the Slayer of Helmesly not attacked without warning on the eve of the nuptials. In a bloody assault he had killed Alec’s father, prompting Alec to flee to Rievaulx Abbey in fear of his life. Clarise’s dream of escaping her stepfather’s clutches through marriage had been crushed.

She told herself Alec would stay at Rievaulx only a short while. He was a knight, after all, not a man of the cloth. But the days turned to weeks and then to months. In letters too many to count, she pleaded for Alec to take up his sword and rescue her family from the Scot’s abuses. Until now, her efforts had been in vain.

Today she would petition him in person. How could Alec refuse to help when she told him of Ferguson’s threat to kill her family? Honor dictated that he summon an army and challenge her stepfather once and for all.

The scent of cooked meat wafted from a nearby village, distracting Clarise from her introspection. Her stomach gave an empty growl, but she ignored it. The monks would feed her at Rievaulx.

Her footsteps faltered as she approached the abbey’s only gate. The wall that rose toward the cloudless sky reminded her of her father’s tomb. It was hewn from the same gray stone.

Alec is here, she reminded herself, shaking off her sudden foreboding. When he saw her in person, he would remember his love for her. He would be her hero once again.

The only way to signal her presence was to tug on a bell rope. At the bell’s high jingle, the peephole snapped open. “Aye?” came a voice from the folds of a cowl.

Clarise greeted the faceless monk in Latin. “I must share a word with Alec Monteign.”

The monk showed no reaction to her words. “We have an illness here. The abbey is quarantined,” he said stoically.

Alarm rippled over her. “What manner of illness is it?” she demanded. Without Alec’s help, she would have no choice but to execute her mission.

“Fever,” said the monk shortly. “Boils and lesions.”

Clarise repressed the urge to cover her mouth with one corner of her headdress. “Nonetheless, I must speak with Alec.” Desperation made her dizzy. She blinked her eyes to clear her vision, and when she opened them, the monk was gone.

Where did he go? Clarise stood tiptoe and peered into the abbey’s courtyard. The cobbled square looked strangely abandoned. An inscription over a pair of double doors drew her gaze. Hic laborant fratres crucis, said the message. Here labor brothers of the cross.

No one labored now. Neither did they tend the vineyards outside the abbey’s walls. The rows of trellises stood bereft of vine or grape. She was left with the dampening suspicion that she’d come to the wrong place for help.

The sound of footsteps echoed off the courtyard. Another man approached the gate. He did not wear a cowl over his dark, tonsured hair but a stole that designated him an abbot. Clarise’s hopes took wing, then plummeted as his black gaze skewered her through the little opening.

“You should not be here,” he informed her cryptically. “There is a great scourge within these walls.”

“I wish only to speak with Alec Monteign,” she said deferentially.

“Brother Alec tends the sick. He cannot be interrupted.”

“He isn’t ill, then?” she asked, hopeful once again.

“Not yet.” The abbot spoke with no inflection in his voice. She couldn’t tell if he was angry or dispassionate.

“I was once his betrothed, Your Grace,” Clarise rushed to explain. “If he knew I had come so far, I am certain he would want to—”

His gaze had sharpened with her words. “Remove the cloth, so that I might see you,” he interrupted.

Clarise eased the kerchief from her flame-colored hair. The abbot put jeweled fingers to his mouth and gasped with recognition. “I know you,” he said in a voice so intimate her innards seemed to curdle. “You are the one who has written Alec words of defilement and temptation.”

“But, Your Grace,” she protested, realizing he made reference to her many letters. “I merely reasoned with his choice—”

“Silence!” he hissed. He stepped back suddenly, his face lost to shadow. “You are a woman, an ancestor of Eve. You would lure Alec from his holy vows,” he insisted.

“Not true!” she cried. “I have come for . . . for . . .” She stuttered, for in truth, she had come to lead Alec from the Church. “I have come for sanctuary,” she amended. It was a means to gain entrance; she had nowhere else to turn.

The abbot pressed himself to the gate. In a wolfish smile he bared his teeth. “Sanctuary?” he repeated. Then his head fell back as laughter, harsh and mirthless, rose from his throat. “Is that what you call it?” Suddenly he was deathly serious. “Horatio!” he snarled over his shoulder.

The man who’d answered the gate loomed behind him. “Show this woman your face,” the abbot commanded.

The monk pulled the hood from his head.

Clarise sucked in a breath of horror. The man’s face was speckled with lesions. Puss oozed from every pore. The wounds seemed to weep, lining his cheeks in flaky traces. She changed her mind at once about wanting to enter.

“Does this look like refuge to you?” the abbot inquired. There was a mad gleam in his onyx eyes.

Clarise drew her kerchief closer to her nose. She swallowed hard as the vision of illness threatened to upend her empty stomach. “Let Alec go,” she begged. “He is the only one who can help me, Your Grace. I have great need of him.”

“I am sure you do,” said the abbot with oily implication. “Nonetheless, he cannot leave. Until the illness runs its course, no one leaves. You run the risk of infection yourself.”

She stepped back instinctively. “I am going now,” she said.

“Just a moment,” the abbot ordered. “It comes to mind that Horatio might have infected you already. We cannot contribute to the spread of disease. Can we, Horatio?”

“Nay, Your Grace.” The monk seemed to smirk.

Clarise looked from one man to the other. She weighed the benefit of seeing Alec against the risk of being stricken. “I must go,” she repeated, staggering backward several paces as she pulled her head covering into place. “I will call again when the illness is gone.” She could not afford to be locked in the abbey’s walls indefinitely. Ferguson had given her two months’ time to accomplish her assignment. After that, her mother and sisters’ lives were forfeit.

With a nameless fear she turned and hurried down the grassy slope. As the earth dropped sharply beneath her feet, she began to run, desperate to put distance between herself and the sickness that polluted the abbey. She pinched her slippers with her toes, skirting hollows and leaping over rocks as she raced toward the river and the trading town at its shore.

Clarise dived into the midst of traffic. A trail of carts and traders swept her along. The cheerful throng was headed toward the market at the river’s edge. To her relief, there was no sign of illness in the sweating faces of those who milled around her.

The busy air of the market town contrasted sharply with the deathlike stillness of the abbey. Stalls and tents crowded the grassy riverbank. Tables overflowed with goods brought from other places—leather, samite, mink, trinkets, and jewels. Clarise stumbled through the throng, dismayed by the turn of events.

The scent of meat pies lured her toward the food stands. Ducklings sizzled over spits. Barrels swelled with luscious fruit. Over the shouts of the hawkers she heard her stomach rumble.

“Have a gooseberry?” a kind old lady offered, extending her the prickly ball of fruit.

“Thank you!” Clarise ripped off the skin with her teeth and stuffed the juicy globe in her mouth.

Now what? she wondered. It had never occurred to her that the Abbey of Rievaulx would be anything but a haven of refuge. Alec had flown there to keep from being murdered by the Slayer. Yet illness now despoiled the place, and the abbot’s strange behavior made it all the more frightening.

She thought of Alex, trapped behind the walls. He must be desperate to leave! But until the illness ran its course, he could not. Perhaps he’d never even received her letters. The abbot could have kept them to himself, fearing Alec would rescind his vows if he knew of Clarise’s desperate situation.

She seized the explanation with relief. While it meant that Alec knew little of her plight, it also meant that he might still help her. If she found a way to reach him.

How long until the quarantine was lifted? Could she afford to bide her time in this trading town while every day brought her mother and sisters closer to death?

The sound of one woman scolding another roused her from her thoughts. “Megan, are ye mad?” hissed the woman, tugging at the other’s elbow. “Do ye want to live at Helmesly and be nursemaid to the Slayer’s son?”

At the Slayer’s name, Clarise gave a guilty start. She followed the direction of the women’s stares and spied a man sitting astride a horse. The man wore no armor in the afternoon heat. By the hopeless look on his battle-scarred face, he hadn’t met with any luck in his search for a nurse.

That can’t be the Slayer, Clarise thought, swallowing hard. A gooseberry seed moved painfully down her throat. As the women moved hurriedly away, whispering to themselves, Clarise eyed the Slayer’s representative.

The Slayer had spawned a son on the baron’s daughter. Ferguson wouldn’t like that at all, she thought with a faint smile. Yet it made her mission that much easier. For the sake of her mother and sisters, she needed to approach the knight and offer her services as a nurse.

I am not equipped to feed a baby, she silently resisted. Yet that was not exactly true. She’d fed her youngest sister goat’s milk when their mother suffered the birth fever. It wasn’t an impossible task. Besides, she couldn’t stay in this trading town indefinitely, waiting for the quarantine to lift.

With leaden feet, Clarise crossed the grassy expanse that separated her from the horseman.

The man caught sight of her and stared with interest. To her relief, he did not appear to be a vicious warrior. Below a full head of graying hair, his eyes were light and keen. Though his face was crosshatched by scars, one end of his mouth was caught up in a perpetual smile, giving him a congenial look. He dismounted as she approached him.

“Are you in search of a nurse?” she asked in the Saxon tongue. As Ferguson had suggested, she would play the part of a freed serf.

He took hold of his animal’s bridle. “I am,” he said, giving her a quick but thorough inspection.

“I can care for the baby,” she offered, sounding more certain than she felt.

He gave her a skeptical look. “Where is your child?”

My child? Mary’s blood, she was supposed to have birthed a child! “It . . . it died of fever just a day ago.”

The knight’s expression turned sympathetic. “And you would care for another,” he finished gently. “What does your husband think?”

Husband? She balked at the unexpected question. Having not intended to go through with Ferguson’s plan, she’d given little thought to what she would say under the circumstances. “I have no husband,” she answered automatically. At the knight’s odd look she added, “He died in a skirmish.”

The knight frowned and paused. “You have suffered much for one so young,” he said.

His sympathy gave her courage. It would be easier than she thought to find her way into the Slayer’s home. “I have no money,” she added pathetically. “No way of feeding myself. Please, take me to Helmesly Castle. Let me care for the baby.”

The man looked dazed by her enthusiasm. “Very well,” he said. “You wish to go now?”

“Aye, right now.” Her hopes rose anew. The hoary knight had fallen for her tale.

“Have you nothing to bring with you?”

“My goods were sold to cover my husband’s debts,” she said, thinking quickly.

“What is your name?”

“Clare,” she improvised. “Clare Crucis.” The last word from the inscription at the abbey sprang to her lips. She congratulated herself for being so clever.

“I am Sir Roger de Saintonge,” said the knight. He inclined a slight bow. “Shall we go?”

She approached the white destrier with mixed eagerness and dread. Sir Roger spanned her waist, tossing her pillion into the saddle. “You are not afraid of horses,” he remarked.

She shook her head and realized belatedly that most peasants were afraid of the giant warhorses. She would have to remember to think like a commoner.

The knight led his mount by the bridle through the thinning crowds. Clarise kept her gaze fixed on the road they were taking. It was a well-trodden path leading away from the town and abbey.

As they wound around a series of low hills, the Abbey of Rievaulx dropped from view. The hope that Alec would save her from her dreaded task died a painful death. Either she advanced Ferguson’s evil plot, or her mother and sisters would be put to death.

Oblivious to her desperate thoughts, the knight strode alongside the horse, keeping hold of the reins. The sun sank lower into the troughs of the hills, bringing Clarise the worry that she might be alone with him come nightfall.

“How far is it to Helmesly?” she inquired.

He slanted her a startled look. She realized with dismay that she’d spoken in the language of the upper class.

“You speak French!” he commented. His eyes gleamed with interest. “And you’re not from Abbingdon, are you?”

Her spirits sank to new depths. She was not as adept at subterfuge as she’d imagined. “I served in a Norman household,” she muttered, as that was the only logical answer. Few peasants, free or bound, knew how to speak Norman French.

“Which household?”

Ferguson had instructed her not to mention Heathersgill. “Glenmyre,” she said, naming Alec’s estate. It was best to keep close to the truth, she told herself.

“Ah,” said the knight, looking suddenly grave. Crickets added a melody to the tempo of the horse’s iron shoes. “Was your husband one of the peasants recently killed?” he inquired gently.

As he persisted in speaking French, she answered in the same, being more at ease with her first tongue. “Nay,” she said slowly, though she knew the peasants to which he referred. Just before she left, Ferguson had boasted that he’d cut the peasant population at Glenmyre in half. She had no wish to be associated with that slaughter. “As I said, my husband was killed in a skirmish.”

They continued the journey in silence. Clarise used the time to sketch a rough history for herself. She imagined what it would be like to care for a warlord’s baby. Rather like playing nursemaid to the devil’s spawn, she thought, recalling what she knew of the Slayer.

The mercenary had once been the master-at-arms for the Baron of Helmesly. The baron had wed him to his only daughter and then departed Helmesly on pilgrimage to Canterbury, leaving the Slayer behind as his seneschal. Rumor had it that the Slayer had plotted to kill the baron and his lady wife, for they did not return alive from their pilgrimage but in coffins. The Slayer was left ruling Helmesly, not as rightful lord but as a usurper.

Much the way Ferguson had acquired Heathersgill, Clarise thought with a sneer.

She cautioned herself to disguise her disdain. In masquerading as a freed serf, she would need to be humble and respectful. “What is the Slayer’s proper name?” she asked, realizing she didn’t even know it.

The knight looked up at her sharply. “Have a care that he doesn’t hear you call him that,” he warned. “He doesn’t like the name Slayer.”

Clarise paled at the warning.

“His name is Christian de la Croix,” answered the knight, “and despite what people say of him, he is a devout man.”

Christian of the Cross? She nearly hooted aloud at the devout name. With difficulty she swallowed the lunatic laughter in her throat. Still, she couldn’t resist questioning the knight. “How comes it, then, that they call him the Slayer? Did he not kill every living soul at Wendesby, or is that a lie?”

The knight’s crooked smile flattened to a seam. “If you value your post as the baby’s nurse, you had best keep silent on the subject.”

She bit her tongue at the reprimand and looked away. The knight was clearly loyal to his liege lord. She would do well to be cautious in his company.

Gazing toward the horizon, she sought sign of a fortress standing over the next hill. For just a second she imagined what it would be like if Sir Roger spoke true. What if the Slayer weren’t the monster rumor painted him to be? What if he hadn’t killed anyone at Wendesby, or the Baron of Helmesly, or even Alec’s father?

She shook her head at her wishful thinking. There were far more villains in this world than good men. She’d be doing everyone a favor to rid the borderlands of the notorious Slayer. If she wished to see her mother and sisters alive, she had best accomplish her task and do it quickly.

Chapter Two

^{“ ’}Tis beautiful,” Clarise admitted with surprise.

“Aye, it is,” Sir Roger concurred.

The object of their admiration stood in a field of wildflowers, just behind a swift-running moat. In the coppery hues of evening, the moat was a golden disk from which the outer wall rose clifflike. It stood at least twenty hands high and twelve feet thick. The entire castle had been built on ancient earthworks, making the second wall visible as well.

The inner wall was flanked by towers. Four of them! Clarise marveled. Her own family’s home of Heathersgill touted just one tall building. The closer Sir Roger urged them, the more overawed she became. With the sun plunging down behind the castle, shadows engulfed the drawbridge. She felt as if she were being swallowed into the maw of a great beast.

They clattered over the moat. “Diverted from the River Rye Derwent!” Sir Roger shouted over the burbling water.

Clarise recalled that Helmesly had been built after the Norman acquisition to protect England from Scottish incursions. The ruling barons had been powerful men, fervently loyal to successive kings. Yet the man who ruled it now was nothing but a bastard seneschal.

They stopped before the gatehouse. Clarise shrank into the saddle, eyeing the window slits with the fear of being recognized. Feeling sharp, suspicious gazes on her person, she tied her kerchief more securely beneath her chin. Yet Sir Roger’s hail was answered at once. The portcullis rumbled upward, and their passing went unchallenged.

In the outer ward she cast eyes to the outer bailey. Bobbing helms betrayed the Slayer’s vigilance. In the grassy enclosure stood a practice yard and archery run, attended by a handful of knights who continued to drill, though bats wheeled overhead. She knew already that a number of his fighting men remained at Glenmyre, yet he did not look ill prepared to defend this stronghold.

There was no bustling trade at Helmesly as there had been in Abbingdon. No venders, no craftsmen, no laughing children. It was a warrior’s paradise.

Passing through a second gate, they came to the inner ward. The keep stood squarely before them, rising nearly to the height of the towers at either corner. It loomed into the evening sky, abutted by supporting arches. Smaller buildings huddled at its base in no apparent order, yet each was immaculately kept. No filth grimed the cobbles; no stench fouled the air.

Neither was there sign of human life. A red fire glowed in the smithy’s hovel. From the mews came the screech of a hunting bird. The scent of hops wafted from the brewery house. Yet not a soul traversed the courtyard.

“Where is everyone?” Clarise wondered aloud.

“Within,” Sir Roger said, helping her from the saddle.

He left her for a moment to duck into the stables. His answer told her nothing. She took note of where to find his horse should it suddenly become necessary to leave. Then she hunted for signs of a nanny goat.

She told herself she wouldn’t linger long. But until she slipped the powder in the Slayer’s drink, she would need to be convincing. If she were caught feeding the baby goat’s milk, her identity would be called into question. She didn’t doubt the Slayer had ways to make a prisoner talk.

In a distant pen a mud-caked sow nursed her offspring. Chickens pecked in another enclosure. There wasn’t a nanny goat in sight.

Sir Roger emerged from the stables. “Lord Christian is back from Glenmyre,” he announced with cheer. “His horse is here. He will be pleased that I have found a nurse at last.”

How nice, thought Clarise, her stomach cramping. “Do you house goats here?” she rushed to inquire. Sir Roger was leading the way to the forebuilding of the main keep. “I have a fondness for goat’s milk,” she said, running to keep up with him.

He slanted her a tolerant look. “I find it sour.”

“ ’Tis good for one’s health,” she argued, mounting the stairs by his side. “You do have goats, here, do you not?” she asked again. What would she do if the man said no?

“Several,” came the heartening reply. “You shall have milk to quench your thirst,” he promised. A moment later he swung wide the doors to the great hall and motioned for her to enter.

The grandeur of the hall chased all thoughts of goat’s milk from her head. Clarise stepped into an enormous chamber. Its high arched ceiling soared above the first and second levels. A gallery coursed the length of the inner wall. The last hint of daylight glowed in the four tall windows opposite.

Clarise drew up short. Not a single tapestry, urn, or silver tray relieved the starkness. The hall was clean beyond compare but lacked the personal touches that made it welcoming.

A murmuring of voices drew her gaze to a clutch of servants lining the benches. A minstrel, sitting with his back to the door, plucked dejectedly upon his lute, while his audience looked on. At Clarise’s entrance they turned their heads to regard her, their faces reflecting only vague curiosity.

“Did someone die?” she whispered, working at the knot beneath her chin.

Sir Roger spared her a distracted glance. “Did I not tell you? My lady died in childbirth. ’Tis the reason I was sent for a nurse.”

Clarise’s stomach tightened. The baby’s mother was dead? And she was supposed to kill its father as well? “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said automatically. “They must have loved her greatly to cease their labors.”

“Aye, they did,” Sir Roger said with a sigh. “But this particular gathering is an indication of my lord’s temperament. They herd together like sheep to avoid an encounter with him.”

She nearly rent the cloth in her hands. “What . . . what does that mean, exactly?” But he was already mounting the stairs to the second level. With leaden feet she chased after him.

The tales of horror inspired by the Slayer bubbled in the cauldron of her mind. In laying waste to Wendesby six years past, he’d burned the village to ash and killed the innocents that ran before the flames. His own people huddled in the hall in fear of him, and she had just joined their oppressed ranks. Was she mad?

With every step Clarise’s feet grew heavier. What if he recognized her from some previous visit to Heathersgill? She quickly redonned the kerchief to conceal her hair. Gazing at the second level, she faltered to a halt. She couldn’t do it. She feared she would be caught and executed in a matter of hours.

“I have a terrible thirst,” she called, stopping Sir Roger midway up the stairs. “Might I have the milk you promised me?”

Roger leaned over the balustrade and called to the servants. “Dame Maeve!” An elderly woman withdrew from the gathering, her harsh face softened by the mellow light. “Have a servant bring up a mug of goat’s milk for our nurse, Dame Crucis.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Boil it first, if you please,” Clarise added, knowing that part to be crucial.

Dame Maeve thinned her lips, but taking up her keys, she turned to fulfill the request.

“You give orders with accustomed ease,” Sir Roger remarked. He indicated that they should follow the length of the gallery where a servant worked to light a torch. Shadows had already leaked into the upper levels. Clarise felt like a lamb being drawn to slaughter.

“My husband was a lenient man,” she said, offering him a breathless explanation. She followed him along the gallery and down a long and narrow hall. They came to the twisting stairs of one of the four towers. Here the shadows thickened into blackness.

“Lord Christian must be in a rage if his servants won’t approach him,” she gasped, dreading the encounter to come.

“My lord is a reasonable man,” Sir Roger threw out to comfort her.

But the sounds coming from the level above belied his tale. The cacophony of a wailing infant and a bellowing man blended in an awful duet. The Slayer’s angry roar shot through Clarise like a poisoned arrow. She felt as though he were railing at her and not some hapless servant. Curiosity alone carried her up the remaining steps.

“Blood of the Saints, wench!” he shouted. “Cease this infernal sniveling and think of something else. My son is starving. Will you listen to his cries!”

“M’lord, I’ve done naught else for the last ten hours,” whimpered the servant in Anglicized Norman. “He ne wille take the milk. I’ve tried it for days, now. Please ask nay more of me.”

“You will scrub the garderobes for the rest of your life if you fail to make him drink!”

Clarise pitied the poor woman, but at the same time the distress in the Slayer’s tone was palpable. No father, good or evil, would want his son to die.

Sir Roger chose that moment to propel her through the open door. “Lord Christian,” he called over the din. “Your troubles are over, sire. This is the nurse you bade me find. Clare Crucis.”

Clarise skidded to a halt before the most enormous creature she had ever seen. Her first instinct was to draw back, and she trod Sir Roger’s toe as he barred the exit. The nursery seemed exceedingly small, or maybe its proportions had shrunk in the presence of the giant.

So this was the man she was to kill!

The Slayer stood before the open window. Half his body was illumined by the lingering glow of sunlight; the other half concealed in shadow. He was long of limb, broad in the shoulders, packed with muscle. His hair defined the color black as it hung in waves to his shoulders. Midnight eyebrows scowled over a long, straight nose.

He was younger than she’d imagined. The clean lines of his face—the half she could see—were shockingly handsome. The soft light revealed unblemished skin, tanned to the color of a nutmeg. The lines of his cheek and jaw were forceful. His eyelashes were absurdly long.

On the other side of his face, a glittering eye pierced the gloom. Green. His eyes were a light gray-green. They seemed to burn the air from her lungs as he stared at her. She read intelligence in their depths, followed by a sensual consideration that made her skin grow tight.

She would have known this man had they met as strangers on the open road. What man but the Slayer could be so utterly dark? His alert stance betrayed a lifetime of training. His body was honed and powerful. He was still wearing his chain mail, as though loath to shed the mantle of war. She hoped the powder in her pendant was enough to kill him.

“Of the cross?” he drawled, his voice blessedly quieter than it had been seconds before. His tone was touched with humor, an attractive sound coming from a man who would order her execution if he learned who she was.

After a moment’s incomprehension, she realized he made reference to the surname she’d invented, Crucis, yet she failed to see the humor in it.

The warlord flashed his vassal a smile. With teeth gleaming white, his smile was like a jag of lightning in a sullen sky. It took Clarise’s breath away.

Unaware of her amazement, he added, “You have done well in your search, Sir Roger. This damsel even bears my name.” His cool gaze ran over her, and she felt a tingling of awareness.

“Christian de la Croix, madam,” he introduced himself. He sketched a bow—more for mockery than courtesy. But it gave her the time she needed to understand his amusement. The name she’d given herself was the same as his, but in Latin. She couldn’t believe she’d overlooked that detail.

A fluke, she told herself, sinking to a curtsy. She knew an overriding need to remove herself from his scrutiny, to run as far and as fast as possible. Surely he could see the guilt on her face! The pendant burned like the flames of hell against her chest.

The baby’s cries told her what to do next. His wails were raw and desperate. She turned to comfort him and encountered the weeping maidservant.

“You may go,” Clarise murmured. The girl snatched up her skirts and ran, nearly toppling Sir Roger as she launched herself through the door.

With a trembling in the pit of her belly, Clarise reached into the cradle and lifted the baby. She settled him in her arms and thrust her awareness of the Slayer aside. This child was her alibi, her reason for being. If she convinced the men she was caring for the baby, she would avert suspicion long enough to do what was necessary.

The shrieking subsided. Clarise found herself the focus of a bottomless, gray gaze. A tiny, heart-shaped face was framed in a cowl of thick blankets. He doesn’t look like the spawn of the devil was her first thought.

She noticed suddenly that he was bundled so tightly perspiration drenched his swaddling. Oh, poor mite, she thought, clicking her tongue at the incompetence of others. She eased the material from around his limbs and freed his hot head. With that, the infant grew peaceful. A tender wind blew across Clarise’s heart. The babe felt natural in her arms, a precious burden. She turned toward the window, needing to see the baby better.

Though barely days old, from what she understood, he was cast in the image of his father. She could now see that he boasted a head of black hair. His little mouth trembled with the memory of distress, but he made no sound.

Tenderness gave way to uncertainty. Thus far, she had only thought of herself and her own safety. This child’s very life rested in her hands! What if she failed in her attempts to feed him? What if she left him orphaned with no one to ensure his survival?

Hiding her concerns, Clarise ducked her head and kissed the baby’s cheek. She felt the wetness of his tears on her mouth. Unthinking, she pulled the kerchief from her own head and dabbed at the silken cheek. From behind, she heard a sharp intake of breath, and she turned.

Christian couldn’t help but stare. Clare Crucis had wrought the miracle of Simon’s silence. She had burst into the room like a sunbeam, dispelling his fear that his son might die. As she moved toward the window, she’d removed her head covering, and he could see that her hair was the color of a flame, her eyes like honey. He could not prevent himself from hissing in a breath of appreciation. She glanced at him warily, then lowered her eyes again to study his infant son.

Christian feasted his gaze on her lovely profile—sculpted cheekbones, a delicate nose, lips so soft as to make a man weep. Yet her expression of tenderness was the quality that arrested him most.

“What is his name?” she asked, her accent nearly continental. He could only assume she had served a Norman family since birth.

“Simon.” He had to clear his throat. “Go on, feed him,” he urged. “He is half starved.” The baby gave a start at the sound of his voice. To Christian’s amazement, the nurse took note of this and frowned.

“The child must nurse in private, my lord. Kindly leave us and be assured that he will hunger no more.”

Christian felt his jaw slacken. He glanced at Sir Roger to see if he had heard the woman right. His vassal merely grinned.

By God’s right eye, the woman had just dismissed him from the room! He could think of no one—man or woman—who had dared such a thing before.

The novelty of it aroused him instantly.

Clarise was forced to mask her desperation. Hadn’t the warriors heard her? They behaved as if they were pegged to the stone floor, doomed to grow shadows on the wall. She stepped closer to reason with the pair.

The Slayer stood a full head higher than his vassal. His scowl alone would frighten the fleas off a hound, but she could not afford to be intimidated. If the men did not leave, her masquerade would end ere it began.

“Am I not to be given privacy?” she asked, her tone implying she would leave her post, if such were true.

Sir Roger shook his curly head. “My lord, we must talk,” he announced, backing out the door.

This announcement dragged the Slayer’s gaze from Clarise to the empty portal. But Saintonge was gone. The Slayer held his ground.

Clarise regarded him with acute awareness. The sky outside the window had deepened to azure. She could see nothing of his features now. As the baby threatened to sob again, she clutched him more tightly and prayed the Slayer would leave.

“Feed my son,” he said peremptorily.

Panic bloomed in her breast. “I . . . I require privacy,” she stammered. What purpose could the warlord have other than to watch her bare her breasts? She gave a thought to Ferguson’s treatment of female servants, and her blood abruptly thinned.

The floor was turning liquid under her feet. She cast about for a place to sit. But it was too late. She felt herself falling.

She never saw the Slayer move. But in the next second he was holding her upright. Strong arms banded around her, pinning both her and the baby to his chest. She struggled instinctively, panicked by the thought of being at his mercy. He dragged her toward an alcove and deposited her on a stool, where she shrank away, clutching Simon for protection.

“You are ill,” the warrior announced. He loomed over her, an unformed shadow.

“Nay!” Clarise protested strongly. A vision of Horatio’s festered face sprang to mind. “ ’Tis merely that I haven’t eaten in a while.”

Silence followed her answer. “I will see that you get some food at once,” he offered unexpectedly.

She opened her mouth to thank him, but he was already striding away, his boots ringing on the stone floor. Clarise waited until he was gone, and then she dashed to the cradle to seek the nursing skin that the servant must have used. She would need it as much as that woman had in order to feed little Simon.

She could see nothing in the blackened chamber. Cursing at the lack of tapers, she felt inside the cradle and along the floor. At last she found what she was looking for, but the bladder was full of milk, and the milk smelled rancid.

By the time the Slayer returned, Simon was livid with rage. Nothing short of a full stomach would satisfy him. Clarise sat on the stool, her back against the wall, her heart hammering her throat. She was certain her hours were numbered. The Slayer would kill her for failing to comfort his son.

A candle illumined the Slayer’s face as he crouched to place the tray upon the floor. He had brought her a crust of bread, a wedge of cheese, and the goat’s milk. Saliva rushed into Clarise’s mouth, despite her anxiety. She prayed Dame Maeve had let the milk boil long enough.

Glancing at the Slayer, she found him staring at her. The shock of seeing both sides of his face left her speechless. A scar creased his left cheek, running from eye to jaw. The seam was smooth, telling her the wound was an old one and well tended. Yet it marred the perfect symmetry of his face. Some might say it made him ugly.

As though privy to her thoughts, a scowl pressed down on his forehead, carving menace into his features. Clarise looked away and murmured her thanks. Simon wailed.

“Supper is being prepared,” growled the mercenary. He straightened and stepped away to where the ring of light reached only to his shoulders. “You will eat again straightways. Please do hurry,” he urged. “My son is crazed with hunger.”

Clarise grabbed a chunk of bread and stuffed it in her mouth. The lord’s courtesy abated her terror just enough that she could feel how hungry she was. He stepped away from the alcove, leaving her in semiseclusion, but he didn’t leave the nursery. She heard him pause before the window, dominated by the dark of night.

She was truly in a quandary, now. She had managed to dump the sour milk outside the window, but she could scarcely refill the nursing skin with the Slayer in the same room. How, she wondered, would she get the fresh milk down the baby’s throat?

The seconds stretched by. The warlord remained by the window, presumably to give her privacy.

Simon sobbed until his tears dampened her bodice. With a feeling that none of this could be real, Clarise dipped a finger in the milk and offered it to the baby. He nuzzled the offering, then screamed when little came of his exertions.

“How goes it?” the Slayer demanded over Simon’s piercing note.

She heard him take a step toward the alcove, and she tensed with alarm. With no alternative, she tugged at the laces on her bodice. “All will be fine,” she assured him. For authenticity’s sake, she pushed the material apart and offered a breast to the inconsolable baby.

Simon fastened on so fiercely that she had to swallow a cry of pain. By some miracle, his enthusiasm silenced him. It felt strange indeed to have a baby tugging at her breast. He didn’t seem to mind that he was getting nothing from his efforts. To be held, to be pacified was enough for now.

Grateful for the momentary respite, Clarise let out a pent-up breath. Exhaustion swamped her. She sat more heavily on the three-legged stool and lifted the mug to taste the formula herself. She was pleased to note that it had been boiled for some time.

The crush of rushes under the sole of a boot had her pricking her ears. Clarise dragged her eyelids upward. The warlord stood an arm’s span away, his gray-green gaze on the pendant that lay between her naked breasts.

Chapter Three

The Slayer had joined her in the little alcove. Clarise gasped with surprise and promptly sucked milk down her lungs. She succumbed to a fit of coughing. With the flagon in one hand and the baby in the other, she stared helplessly up at the warlord, her eyes stinging.

“Will you be all right?” he asked as she wheezed for breath.

She swallowed hard. Nay, she would not be all right. She would be flayed for a fraud and a liar. He would see straight through her flimsy disguise to the ugly truth that brought her here.

He stood so close that the candle’s flame was doubly reflected in his eyes. His eyes saw everything. Clarise’s blood ran cold as she waited for judgment to come crashing down.

“He seems content,” he said, focusing again on the locket.

The words flowed over her, diluting her terror. God have mercy, had she actually deceived him? One knot at a time, her muscles relaxed.

Was he looking at the pendant to avoid looking at her breasts? She glanced down to see how suspect the hollow ball appeared.

“ ’Tis unusual for a servant to wear jewelry,” he said, causing her heart to pound. “Is it gold?”

“Oh, nay,” she replied, hastily covering the locket with the fabric of her gown. “My mother gave it to me. ’Tis naught but bronze.”

“Your mother?” he repeated. “And who was she?”

Did his narrowed gaze betray suspicion? “Jeannie Crucis,” Clarise supplied. “She was a peasant.”

“Why is it you speak like a noblewoman?” he demanded.

She struggled to subdue her galloping heart. “My ancestors were Saxon nobles,” she told him, grasping at straws. “When the Normans seized our home, our family served them, learning their language.”

“You practiced speaking like a lady?”

There was genuine skepticism in his voice this time. “I’m a freed serf,” she insisted. But she knew that he did not believe her tale. She would stick to it as long as she had to, and then she would be gone. If she lived that long, the man before her would be dead.

“Whence do you hail?” he asked, giving her no time to think.

“From Glenmyre,” she answered, wishing he would cease his interrogation.

Glenmyre. The name rolling off the woman’s tongue sent Christian’s spirits plummeting. He turned away as shards of darkness wormed their way beneath his skin.

He resumed his place by the window, letting the night air take the edge off his self-incrimination. Genrose, his saintly wife, had died for his ambitions. Nineteen peasant women wept for the loss of their husbands. Glenmyre’s fields would go to seed without hands to farm it. He was a plague to them all. A Slayer who butchered the lambs.

Behind him, Clare Crucis shifted. Simon emitted a wail, one that was immediately muffled. The baby’s grunt of pleasure was followed by little sucking noises, sounds that tempted Christian to thank God out loud. Here, at last, was something good. He had been certain God would take his son from him. He’d expected it.

But an angel interceded on Simon’s behalf. Hope pulsed anew in his breast—not for himself, but for Simon’s future, Simon’s soul. Unless there was more to this angel than met the eye.

“Did your husband die defending Glenmyre from my attack?” he inquired. Silence exploded in the tiny chamber, and he feared he had his answer. The woman had a motive for vengeance.

“He . . . he died in a skirmish,” she finally answered.

Christian searched his mind. There had been several skirmishes at Glenmyre, but no loss of life until just recently. “He must have been in Ferguson’s slaughter, then,” he surmised, realizing the full extent of Clare’s suffering. Here was a widow of one of the slain peasants. “I am sorry I wasn’t there to prevent it,” he added awkwardly. “I was called away for the birth of my son.”

Clarise gnawed the inside of her lip. She’d told Sir Roger that her husband was not one of those unfortunate peasants. Should she correct the warlord’s assumption? Now that she considered it, it made sense to say her husband had been killed in Ferguson’s attack, for then it followed to reason that she would turn to the Slayer—her overlord—for protection and sustenance.

Christian waited for the woman to answer him. Perhaps she was too bereaved to speak. He pictured her bowed over his baby, overwhelmed by her recent loss. Guilt cut deeply into him. “The Scot has no respect for human life,” he growled. The words offered only hollow comfort. It was his fault the peasants were slain, but there was nothing he could do to bring her husband back.

The silence in the chamber grew oppressive. He longed to hear her honeyed voice again. Seldom did he come across a soul willing to converse with him. “Why did you journey south?” he prompted. “Why did you come to Helmesly?” It was a two-day walk from Glenmyre, perhaps farther. The road offered untold perils.

“I could stay no longer.” He was relieved to hear resignation in her tone and not weeping. “ ’Twas logical that I come to Helmesly, as you are now the ruler of Glenmyre. I came to . . . to serve you as I can.”

Her observation caused him to remember the fateful day he rode upon Glenmyre. Monteign’s forces had spilled over a hill without warning. There was no time for words, no time for explaining. Monteign thought he was defending himself from attack. He fought like a lion, ignoring the banner of peace that Christian’s flagman had frantically waved. Despite effort to subdue Monteign without undue bloodshed, the lord of Glenmyre had died and his soldiers had laid down their arms in surrender.

Ignorant of the warlord’s weighty thoughts, Clarise struggled to keep her eyes open. She sensed that the Slayer had finished questioning her. Miraculously she’d survived the initial round. With wildflowers sweetening the evening air and the rhythmic tugging at her breast, she was lulled into a false sense of security. Any moment now she might fall asleep.

Through the bloom of light at her feet, the warlord’s rasping voice reached her again. “I am sorry for the death of your lord, Monteign.”

She could not credit the quiet apology. She must have misheard him.

“I’d heard rumors of an alliance between Monteign and Ferguson. I only meant to question him about the matter.”

“An alliance?” Reality jarred Clarise to wakefulness. Her heart lurched against her breastbone.

“ ’Twas a marriage, between Monteign’s only son and Ferguson’s stepdaughter.”

Her stomach slowly twisted. Her scalp tingled. He couldn’t have guessed who she was already!

“I was told to confront Monteign and put an offer to him that was better than Ferguson’s. The sight of our soldiers must have confused him. He ambushed us as we came over the hill. We had no choice but to fight. He ignored our signal for a truce.”

Stunned, Clarise digested this new information. She’d always assumed that the Slayer had seized Glenmyre by force. This was the first she’d heard of an attempt at negotiations, but perhaps he was lying to her. Men’s recollections of battle were inevitably skewed.

“Tell me,” he added, sounding reflective. “What was Monteign like? What kind of lord was he?”

The question left her reeling. Did the Slayer feel remorse for his sins?

She summoned a picture of Alec’s father. “He was a father to his people,” she replied. “He was fair, yet stern with them. He was stubborn, too, and loyal to his friends.”

“And was he friends with Ferguson?”

She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “I . . . I don’t know. I was only a servant. However, I . . .” Did she dare say more, to admit to any kind of knowledge? “I rather think he feared Ferguson more than anything.”

All at once it was quiet on the other side of the partition, and the quiet was profound.

“Dame Crucis, would you like fresh clothing?”

The question was the last thing Clarise expected. She was certain he had guessed who she was and was preparing to kill her.

Clothing? She looked down at her worn smock. “Please,” she replied, dazed that he would even concern himself.

She heard him move to the door. Straining to see beyond the alcove, she perceived the outline of his powerful frame.

“I expect you to sup with me once you’ve refreshed yourself. Bring my son with you.”

With that peremptory order, the shadow melted into the darkness, and Clarise was left alone with the baby. She pondered the words she’d shared with his father. No matter how she turned them over in her mind, she was left with one burning impression: The Slayer wasn’t the barbaric warrior she’d believed. His intelligence made him a double-edged sword. And something else . . . he seemed to actually have compassion and remorse—rare qualities indeed for a man of such fearsome repute.

How was she to poison such a man without losing her own life, or worse yet, her soul to eternal hellfire?

Christian shifted his legs under the table and encountered the wolfhound bellycrawling beneath it. The dog did not belong on the dais, but the presence at his feet was comforting. Since no one but the dog dared get so close, he let the interloper stay.

The discordant twangs bouncing off the ceiling drew his disbelieving gaze. Christian stared at the multicolored tunic of the minstrel and admitted he had erred. Three days ago he’d believed the presence of a minstrel would lighten the spirits of the servants. But the notes tumbling from the boy’s instrument were more of an irritant than entertainment. Christian tried to shut his ears to the noise. Now he knew why the hound hid beneath the table.

Shifting his attention to Peter, he wondered perversely what the page would drop tonight. Peter lived in terror of the seneschal’s temper, and his fear put him in peril of dropping the water bowl. Even now candlelight shivered on the water’s surface. If he dropped the bowl, the Slayer would yell. ’Twas a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Christian growled and glanced toward the gallery. No sign of the new nurse yet. Perhaps the servants had whispered his sins in her ears, and she cowered in her chamber, loathing the prospect of his company. What of it? Everyone feared him. It was inevitable that she would come to fear him, also.

Still, he thought, peering into the ale that was the color of her eyes, he hoped she wouldn’t. Her unflinching attitude was a novelty to him. It had been so long since anyone besides Sir Roger had told him what to do. Kindly leave us.

Could the woman really be a freed serf? She sounded like a bloody queen.

Now she was late for supper, exacerbating his desire to look at her again. He entertained himself by wondering which of her many attributes appealed most to him. Was it her eyes or her mouth? Her habit of chewing on her bottom lip had caused immediate stirrings in his loins. And those breasts! Ah, how he marveled at those full pale globes. He found himself irrationally jealous of his son, who got to suck on them.

Where was the wench? For that matter, where was his master-at-arms? Christian sat alone, insulated from his serfs by the rift that widened to unbreachable proportions after his lady’s passing. Genrose had visited the peasants’ cottages and tended to their needs. He could not compete with the devotion they were used to. He could not begin to emulate it.

He swirled his drink, feeling guilty for something that had been beyond his powers, irritable for the caterwauling coming from the minstrel’s lute. Several soldiers at the boards grumbled over supper’s delay.

At last Sir Roger sidled along the dais to take his seat beside the empty lady’s chair. He greeted Christian with his usual aplomb and held out his goblet to be filled.

Christian waited for what he thought was a reasonable span of time. “You wished to tell me something of the nurse, Saintonge?” he inquired casually.

Sir Roger sent a meaningful glance toward the musician. “How long are we going to put up with this?” he asked, ignoring his liege’s opening.

Christian didn’t want to discuss the minstrel. “Dismiss him tomorrow,” he said curtly. “What was it you were going to say about the nurse?” he asked, betraying his impatience.

“A veritable pearl in an oyster, eh, my lord?” Sir Roger stalled.

Christian checked his reply. With his wife not in the ground a week, it didn’t seem appropriate to comment one way or the other. But if Clare were a pearl, then Genrose might have been a slab of marble. He squashed the unkind thought.

“Did she tell where she is from?” Sir Roger added, his eyebrows nudging upward.

“Glenmyre,” Christian assented with a grunt.

“Yet you trust her with your son.” The knight watched his lord’s expression. “Her husband was killed in a skirmish, you know.”

Christian nodded his head. “He was one of the peasants Ferguson killed.”

Sir Roger gave him a funny look. “Nay, I asked her if that were so, and she denied it,” he retorted unexpectedly.

The noise from the lute faded into the background. Christian frowned and searched his memory. “She led me to believe such was just the case. That is why she came here, because she couldn’t bear to remain at Glenmyre any longer.”

Sir Roger’s gray eyes narrowed. “I’d say we have a slight discrepancy,” he said lightly. “What more did she tell you?”

“In her own words, she said she came to serve me, as I am now the ruler of Glenmyre.”

“Serve you?” the knight repeated, a hint of ribaldry in his eyes.

Christian ignored it, though in his mind’s eye he imagined her serving him in exactly the same way. “Is she suspect?” he asked his vassal. Sir Roger had a gift for sensing danger. If the woman were a spy, his man would soon know it.

“I’m not sure,” Saintonge surprised him by replying. He scraped the bristles of his new beard. “I know she is not what she professes to be. Her speech betrays her. She is no more a freed serf than you or I are high-born princes. The woman is a Norman, if not a lady outright.”

It was nice to have his suspicions corroborated. Yet if the woman lied to them, then chances were she intended some mischief. “I’d better check on Simon.” He rose quickly from his chair.

Sir Roger clapped a hand to his wrist. “Peace, my liege. A man stands guard over the baby. Sit you down and eat for a change.”

Christian eased back into his oak chair. “You left a guard alone with her?” The notion unsettled him. He knew firsthand the willpower it took not to stare at the nurse’s breasts.

“ ’Tis only Sir Gregory,” Sir Roger said, naming the oldest knight in their service.

Christian was mollified, but only slightly. He signaled to Peter to bring the water bowl. “He had best keep his eyes to himself,” he muttered, dipping his hands. “Marked you how the woman spoke to me?” he couldn’t help but add. It had been years since he’d shared a casual conversation with any woman, the most recent being with his mother nigh ten years ago.

“Mayhap she has yet to hear the rumors of your bloody past,” drawled the knight.

“She knows them,” he insisted. “I saw the fear on her face when she beheld my scar.”

“Then she is either brave or foolish.”

Trenchers of starling and pork pie made their way to the high table. “Where is the wench?” Christian wondered aloud. “I bade her sup with us.”

“Likely sleeping,” said Saintonge. “She was dead on her feet when I found her.”

Ah, yes, she’d fainted in his arms. Christian savored the memory of her softness against his armor. He ought to have thought of her welfare, but he was not as astute as Saintonge where women were concerned. Catching the eye of Dame Maeve, he waved her forward. “See you what the nurse is doing,” he commanded.

The woman pinched her lips. She gave the air a sniff as she turned to do his bidding.

What? Christian wondered, staring after her. He decided he should have asked a lowlier servant. The steward’s wife had better things to do than charge up and down the stairs. It was no secret that she was the true source of efficiency behind the simple-minded steward.

Harold, panicked by his wife’s desertion, began to pace before the dais. His white hair bobbed like a rooster’s comb as he oversaw the food’s distribution. The minstrel fell wisely silent as the men dug into their trenchers.

The meal progressed slowly. Christian looked up, happy to see the steward’s wife approaching the table at last.

“My lord, the woman is sleeping, and I was unable to awaken her,” she said with more deference.

“Well, what about my son? Who watches him?”

“The babe sleeps, also, and a knight stands guard outside his door.”

“All is well with the world,” Sir Roger added with distinct cynicism.

“Kindly prepare a tray for her,” Christian requested of the woman, “as I would not have her starve. I will carry it up myself,” he added, eager to share words with the woman.

“She is fond of boiled goat’s milk,” said Saintonge from the side of his mouth.

Christian indicated that the milk be added to the fare. Dame Maeve affirmed the order and moved away, calling instructions to the pages as she hastened to the kitchen.

“So,” Sir Roger said, reaching for his goblet. “You will deliver the tray yourself.”

“I mean to question her, ’tis all,” Christian groused. “We know that she has lied to us. I mean to discover why.”

“The answer depends on what she truly is,” his vassal reasoned. “If one goes by her speech alone, she could be a damned Parisian.” He deftly fingered his knife.

“Then she’s a lady,” Christian reasoned. “But what would a lady be doing traipsing through the countryside in search of work? ’Tis impossible.”

“ ’Tis possible if she bore her baby out of wedlock,” Sir Roger countered.

Her baby. Christian had forgotten that the woman had to have given birth first in order to have milk. God’s blood. Not only had she lost a husband recently but also a child. Having experienced that kind of loss himself, he felt a ribbon of pity wind through his heart. At least he was capable of such a basic emotion, poor woman. Had he been crass to her? He could have been more thoughtful.

He put the pieces together slowly. “So, if she bore a babe out of wedlock, then mayhap she lies about the husband.”

“ ’Twould explain the inconsistencies,” Sir Roger countered. He tapped the side of his goblet with his knife and narrowed his eyes. “Which brings up an entirely new possibility,” he murmured, after a moment of intense reflection.

“And that is?” Christian prompted.

“Perhaps she was a courtesan, a leman—”

“A mistress!” said Christian. Now, this explanation he preferred, for he could feel less guilty about the woman’s loss. “Aye, that would explain her candor with me, the jewelry that she wore about her neck,” he added with enthusiasm. “She said it was bronze, but I know the difference.” He remembered staring at the pendant to keep from ogling the woman’s wares.

“It also explains why she bore a child out of wedlock, why she has come to serve you as overlord of Glenmyre.” Sir Roger imbued the word with all its baser connotations.

Christian felt his ardor rise. The woman had come to serve him in the absence of her former lord. All at once, his excitement dimmed. “That means . . .” He reached for his wine, needing to chase a bitter taste from his tongue.

“That she might have been Monteign’s leman,” Saintonge supplied.

Christian thrust the unpleasant image from his mind. Monteign had been a big and burly man, more than twice Clare Crucis’s age.

They sat for a moment in private contemplation.

“Do you think she seeks a new protector?” Christian dared to ask.

Sir Roger wiped the sheen of grease from his chin. “We have taken our guesses to extremes,” he replied, crushing his lord’s burgeoning hopes. “She might also be a spy, sent to take stock of our defenses. Or to avenge a husband’s death.”

Those same fears had coursed Christian’s mind like muddy rivers, sullying the relief that Simon had been saved. “I will get the truth from her yet,” he vowed, hurrying to finish.

With eagerness whittling away his appetite, he abandoned his trencher and stood. The knight’s parting caution echoed in his head as he took the tray from Maeve and carried it up the stairs.

Try subtlety, my lord. It works better than threat.

The room that Clare had been allotted stood adjacent to the nursery. Christian approached the knight who was supposed to be standing guard. Sir Gregory sat on the floor with his back to the wall and his head between his knees. He snored loud enough to herald an army.

“God’s toes!” Christian muttered, battling the urge to jerk the old man to his feet. He stepped over him instead and snatched the torch from the holder. Angling himself into the nurse’s room, he held the torch aloft and looked around.

Dame Crucis lay on the high mattress, fast asleep. By all appearances, she’d intended to join him. She wore the gown he’d found in his late mother-in-law’s discarded wardrobe. A brush lay loosely in her palm. It appeared that she had simply wilted onto the bedcovers, lulled by the warmth of the brazier.

In the innocent posture of sleep, she didn’t look capable of spawning any mischief. She did, however, fit the description of a female valued for her womanly charms. Brushed to smoothness, her hair poured fire over the bleached pillowcase. She had bathed the dust from her body, revealing pale, soft flesh beneath. The room smelled of lavender and woman.

Even in a dress more suited to a matron, she possessed a sensual allure. The turquoise bodice strained across her breasts, its laces scarcely meeting. Christian’s gaze moved from her tiny waist to the flare of her hips. Her skirts molded the shapely length of her splayed thighs, invited his gaze to fall into the indent between them. How simple it was to imagine himself moving over her, pressing himself into her vulnerable core.

Christian gave himself a mental shake. He could not afford to blind himself with lust until he knew the woman’s purpose.

The cry of his infant penetrated the wall of the nursery. Clare Crucis stirred but failed to waken. Witnessing the extent of her exhaustion, Christian placed the tray beside the bed and carried the torch to the nursery, stepping over the knight, who blocked the corridor.

The vision that awaited him brought choked denial to his throat. Simon lay naked in his box, his skin nearly blue with cold. The swaddling had been taken off him and tossed over the end of the cradle. He wore no soiling cloth, and the crib was wet with urine.

Christian threw the swaddling over his screaming son and caught him up. “Hush,” he soothed, rubbing the baby’s limbs to speed the return of warmth. The infant’s distress filled him with helpless rage.

How long had Simon lain there shivering? Had Clare Crucis done this to him? By God, he would tear her limb from limb if he saw guilt upon the nurse’s face! But first he would teach that doddering, old knight not to sleep on the job.

With his temples throbbing, he girded his baby’s loins in a fresh soiling cloth and swaddled him as best he could. His ministrations only enraged the infant more. Simon’s fists broke free of the inept swaddling, and he bellowed loud enough to make the chamber echo.

Sir Gregory muttered in protest as Christian stalked into the hall. “Get up!” the warlord snapped, prodding the man with his toe.

The knight threw his head up suddenly, smacking it against the wall. With a cry of pain, he scrambled to his feet, muttering unintelligibly.

“Someone took the swaddling off my son,” Christian told him in a voice that made his own blood run cold.

Sir Gregory’s mouth fell open. “Oh!” he cried. “I . . . I . . . I didn’t see anything.”

“Of course not, you sluggard,” Christian snarled. “You were sleeping! Go and tell Sir Roger what just happened, and stay well away from me!”

“Aye, m’lord,” quaked Sir Gregory. He hobbled away with a hand pressed to the growing lump on his head.

Christian glared after him. With some portion of his wrath thus exorcised, he turned to the nurse’s chamber. ’Twould have been a simple thing for her to perpetrate this mischief. His blood boiled at the thought. Recalling Sir Roger’s advice, however, he tempered his rage and pledged himself to subtlety.

The baby still wailed, but the woman slept on as Christian entered the chamber. He stared at her in angry disbelief, then deposited Simon by her hip. The baby grasped her gown and turned his cheek in a desperate search for milk. Christian watched his futile efforts for a moment. Then he put his hand on the woman’s shoulder and shook her hard.

Chapter Four

Clarise pushed herself to run faster, but her legs kept tangling in her skirts. The hallways of Heathersgill seemed endless as she raced for the courtyard. At last she burst through the oak door. It was nearly too late. Her mother and sisters were lined up on the gallows with kerchiefs covering their eyes. They would die because she failed to do what Ferguson had commanded.

“Stop!” she screamed, racing across the cobbled area. The Scot was standing on the platform behind them. At her cry of protest her stepfather grinned through his flaming beard and shoved the stool out from her mother’s feet. Jeanette dropped abruptly, then dangled like a doll on the end of a rope.

“Nay!” Clarise screamed through a tight throat. “You bloody bastard! Murderer!”

The sound of her own voice snatched her from her dream. Her eyes flew wide in time to see a shadow looming over her, but it wasn’t Ferguson. She gasped and scrambled backward. The man was immense. Something small jerked against her hip. Its wail of distress oriented her at once.

She realized with horror that she had just called the Slayer a murderer. In the wavering orange light, she could barely make out his features.

“ ’Tis I,” he rasped, ignoring the epithet, at least for the time being. “Simon is hungry. You were sleeping and failed to wake to his cries.”

The accusation in his voice made her scalp tingle. He’d come alone to her chambers? Couldn’t a servant be sent to awaken her?

“Your pardon.” She tried to decipher the mercenary’s mood. Anger seemed to emanate from his tense form, and she tried to guess the reason for it. “I was combing my hair.” She lifted the brush she still clutched in her hand. “I must have fallen asleep.” Perhaps he was upset that she hadn’t joined him at supper.

It was no excuse, but after her bath, the warmth of the brazier had left her so drowsy, she sank onto the feather mattress, grateful that she hadn’t been given a straw one, and that had been her last thought.

You were sleeping and failed to hear his cries. “Oh, the saints, I beg your pardon!” It was her sloth that angered him, of course! She reached for the baby at once, pressing him to her breast. Would the Slayer dismiss her? Would all hope of saving her family be dashed because she’d succumbed to exhaustion?

The moment she lifted him, Simon quieted. Clarise kissed his petal-soft cheek, grateful for the baby’s cooperation. Her gaze slid warily to his watchful father. To her dismay, the Slayer seated himself on the corner of the bed. The mattress dipped and the bed ropes creaked.

“You have a way with him,” he growled. The words would have eased her fears if not accompanied by that same threatening undertone.

“Th-thank you,” she stammered. “He is easy to love, as most babies are.”

Silence stretched over the next minute, interrupted only by a soft crackle from the brazier.

“Did you take the blankets off my son?” he asked.

The question came unexpectedly, like a cut from a razor. “I’m sorry?” She didn’t understand.

“I found my son, just now, with no swaddling to warm him and no soiling cloth, either. He was naked and shivering.”

She stared dumbfounded at the warlord. With his face in shadow, she could make out only two features: his rock-hard chin and glowing eyes. He had spoken through his teeth.

The breath in Clarise’s lungs evaporated. “I swear to you, I left him swaddled in clean linens. He was sleeping contentedly.” Her thighs tensed with the urge to flee. “Lord de la Croix,” she gasped, picking up speed as she begged for mercy, “I swear it on my soul I would never hurt this babe. You must believe me! Someone else must have slipped into the nursery intending to harm him.”

A breeze blew softly through the window, and the torchlight brightened, revealing his face—one side like an angel’s, the other slashed from eye to jaw. He searched her face to see if she lied. Then he gave a little nod, as though accepting her word. “I will have your oath, Dame Crucis, that no harm will befall my son when he is with you,” he said, with far less violence. “I am surrounded by those who wish him ill. He is heir to the land that others covet.”

His words made her think of Ferguson. She considered, not for the first time, that the Scot would also want the baby dead, for Simon was the rightful heir to the seat of Helmesly. She looked down at the innocent infant, stricken by the thought of him murdered. Had Ferguson also sent someone to kill the baby?

She rebelled at the thought. “I will protect him with my life,” she heard herself say, and she found that she meant it.

Clarise grew suddenly aware that the Slayer’s thigh was touching her knee. She could feel the heat of him through the linen fabric of her skirts. This was far too intimate. She was boxed in a little room with a warrior who watched her every move. There was every chance that he would realize her deceit if she didn’t guard her words and actions carefully.

“Thank you for bringing Simon to my chamber,” she said, encouraging him to leave. “He will sleep in this room with me if you prefer.”

“I prefer it so,” said the warlord, giving her permission to move the cradle to her chambers.

She adjusted the baby, as though preparing to nurse, but the Slayer didn’t budge. “Since my son is content to be held, you should eat. You must have nourishment to feed him.” He stood up and retrieved a tray from the nearby chest.

Clarise noticed for the first time the aroma of pastry. Her gaze fell greedily to the meat pie in a crusty shell. To the side was a cup of Frumenty pudding. Her stomach gave a hollow rumble.

Hearing it, the Slayer flashed her the same brief smile she’d seen before and placed the tray by her bent legs. “Eat,” he invited, sitting more comfortably at the end of the mattress.

With the smile encouraging her, she attacked the food with gusto. Even while leaning over the now quiet baby, she managed to consume as much as her stomach could contain. She scraped the last bit of pudding from the cup and licked her spoon clean.

The warlord watched her every move with his gray-green eyes. Simon’s little fists clutched the fabric of her bodice, but for his part, the baby seemed content. Clarise eyed the goat’s milk—the only drink upon the tray. She was relieved not to have to ask for it again. But given the warlord’s vigilance, she feared she would have to drink it herself.

“My vassal swears that you are fond of goat’s milk,” he remarked.

“Very fond.” She smothered a burp. “However, I shall have to save it for later. I’m exceedingly full.”

“Wine, then,” he suggested, coming to his feet. “You must have something to drink.”

“I am fine, truly.” She wished he would simply leave the room. The man made her nervous.

“There is wine in the conservatory,” he insisted. “ ’Tis no trouble at all to fetch it.”

She watched with dismay as he left the chamber. Why was the Slayer so solicitous, she wondered, when he’d just questioned her about the care she’d given his son? A rash of goose bumps prickled her skin. Perhaps he meant to drug her with wine, first, and then he would question her.

She seized advantage of his absence to pull the nursing skin from beneath the pillow. She filled the vessel for a second time, having had success with it earlier. Then she put it back beneath the pillow and waited for the Slayer’s return. Her pulse tapped against her eardrums. She could hear no evidence of a guard standing outside the nursery door. What has become of Sir Gregory? she wondered.

At last she heard the unmistakable tread of the warlord. He stepped through the doorway, bearing an earthenware bottle and a silver goblet.

“Forgive me, lord,” she hastened to say, “but I was so thirsty I drank the milk after all. I’ve no need of wine, now.”

He halted in his tracks, his black brows sinking slowly over the ridge of his nose. Clarise cringed at her unfortunate timing. With torchlight licking over him, the man looked huge, dangerous, and angry. She was insane to think she could manipulate him.

“You will share it with me,” he insisted on a growl.

Simon responded to his father’s threat with a shriek. Clarise nearly smiled at the baby. “I have to feed your son,” she informed him, seizing the excuse.

He stalked to the high bed. “Then we will speak whilst you nurse him,” he insisted.

Her full stomach began to churn. Her deception would be put to the test again.

She laid the baby deliberately in the shadows and turned her back on the seneschal to loosen her bodice as before. Reclining by Simon, she pretended to latch him to a breast. Instead, she pulled the nursing skin from its hiding place and stuck the tip into Simon’s mouth, counting on the shadows to hide it. The baby latched on as eagerly as before.

Scarcely breathing, Clarise eyed the Slayer’s shadow, cast by torchlight onto the bed curtain before her. She saw him raise an arm, saw the wine’s reflection sparkle as he filled his goblet. Stoneware clinked against the floor. Then he propped a shoulder on the bedpost.

“Tell me something, Dame Crucis,” he murmured in a voice buttressed by determination. “Was your husband recently killed by Ferguson, as you led me to believe, or was he slain in a different skirmish? Or could it be you lied on both accounts?”

The cool inquiry turned her cold, then hot. Mercy, but it hadn’t taken them long to notice the discrepancy. She cursed herself for not sticking to her original story. Now he would question her until she broke down and told the truth. Her disguise was a flimsy one indeed.

“I never had a husband,” she admitted, seeing that option as the best solution to her needs.

“Ah.” He sounded happy to hear it. “Then what brings you here?” he finally asked.

Panic fluttered up and down her spine. “I told you, I could stay at Glenmyre no longer.”

“Why?” he asked predictably.

“I was ashamed,” she said, making up her answers as she went along. Luckily, this little bit seemed to fit.

“Ashamed to bear a child out of wedlock?” he asked mildly.

“Aye.”

“What line of work did you do before?” This was asked in almost pleasant tones.

Clarise relaxed a bit. The warlord was certainly more sociable than she’d imagined him to be. “Well, I was, er, a reading tutor,” she replied. She winced the moment the words were out, for she’d never heard of a woman performing such work.

“Is that why you speak French so well?”

“I studied French at a convent.” ’Twas logical, she told herself.

“Which one?”

“St. Giles,” she said firmly. She’d made the name up.

“I’ve never heard of St. Giles, though my mother is the Abbess of St. Cecily.”

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, refusing to mire her any deeper. His mother was a nun? Nay, she must have misheard him.

“Tell me the truth now, Clare,” he cajoled. His voice grew compelling and seductive. “Why did you come here?”

The blood rushed frantically through her. She was tempted to tell him everything—he hadn’t believed her lies anyway. Yet her dream seemed to warn her that defying Ferguson would result in the death of her mother and sisters. If she apprised the Slayer of the truth, their lives would be forfeit. She could say nothing of her purpose.

“I needed work and wages, ’tis all,” she helplessly insisted.

“Are you here to avenge me on someone’s behalf?” he pressed, the seductive tenor of his voice cooling abruptly.

“What!” she cried, wondering if he knew the truth all along. Had he simply ben toying with her?”

“Are you a spy, sent to take account of my men and weapons?”

Worse and worse. “Of course not!” she cried. She twisted her head around in order to persuade him of her innocence. The nursing skin slipped from Simon’s mouth, and the baby let loose a high-pitched cry.

The Slayer frowned with concern, then began to unfold. He’s going to stand! Clarise realized with paralyzing fear. He’ll see what I’m doing! She shoved the nursing skin beneath the pillow, and Simon raged at the sudden deprivation.

“What goes wrong?” the lord demanded. “Why is he not sucking?” In addition to towering over the bed, he felt inclined to raise his voice. Simon responded in kind, his cries growing louder.

Under the threat of doom, Clarise raised her own voice. “He must have quiet, my lord!” she informed him firmly. “Please, sit down and I will calm him!” Her imperious suggestion brought an incredulous look to the Slayer’s face.

Very slowly he put the goblet on the floor. Simon roared in Clarise’s right ear. The Slayer’s shadow fell across the bed. She realized he was crawling onto the mattress, over her. His long fingers sank into the pillow on either side of her head. She had visions of the bladder spewing milk onto the sheets.

Ignoring Simon’s cries, the Slayer lowered his face until his eyes were level with her own. This is it, Clarise considered. Shock slipped over her with the feel of hot oil. He will force me now, and I will be helpless to stop him.

She willed her eyes to shut, but the scar that raked the length of his cheek held her spellbound. His body was so close that she could smell a hint of juniper mixed with the fruity scent of wine.

“Let us settle one thing now,” he told her in a voice as hard as the links of armor he’d thankfully shed. “Simon is heir to the Baronetcy of Helmesly, and that is more than I will ever be. To be baron, he must first survive his infancy. He must have the best care, the best food, the best this world can offer. Do I make myself very clear, Dame Crucis?”

“Yes!” she gasped, struck by his honesty.

“You of all people should understand how I would feel if something were to happen to him.” A flicker of sympathy showed in his face as he said those words.

I, of all people? She tried to grasp what he was saying. He could only be referring to the babe she was supposedly grieving.

With a start of surprise, she realized he felt pity for her loss. Not only was he sympathetic, but instead of threatening her with physical violence, he’d listed his hopes and fears regarding Simon. With his words the lens of fright dropped briefly away, and Clarise found herself looking at a real human being, a vulnerable man.

A very big and powerful warrior-man. She grew suddenly aware of his hard, honed body hovering over her.

“Very clear, my lord,” she whispered, her voice deserting her.

“In exchange for your service to my son, you will enjoy my protection,” he added. “You will sleep on this feathered bed, eat in my hall, and wear the gowns that I give you. Do you question this arrangement?”

“Nay.” She could hardly see past him for the breadth of his shoulders. His arms bulged on either side of her. His neck was thick and corded with muscle. Ferguson wouldn’t stand a chance against him, came the errant thought.

He flashed her his unexpected smile. “Good,” he said, looking suddenly more intent. His gaze shifted to her mouth.

It was then Clarise remembered that her bodice was unlaced. So did he. His gaze traveled lower, where the tight material thrust her full breasts upward. The breath wedged deep in her throat. He did not bother this time to keep his gaze on the pendant. In reaction to his hot stare, her nipples crowned. She couldn’t help it.

“By God, you would tempt a man to madness,” he muttered.

The words sobered her instantly. Did he think she was tempting him? She lifted hands to his shoulder and pushed with agitation, but he didn’t budge.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, taking note of her reaction. The baby curled his fists in her hair and screamed. “Ah, Simon wants you to himself,” he concluded, seeing her wince.

To her melting relief, he lifted himself a fraction higher. Then, just as she expected him to step off the bed, he dipped his head. Clarise’s eyes flew wide. In a gesture as shocking as it was unexpected, he rasped his tongue over her nipple.

Once.

Lightning shot up her spine. She gasped, drawing back into the mattress. The Slayer straightened from the bed. He looked as dazed by his temerity as she was. Dull red color crept toward his cheekbones. “We will speak again,” he warned, falling back on bluster. “And I will have honest answers from you next time.”

With a scowl gathering on his forehead, he retrieved the goblet and pitcher and exited the chamber.

Clarise watched the open doorway in the event that the Slayer returned. To pacify the unhappy baby, she retrieved the nursing skin, which was thankfully unharmed, and stuck it in his mouth. The pendant swayed momentarily against her arm, reminding her again of the nightmare she’d awakened from. She realized with astonishment that she could never bring herself to poison the Slayer.

The man was too decent, too clever, too virile to be dispatched at an early age. He’d had the opportunity to take her by force, and he’d restrained himself. Ferguson would never have let such an opportunity pass. She could not kill the Slayer—not even to save the lives of those she loved.

Dazed by the revelation, Clarise watched little Simon suckling happily, unknowing of all the evil in the world. She’d gotten herself deep into a cover that served no purpose at all but to give her shelter and food. Yet she couldn’t leave now, not when the baby needed her. There had to be another way!

She would try to contact Alec one more time. Alec owed her a boon for abandoning her at the altar. As soon as she got word to him, Alec would raise an army on her behalf and challenge Ferguson’s right to Heathersgill. Alec would be her champion yet. She had not given up on him.

It was well past dawn when Clarise awoke. She had missed the morning meal. She had slept until the sun rose high enough to leap the outer wall and pierce the crack between the bed drapes. She opened one eye and groaned. Alas, it was not a dream.

She was dwelling in the castle of the Slayer. The welfare of the future baron rested on her narrow shoulders. She had her work cut out for her, given the number of times Simon had awakened for a feeding.

And if that were not enough, her virtue was also at stake. The memory of the Slayer’s caress made her groan again. He’d made it shockingly clear that he desired her. And though she knew in her heart that she could never poison him, she had no intention of becoming the Slayer’s lover. The mere thought made her break out in a sudden sweat. She kicked off the covers to relieve the heat.

There was no denying reality. She had wedged herself into a situation from which there was little chance of escaping unscathed, unless she dared admit who she was. To do that was sheer foolery. Given the antipathy between the Slayer and the Scot, she would quickly become the Slayer’s hostage. He would think he had the upper hand until he learned that Ferguson wouldn’t pay a shilling for her return. Ferguson would then do what he’d threatened in the first place—hang her mother and sisters in the courtyard.

Since forcing her mother into marriage a year ago, the Scot had taken all that he wanted from Jeanette, and then cast her aside. The marriage had given him the legitimacy he needed to rule Heathersgill without the peasants’ revolting. Now that he’d established his foothold, Jeanette and her daughters were dispensable.

With her eyes still closed, Clarise drew her strength from the knowledge of their desperate plight. Jeanette was likely in her rose garden this morning, where she drifted like a wraith among the bloodred blooms. Since her beloved Edward’s death, she’d been mad with grief, scarcely sparing a thought for her three daughters.

Merry, of course, would be hiding in the woods outside the castle walls, where she would not fall prey to Ferguson’s men-at-arms. In the forest she sought poisonous herbs for her herbal. Clarise was not the only one who plotted Ferguson’s demise, but the wily Scot had all his food tasted before a morsel ever passed his lips. Merry had only succeeded in poisoning a number of men-at-arms.

Kyndra, who was six, was the only daughter who seemed oblivious to the changes in their lives since Ferguson first killed their father. Covered in filth and grime, Kyndra would be playing in the buttery with the servants’ children.

Clarise drew a deep breath and let it out again. Somehow, some way, she would find a means to save them all. But she would not sell her soul to the devil to do it. She would not poison the Slayer of Helmesly.

Nor could she tell him who she was. As long as the warrior believed she nursed his son, she was safe. She would stick to her flimsy disguise and pray that he would question her no further. Simon seemed content to drink the goat’s milk, and all she had to do was ensure a steady supply for him while endeavoring to reach Alec.

Clarise whipped back the bed curtain and put her feet to the floor. The sight of a tray inside her door gave her pause. It was laden with cheese and bread and—God be praised—milk for Simon. She rubbed a grain of sleep from one eye. The necessity of finding the source of the goat’s milk could be put off for a little while. First she would tend to the matter of reaching Alec.

The baby awoke at the sounds of her stirring. She fed him the milk until he burped with repletion. Then she changed his soiling cloth, adjusted his swaddling, and viewed her own reflection in a square of hammered steel.

Dark circles rimmed her eyes. Her hair was a tangled mess and her gown wrinkled from wearing it to bed. While her vanity protested, she knew she would be safer this way. She looked the part of a harried nurse, not a tempting female. The Slayer would look elsewhere to assuage his amorous needs.

Thrusting aside the memory of his tongue at her breast, she left the room with his baby in her arms and hailed the first person to cross her path. “Good morrow,” she called to a girl staggering under a load of clean linens.

Rays of sunlight poured through the crossloops, splashing warmth onto the folded sheets. Blue eyes set in a pretty face peered around the pile. “Ye art the new nurse!” the girl exclaimed in the English tongue.

“Dame Crucis,” Clarise supplied. “You may call me Clare.” Instantly she saw the resemblance between this girl and the one who’d tended Simon earlier.

“I am Nell,” the girl said eagerly. “Me sister Sarah gives thanks that ye haffe come.” Her gaze fell to Simon. “Sarah raised all eight of us when oure mum and da died. But not e’en Sarah knew how to comfort the wee master. ’Tis a miracle ye haffe wrought. Ye saved me sister from a fate most dire.”

The word dire hung in the air between them. Clarise glanced down the deserted hallway and stepped closer to the girl. “What happens when the Slayer is angry?” she whispered, recalling the sharpness in the warlord’s eyes. “Does he . . . maim his servants?”

The color drained from Nell’s round cheeks. “Sarah tol’ me ne’er to speak on it!” she whispered back. “Pardon, madam. Dame Maeve wille be sore vexed with me, do I tarry longer.” She slipped past Clarise with her teetering load.

Struck by the girl’s palpable fear, Clarise nearly forgot her purpose in questioning her. “Just a moment,” she called out, halting the maid at the stairs. “Can you tell me the way to the chapel? I missed matins this morning.”

Nell cast her gaze to the floor. “The chapel is in the forebuilding, but it hast ne been used since Our Ladyship wed the lord,” she admitted, clearly crushed by that circumstance.

Clarise kept her disappointment guarded. “You mean, there’s no priest here?” She required a priest to convey her message to Alec. Merry’s blood! Her spirits took an abrupt downward turn.

The girl sadly shook her head.

“Well, how do you confess?”

Nell brightened. “The Abbot of Revesby visits Rievaulx once a week. We confess to him.”

“The Abbot of Revesby comes to Rievaulx? But there’s already an abbot at Rievaulx.”

“Aye, but he ne speaketh English like the Abbot of Revesby doth.”

Clarise had doubts about enlisting an abbot’s help. “Is this Abbot of Revesby a kindly man?” she asked, recalling the malignant glimmer in the Abbot of Rievaulx’s black eyes.

“A truly holy man, he be. He hath many differences with the Abbot of Rievaulx,” Nell added, seeing her wary expression. “Would ye like to come with us on Friday? Most folk walken to Abbingdon to hear his words.”

So there was a way to contact Alec, but it would take some time. “I would like to come with you,” Clarise replied, though she had doubts that the Slayer would let her go. Hadn’t she sworn to keep vigilant watch over Simon?

Thanking the laundry maid, Clarise bid her good day and followed a wing of the castle toward the east tower. With no luck in enlisting the aid of a priest, she tackled the next most pressing need: finding the source of the milk Simon drank. She couldn’t ask for a mug every time the baby hungered.

The more Clarise wandered, the more the size of Helmesly impressed itself on her mind. It had been built to house the king and all his men, should the baron be blessed by King Stephen’s presence. Yet as she peered into the guest chambers, she found them all wanting. The beds had been stripped of their drapes. The embroidered cushions had been plucked from the chairs. The chests were gutted. The torch holders were devoid of torches. Had the goods been sold to pay for weapons? she wondered.

She found herself comparing Helmesly with her own ravaged home. Ferguson had set fire to the hall one day while brawling with his second-in-command. The roof now had holes that the rain poured through, a circumstance that pained her heart whenever she thought of it.

In her father’s day Heathersgill had been a lovely stronghold, built at the highest point of the Cleveland Hills, making sieges almost impossible. The only way to take the keep was by trickery. And that was how Ferguson had come to claim it for himself.

If her father could see what had become of their home, she thought, her heart compressed with grief. If he saw his lovely wife, wasted to a skeleton, her hair cut to jagged lengths, his ghost would haunt the wall walks.

If something should ever happen to me, he’d often told Clarise, protect your mother and sisters as best you can. He’d raised her much like a son, which explained why he had laid such a burden at her feet. And he could never have predicted that his death would come so soon, while Clarise was yet a maid with no husband to call upon for military might. Nonetheless, she felt that she had failed him. Oh, she’d failed him.

If there had been any way to stop Ferguson from overtaking the keep, she would have done it. But with a false smile and a humble request for shelter, the Scot had wormed his way into the gates. No one had suspected his intent to poison the lord, then sever Edward’s head from his body. Ferguson had raped Clarise’s mother, then laid claim to the castle himself. No one could have stopped him. Still, Clarise blamed herself for the ruination of her family and her home.

Simon mewled in her arms, rousing her from such painful reflections. She hurried toward the eastern tower, hoping it would speed her to the kitchens. There, she would feign an interest in livestock and discover where the nanny goat was housed.

Clarise had almost reached the ground level when the jingling of keys alerted her to Dame Maeve’s approach. The grim-faced servant drew up short at the sight of the nurse in the dim stairwell.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, clutching her chatelaine as a sign of her power.

Clarise quelled the impulse to check the woman’s tone. The steward’s wife was a superior servant. She would be wise to establish a friendship with the woman.

“Does this tower lead to the kitchens?” she meekly inquired.

“Nay,” said Dame Maeve flatly. “Why? Have ye need of aught?”

“Actually, I missed the morning meal,” Clarise lied. She would determine if Dame Maeve were responsible for the tray in her room or someone else.

“Then you should get up earlier,” the woman snapped.

“The lord has instructed me to eat well—”

“He is seneschal, not the lord,” Dame Maeve corrected her.

Clarise wondered if the woman’s gray hair dared escape the knot on her head. “I see,” she said. “The Slayer has instructed me to eat well.” She used the taboo sobriquet to fluster the old woman. “I was hoping for a bit of bread and some milk to stave off my hunger.”

The woman turned as still as stone. Her eyes hardened to match her frame. “You are a fool to use that name lightly,” she muttered. “Do you know how this babe came into the world?” With a long bony finger she made to prod Simon in the belly, but Clarise turned her body to protect him. “He was cut from his mother’s belly while my lady yet lived.”

A chill swept through Clarise. She’d been told that Simon’s mother died in childbirth. No one had mentioned such butchery.

“I don’t believe you,” she said, rubbing the baby’s back to comfort herself as much as Simon.

“Ask anyone,” insisted the steward’s wife. “We all saw the blood on his tunic. Her body was still warm when I went to clean the chamber.”

“None of this is my concern,” Clarise insisted, thrusting aside the horrific image. “But the baby is. I must have nourishment to feed him. And I must have it now.”

Dame Maeve drew herself up. “Your request will be relayed,” she said, glaring at her.

“And bread and milk brought to my chamber?” She was pressing her luck now.

The steward’s wife pushed past her, muttering commentary on the sin of sloth as she stormed up the stairs. Clarise listened to the click of her efficient footsteps. She had meant to make a friend of the steward’s wife. Instead, she’d likely made a foe. With no hope of reaching the kitchens by this avenue, she turned back the way she had come, seeking her chamber, for Simon showed signs of getting hungry.

The light repast was brought to her door with impressive speed. The page who’d brought it also conveyed a message from the master-at-arms, enjoining her to share the midday meal with him.

Clarise declined Sir Roger’s offer. We will speak again, the Slayer had warned her. And I will have honest answers from you next time. Not if she succeeded in avoiding him, he wouldn’t. She refused to be caught between the two of them at the noon repast. Instead, she fed Simon with the milk and nibbled at the loaf, hoping to make it last.

The sound of a horseman leaving the stables spurred her to the window. Looking down, she caught a glimpse of the warlord’s black hair as he guided his mount through the gate. The sight of the Slayer in full armor made her stand at attention. She held her breath, waiting for him to reappear on the road outside the castle walls.

As he thundered into view, she watched with silent awe. He was armed to the teeth and striking out with purpose.

Where was he going at midday? And why did she feel disappointment to see him leaving? The more distance between them, the safer she was. And yet she wished, perversely, that he would stay where she could keep an eye on him.

Dressed in armor, he looked every inch the warlord. The chain mail that girded his broad chest was hewn from dark iron links that nullified the sun’s rays. The leather scabbard across his back was black, as was the hilt of his sword and the knee-high boots. Even the shield that she couldn’t see was black—or so she’d heard—with a small white cross on the upper left corner.

She’d always thought his device a sacrilege. Now that she knew his name, she understood the cross, in part. Yet the man had no priest in his castle. He was anything but devout—though Sir Roger had insisted to the contrary.

Still, she knew in her heart that she couldn’t poison him. Warlord or not, he was still Simon’s father. Helmesly would be lost without his iron rule, just as Ferguson desired. And she would not be party to such violent destruction.

She caught up the pendant that hung from her neck and studied it. The gold globe seemed to symbolize Ferguson’s power over the lives of the DeBoise women. Clarise curled her lip in scorn. She would not be subject to Ferguson’s whim any longer.

Very deliberately she pulled the chain off over her head. With a flick of her thumb, she unhooked the clasp that kept it closed and swung the chamber open. Lethal powder sat in the silk-lined interior, looking as harmless as a pinch of salt. Clarise extended her arm and held it out the window. With a twist of her wrist, the powder slipped free and sailed lightly into the wind.

Clarise felt a great weight ease from her shoulders. She snapped the locket shut and looped the chain over her head once more. Then she turned to inspect her lonely chamber. It solved nothing to sequester herself with Simon. She would eat with the master-at-arms, after all. Perhaps Sir Roger knew a priest who could bear a message to Alec.

Chapter Five

After hurriedly feeding the baby, Clarise placed Simon in his cradle and hefted them both. Though the burden was heavy, she struggled to carry both the baby and the box down the tower stairs. After all, she had promised the Slayer her vigilance.

Sir Roger hastened to her rescue the moment he saw her on the gallery. “Dame Crucis, you should summon a servant,” he scolded as he took the cradle from her hands.

They descended the broad stairs together, drawing the gazes of servants who scurried under Maeve’s stern eye.

“Where would you have me put this?” the knight inquired.

“As close to the dais as possible. Let us pray that Simon remains asleep.”

“I trust you are rested,” he huffed as they neared the high table.

Clarise murmured something to the affirmative. She took approving note of the ready table, the neat appearance of the pages, the freshness of the rushes under her feet. Maeve performed her husband’s duties with daunting skill.

“Lord Christian looked for you again this morning,” the knight confided, putting down the box. “But I advised him to let you sleep.” He straightened and looked directly at her face. “You still look tired.”

Clarise turned away from his probing gaze. “The little baron woke me more than once,” she told him. For all his chivalry, she sensed a search for answers in the knight’s silvery orbs. She hoped she could put his suspicions to rest.

“Come and sit by me,” he invited, gesturing toward the high table. “My lord is gone from the castle for the day, and there is no one but the minstrel to entertain me.”

As if by cue, the discordant twang of a lute rose toward the rafters. Clarise glanced toward the source of the discord and saw the minstrel she had seen once before seated at a bench on the far end of the hall. He burst suddenly into song, plucking an accompaniment that might have belonged to a different tune altogether.

Apprehension stirred the hairs on her forearms. There was something familiar about the man, she thought, staring at him harder.

“Fear you not,” Sir Roger said, mistaking her expression for disdain. “These are his last hours at Helmesly,” he divulged. “I will send him on his way after supper, with coin enough to speed him to his next destination.” He tipped her a smile and helped her up the dais steps.

She was glad to hear it. The last thing she needed right now was to run into someone who knew her. She turned her attention to the two men already seated at the table. Sir Roger introduced them as Hagar, guardian of the dungeons, and Harold the steward, husband to Dame Maeve.

When neither man acknowledged her polite greeting, she looked to Sir Roger for an explanation. “Hagar is deaf,” he informed belatedly, “and Harold lives in his own world. Your gracefulness denotes breeding, however,” he added lightly.

She gave him a thin smile. The knight was mocking her disguise as a freed serf. She hoped she could keep the truth from him, as she had kept it from the Slayer.

Sir Roger helped her into a chair, then occupied the seat beside her, leaving the lord’s and lady’s places empty. He nodded to the water bearer, and the meal began. The scent of trout broiled in almond sauce preceded the pages as they bore the main course to the high table.

Men-at-arms still trudged to the trestles from the practice yards. Sweaty and exhausted, they straggled in, groaning audibly at the sight of the minstrel and casting curious glances toward the high table. Clarise kept her eyes downcast as they whispered among themselves to discover who she was.

“Did you live in Glenmyre all your life?” Sir Roger asked. At the same time he divided their trencher in half, giving her the choicest portion of the fish.

She braced herself for another round of questions. “Aye, all my life, except for the years I spent studying at St. Judes.”

“You mean St. Giles,” he offered helpfully.

Clarise colored furiously. He’d caught her right away in the web of her own words. “Aye, St. Giles,” she muttered, stabbing at her fish with her two-tined fork.

Sir Roger dabbed his mouth with the edge of the table linen. “Dame Crucis,” he said softly, “you have heard, no doubt, that my lord will kill anyone who crosses him.”

She forced herself to chew, though the trout began to taste like dirt in her mouth. The knight was clearly warning her to be forthright. To save herself, she retreated behind a wall of silence.

Saintonge drove his point home. “He respects honesty in any man,” he added, “or woman.”

She resisted the urge to shake her head. She could never tell the Slayer who she was, for in jeopardizing her own life, she jeopardized the lives of those she loved. “Where has the seneschal gone?” she asked, changing the topic abruptly.

The gleam in Sir Roger’s eyes warned her that he saw straight through the ploy. “To Rievaulx,” he said shortly.

The unexpected answer brought her senses to alert. “But the abbey is quarantined. I went there for shelter and was turned away.”

Sir Roger ripped off a portion of his trencher and dipped it in sauce. “I know,” he said, with anger coloring his tone. “ ’Tis supposedly riddled by a great scourge.”

“Oh, it is,” she assured him. “I saw the effects of it myself.” Her stomach turned at the recollection of Horatio’s ravaged face.

The knight leaned back until his chair creaked. “My lord means to call at the gate, not to enter. He is looking for a monk there.” His silvery gaze swiveled toward her face. “Alec Monteign. You must know him, coming from Glenmyre,” he added casually.

Clarise glanced to the cradle to disguise her sudden panic. Simon was dozing, giving her no excuse to flee. “Aye, of course. He heeded a call to the brotherhood after the. . . the seneschal took possession of Glenmyre.” She had nearly said the Slayer.

“Just so. What do you know of the man?”

She tore off a bit of her own bread. “He’s a good man,” she said evasively. “Why do you ask?”

The knight looked at her directly. “ ’Tis a matter of great importance, affecting the lives of many,” he replied. “One day you may be able to return to Glenmyre”—he paused and sipped his wine—“to do whatever it is that you did before.”

She ignored his deliberate sarcasm. “What do you mean?” she demanded. “Are you suggesting that Alec might rightly rule in his father’s stead?” Hope fluttered anew.

The knight smiled enigmatically. “Mayhap,” he said, raising her hopes, “but then, mayhap not. Who can explain the devotion of an eremite?”

To Clarise, it sounded like a leading question. Sir Roger was eager to explore her allegiance to Alec. Likely, everything he had to say was designed to trap her into revealing her loyalties.

She clicked her mouth shut and silently counseled herself not to speak of the past again. The conversation moved to safer topics: the lax attitude of King Stephen and the recent antics of his dubious heir.

As the sweetmeats approached the table, Clarise summoned the courage to ask, “Sir Roger, why is there no priest here?” Seeing his questioning look, she added, “ ’Tis my custom to confess once a week.”

Something suggestive flickered in his eyes. “Are you such a sinner, then?”

The strange question gave her pause. “Let us just say that I have a conscience,” she finally answered. “Why is there no priest?”

His perpetual smile became a grimace. “An interdict was imposed on Helmesly not too long ago. The only sacraments that may be administered here are baptism and extreme unction. ’Twould serve no purpose to have a priest.”

“I see,” she said, reeling with surprise. “And who imposed the interdict? The Abbot of Rievaulx?”

“An accurate guess.”

“But why?” she persisted.

He popped a sweetmeat in his mouth. “Who knows?” he muttered. “It gives him pleasure to spread discontent.”

Hearing the irritation in his voice, Clarise glanced toward Simon’s cradle and saw that the baby was fussing. “Sir Knight, I thank you for your gracious company. The baby wakes, and I have sworn to give him my undivided attention.” She was anxious to retire to her room and ponder her next move.

“Join me,” he said, trapping her hand momentarily under his, “at the evening meal. The minstrel will be gone, and our ears will be left at peace.”

She gave a noncommittal reply. The knight was too astute by far. If she spoke at any length with him, she knew her story would buckle and the truth would be revealed.

He pulled back her chair, then called a youth to assist her with the cradle. As Clarise trailed Peter toward the stairs, they passed the minstrel who plucked at his strings in a futile attempt to make harmony. The young man’s gaze rose to capture hers, and shock slammed through her, bringing her to a sudden halt. By God, she knew him after all!

His name was Rowan. He was the son of Kendal, Ferguson’s second-in-command. No doubt he’d been sent to Helmesly to ensure that Clarise fulfilled her sinister purpose.

Mischief sparkled in Rowan’s eyes. Without warning, he launched into a ballad extolling the beauty of “The Fiery-Haired Lady.”

Clarise’s heart began to pound in earnest. She glanced about the hall and realized she was now the center of attention. Knowing she would draw more speculation by ignoring the boy, she listened to his song with outward courtesy.

Inwardly she felt herself quaking. Rowan’s ballad was laden with hidden meanings. It was the story of a king’s mistress, hung for betraying him and revealing secrets to his enemy. This was Ferguson’s way of warning her, she thought, feeling her anger burn. He was likening himself to the king and her to the fiery-haired mistress.

Clarise’s throat felt suddenly parched. She swallowed hard against the dryness. The nightmare she’d dreamed last night replayed itself in her mind.

Mercifully, the song came to an end. Rowan offered her a mocking smile, one that held an unmistakable warning. Pretending to be flattered, Clarise clapped for him. A smattering of applause punctuated the hall. She turned stiffly away, encouraging Peter under her breath to move out smartly.

Halfway up the broad staircase, Clarise dared a glance over her shoulder. Two pairs of eyes in particular watched her retreat. One was dark and mocking, the other light and speculative.

Frustration pricked the backs of her eyeballs. Everywhere she turned, men sought to control her destiny. All she wanted was to give her family back their freedom. And there wasn’t even a priest at Helmesly to help her!

Clarise sheltered Simon’s eyes from the sunlight drenching the inner bailey. The afternoon was uncomfortably hot, and she missed the breeze wafting from the meadow to cool her third-story chamber. But she would not reenter the keep until she’d accomplished her tasks. She had two birds to kill and only one stone to see it done.

Under the guise of introducing the baby to the castle folk, she managed to locate the livestock shelters near the kitchen. Two nanny goats bleated in alarm as she peered through the shelter door. The nearest entrance to the castle was a short dash away. Getting milk straight from the source would not present a problem, she determined, so long as she could do it without attracting notice.

Her spirits sank briefly at the need for so much secrecy. Still, she thought, rallying, her masquerade would be over the moment Alec learned of her plight. Perhaps with the Abbot of Revesby visiting on Friday, she would have more luck in getting word to him.

With one bird slain, she resumed her walk around the castle courtyard, keeping a vigilant eye on the only gate. Rowan would be leaving this very afternoon, dismissed for his poor playing. She could not resist the urge to gloat over his failure to infiltrate the castle as she had. She would need to convince him that she would soon be poisoning the Slayer. That way Rowan would have nothing but good news to deliver to Ferguson.

She crossed sedately to the stables where a rough-hewn laborer pounded shoes on a plow horse. “Have you met the little baron yet?” she inquired, guessing the man to be the stable master.

The laborer straightened and wiped his brow. Frowning suspiciously, he stepped from the horse to peer at the bundle in Clarise’s arms. Simon resembled a sleeping cherub with lashes feathering his rounded cheeks. The stable master’s visage softened. “He has the look of his mother,” he growled, turning away.

Clarise hid a satisfied smile. Though the people of Helmesly found it easy to resent their seneschal, they couldn’t bring themselves to hate a baby. Simon might be still an infant, but it was good to foster the loyalty of the people he would one day rule.

Enjoying a moment of misplaced pride, she almost overlooked the minstrel’s surreptitious departure. Rowan hastened toward the gate, clutching his lute to his chest. As he cast a wary glance over one shoulder, he caught sight of Clarise heading him off. He drew up short, his lips drawn back in a crafty smile.

“Lady Clarise,” he said, ignoring her hissed warning not to speak her name.

“You make a sorry minstrel, Rowan,” she informed him, casting a scathing look at his festive attire.

“You wound me, lady,” he said, clearly not meaning it. “Did you have something of any import to tell me?”

Clarise was conscious of several curious gazes being cast their way. She would need to keep their meeting brief to avert suspicion. “I want you to take a message to Ferguson for me,” she told him in a hushed voice. “Tell him all is going according to plan. At the earliest convenience the deed will be done.”

Rowan narrowed his eyes. “What took you so long in getting here?” he demanded. “I was at Helmesly two full days before you showed up.”

“I got lost,” she lied. “Then a farmer gave me a ride in his cart, and he took me in the wrong direction.”

“Humph,” grunted Rowan. “Ye had best not try something foolish.”

“Like what?” she wanted to know. “You know that I have no choice in this matter.”

He gave her a careless shrug, making it clear that the lives of her family meant nothing to him.

She knew a vicious urge to wound him. “You should have practiced on that lute of yours before you came here,” she needled. “Ferguson won’t be pleased to see you back so soon.”

Rowan smirked with self-confidence. “I got what I needed to make my stay worthwhile,” he confided.

His words pricked her curiosity. “What do you mean?”

The minstrel leaned closer to share a confidence. “There are others here who would gladly see the Slayer replaced.” He patted his covered lute the way she patted Simon. “Now,” he said straightening, “see to it that you follow Ferguson’s orders soon. Don’t make a liar of me,” he cautioned, turning away.

Clarise watched with relief as he walked through the shadow of the barbican. Rowan would tell Ferguson what he wanted to hear. He would not be tempted to cut short the deadline that he’d given her.

As casually as possible, she turned and strolled toward the keep.

The sound of a furious gallop roused Clarise from the bed where she lay humming to Simon. Leaving him, she ran to the window and peered through the purple twilight to locate the horseman thundering over the meadow. Even in the semidarkness the silhouette of the Slayer could not be mistaken for any other. He guided his mount toward the open draw, where she briefly lost sight of him.

He appeared again in the outer ward and veered toward the lists. At the edge of the field, he halted his horse in a patch of dusky shadow.

What was he doing? Clarise’s knees trembled to know that he was back. She recalled, without wanting to, the feel of his tongue gliding over her breast. She wondered at his purpose in visiting the abbey. Was it possible he would actually return Glenmyre to Alec? What sort of warlord made such generous concessions?

She leaned out of the window in order to see the Slayer better. The sky, like the mercenary, was of mixed character tonight. The horizon, where the sun had set, was pink, then violet merging into indigo. Black night threatened to swallow the whole of it. Was he good or evil, or some volatile blend of both?

The warlord urged his horse toward the lances hung on rungs at one end of the list. In a graceful movement he caught up a spear and tested the weight of its tip. Then he turned his horse toward the entrance of the run.

This was a fête des armes, Clarise guessed, against an unseen enemy. There were no gay banners snapping in the breeze. The air was still. The shadow of the Slayer and his steed lay across the grass, like the fantastical centaur in the books her father used to read. She imagined the clarion of a trumpet as he closed the visor on his helm. An unseen handkerchief fluttered in the air and fell. The Slayer was off.

So thickly were the shadows settling on the ground that his horse simply disappeared. The warlord galloped as though flying through air. He focused fully on the stuffed target at the end of the run. In the tattoo of the horse’s hooves she could hear his force and speed. In the set of his broad shoulders, she could see determination, power in the arm now raising the tip of the lance.

The Slayer targeted his weapon on the dummy’s nonexistent heart and, in the next instant, ran it through.

The straw figure was ripped from its place atop a pole. It dangled limply on his lance until the warlord shook it off. Clarise’s knees knocked together. There had been fury and frustration in the Slayer’s attack. She imagined those two emotions turned upon herself, and her mouth went dry.

Are you a spy, sent to take account of my men and weapons? She let the windowsill take her weight. If only she could earn his trust.

With fluid motions the warlord replaced the lance, patted the neck of his stallion, and headed toward the inner gate. Clarise’s vantage was such that she could also see into the courtyard, to the very spot where she had spoken to Rowan earlier. Several torches had been left blazing in expectation of the seneschal’s late arrival.

She glanced back at the bed. Simon was staring at the patterns of light flickering on the bed canopy. For the moment he could be left unattended.

She turned to the window again to mark the Slayer’s approach. A youth, probably a squire, ran forward to catch his master’s reins. The Slayer freed the latches of his helmet and tossed it at the boy. But the squire fumbled the catch, and the helm went clanging to the cobbles.

The boy froze in terror. Three stories in the air Clarise bit off a fingernail down to the quick.

“What ho, my lord?” Sir Roger’s cheerful hail shattered the tense moment. The master-at-arms popped through an archway of the garrison and into view. He drew up short at the sight of the Slayer’s scowl. “No success in getting past the abbot, then,” he said, sizing up the situation.

Clarise strained her ears for the seneschal’s reply. The still silence of the early evening and the empty yard caused the men’s voices to carry clearly to her window. She gleaned that the abbot was ill and refusing visitors. The warlord swung down from the back of his giant horse.

“ ’Twas nothing less than you expected,” Sir Roger cajoled. He hesitated a moment. “Or did aught else go awry?”

The Slayer’s chain mail gleamed with the oil with which it had been scrubbed. “I take it you sent the minstrel away,” he growled, in a voice thick with disgust.

“He left this afternoon,” affirmed the knight.

“Did he inform you of his destination?”

Sir Roger hesitated. “No, my liege.”

“Did anyone think to search his possessions before he left?”

Silence answered for the knight.

The Slayer turned toward his horse and pulled a length of parchment from beneath his saddle. “He was carrying this inside his lute,” he added, unrolling it for his vassal’s inspection. Clarise caught a glimpse of a drawing in the flickering light. She pressed a hand to her thudding heart. Rowan had said he’d made his stay worthwhile. Clearly he thought he’d gotten away with stealing sketchings of Helmesly’s interior defenses.

The Slayer rolled up the parchment with furious but fluid motions. “He was heading straight for Heathersgill,” he added through his teeth.

Clarise strained her ears as the warlord’s volume dimmed to scarcely more than a murmur. “Henceforth no one enters or leaves this stronghold without being thoroughly searched. I want to know how the minstrel got his hands on these designs!” He shoved them out for his vassal to take.

“We will soon find out, my lord,” Sir Roger promised him. “What did you do with the boy? We will question him.”

The seneschal tugged off a gauntlet, one finger at a time. “I killed him,” he said at last, in a voice as emotionless as death. “ ’Twas an accident.”

Clarise’s vision blurred as the words seeped into her brain. The Slayer muttered something in defense of his butchery. She shook her head in denial as she struggled to assess the impact of this news. Rowan was dead, cut down by the Slayer for being a spy. It was true that Kendal’s son was sly and utterly without honor, but he’d gone without armor and could not even defend himself! To kill him was a cold-blooded act indeed.

She thought of something still more horrible. What if Rowan blurted the truth of her identity before he died? She might be hanged for a spy within the hour.

Paralyzed by the window, Clarise watched the warlord stalk toward the keep and disappear. Was he coming after her?

As if sensing her alarm, Sir Roger looked up and caught her gaze. She steeled herself to keep from ducking out of sight. Forcing a smile, she raised a hand in casual salute.

The knight did not wave back. Nor did he return her smile, but stared at her solemnly and with suspicion.

Clarise turned and stumbled toward the bed. Crawling onto the mattress, she hugged Simon to her breast and sought comfort in the warmth of his tiny body. The image of the straw dummy flashed through her mind. The Slayer had killed Rowan without a trial. What made her think he would hear her tale with any compassion whatsoever?

Moonlight shimmered through the cracks of the shutters, exacerbating Clarise’s inability to sleep. Simon, who had squirmed fitfully for hours, was peaceful at last. Scarcely a drop of milk remained in the earthenware mug beside the bed.

Clarise stared at the shadows forming on her bed curtain and listened for the fall of approaching footsteps. She was certain the Slayer would visit her tonight.

Minutes stretched into hours, and still no midnight visitation. Just when she succumbed to the weight of her eyelids, the groaning of the hinges brought her senses back to wakefulness.

She snapped her eyes shut again and forced herself to breathe evenly. The sound of her pounding heart blended with the stirring of rushes. The air in the boxed bed moved as the curtain was pulled aside. She saw the faint illumination of moonlight through her eyelids. Someone was looking down at her. And she knew who it was.

The blood in her veins crystallized. She waited for him to waken her, her lungs starved for oxygen. Would he give her a chance to pour out her tale, or would he simply strike her down as he had Rowan?

Simon was in the bed beside her, she reminded herself. Surely he wouldn’t want to spatter blood all over his baby.

“Clare Crucis,” he called her in a voice that sounded faintly slurred from drink.

She didn’t answer him. She was scared if she spoke that she’d admit who she was and beg for mercy. And worse, the truth would spread like a quick blazing fire and it would only be a matter of days before Ferguson caught wind of her betrayal. She just needed time enough to reach Alec.

To her relief, the mercenary didn’t call her again. He stood silently beside her bed. She could scarcely hear him breathing. Fear of the unknown kept her motionless.

Christian blinked to clear his vision. He wished he hadn’t drunk a full bottle of wine to drown the memory of this day’s work. He wanted to see the nurse more clearly.

Besides, it would take more than a bottle of wine to forget that he’d snuffed out yet another life. Doing so unintentionally made it no less difficult to bear. He should have realized that the boy wore no armor, no helmet to protect his head. One slap with the broadside of his sword had sent him sprawling to the earth. It was simple misfortune that his head had hit a rock and cracked his skull wide open.

Christian sucked in a breath at the memory and let it out again. He couldn’t help but consider that he had been a young man once, and in the name of service to his father, he had done things more awful than steal the sketches of a castle.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he muttered hoarsely. The sound of his voice in the quiet chamber startled him. He’d had more to drink than was wise.

This was not the time to question the woman, though that had been his intent when he entered the room. Several witnesses had seen her speaking with the minstrel at the gate. Others claimed he’d sung her a ballad filled with hidden meaning. He had more than enough reason to doubt that Clare Crucis had come to Helmesly just to serve him. More likely, her purpose was a sinister one.

His gaze fell to the chain about her neck. The ball-shaped pendant lay against one breast. Since first laying eyes on it, its odd shape and the clasp had made him wonder what use it served. Perhaps she carried in it the ashes of a saint, or a sweet-smelling spice . . . or a deadly poison.

With fingers that trembled slightly, Christian extended his hand and captured the golden ball. He worked the clasp with his thumbnail, determined now to see what lay inside. The two halves of the pendant swung apart, revealing a hollow. He tipped it to one side, then rubbed his index finger in the silk-lined interior. The locket was empty.

Warm relief pooled in his gut as he closed the pendant shut. This did not mean the woman was innocent, he reminded himself. And yet, gazing at her peaceful profile, at the curve of her jaw in the moonlight, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that she meant him any harm. He preferred to believe—as he had from the first—that she was sent by design, to save Simon’s life. And possibly to save the Slayer’s soul.

The hope still throbbed in him. Bathed in moonlight, she looked capable of casting out a hoard of demons. Her legs were drawn up trustingly, like a child’s. One arm curled protectively around the sleeping form of his son. They lay together as if they belonged.

She was beautiful to behold, a goddess with long, fiery tresses. He didn’t want to believe that she had anything to do with Ferguson or the struggle over Glenmyre. It chafed him to think it.

Sir Roger would question the girl tomorrow. The master-at-arms was more adept with words, more skilled at eliciting a slip of the tongue. But for his part, Christian would sleep one more night with the illusion that there was hope for him and the new life he dreamed of. The baby prospered in his nurse’s care. With that sole assurance, he exited the chamber.

Clarise listened to the sound of his retreating footsteps. As soon as she thought it safe, she gasped air into her lungs and let it out in a sob of relief. A layer of sweat coated her skin. She threw back the sheet to cool herself.

He hadn’t killed her.

He’d opened the pendant that she’d emptied yesterday and found nothing, thank God. Other than that, he’d done nothing but stare at her in her sleep and utter those wrenching words, I didn’t mean for it to happen. Had he been referring to Rowan’s death? Or was it something else—the death of Simon’s mother, perhaps? With so many matters on his conscience, it could have been anything.

All she knew for certain was that he’d let her live a few more hours.

It must have been because his son was in the bed. She nuzzled the baby, grateful for the lifeline that existed between them. Perhaps the Slayer would spare her because he knew that Simon needed her.

With thanks for small mercies, Clarise closed her eyes and sighed. Once she was certain the Slayer had sought his own bed, she would rise and execute her plan. Tonight she would find more milk for the baby. Whatever happened, she could not let Simon starve.

Chapter Six

Clarise awoke with a start. She could not remember falling asleep, but she realized nearly at once that the opportunity to fulfill her plans had nearly escaped her.

It was no longer dark. The sky through the open window was imbued with silvery light. If she didn’t hurry, the castle folk would soon be up and stirring. The baby would awaken, too, expecting milk to fill his small, but ever-ravenous stomach.

Scolding herself for sleeping so late, Clarise slipped from the sheets and sought her slippers. She had left her gown on in anticipation of her mission. All that was left was to determine what to do with Simon.

She couldn’t bring him with her, for if he woke, his cries would rouse the servants. But if the warlord learned that his son was left alone, even for a moment, his faith in her would be destroyed. If she were caught skulking through the castle in the dark, his suspicions would multiply like the plague.

She decided to leave Simon behind. An empty corridor beckoned her from the bedchamber. The tower was lost to darkness but for the barest glow in the window slits. She sped unnoticed past the Slayer’s solar, down the steps of the main stairs and through the great hall. Only Alfred the wolfhound remarked her passing from his place beside the fire pit. He raised his head, studying her through yellow eyes.

Clarise exited the keep through the door that was closest to the livestock pens. In the breezeway separating the castle from the kitchens, she hesitated, looking for signs of life. A crow regarded her from the peat roof of the latter. No one else appeared to be awake.

The scent of yeast and drying herbs made her stomach growl as she hurried past the kitchens. She turned toward the animal enclosure and the less appealing stench of manure. Straw snapped crisply beneath her slippers as she pushed open the door of the goat shed. She could just make out two pairs of eyes reflecting the light she let into the pen.

Clarise reached for one of the pails hanging overhead. She dragged a stool close with her foot and backed a spotted goat into the corner.

The nanny goat tensed, mistrustful of a stranger. Clarise wasted precious minutes soothing the animal whose milk would not flow freely unless it accepted her touch.

By the time Clarise began to get results, a rooster was crowing in the yard. Knowing that servants would soon be heading to their chores, she quickened her pace.

She had filled the pail halfway when the sound of women’s voices arrested her. Two of them were talking near the entrance to the kitchens.

“He killed the minstrel? Just because he couldn’t play?”

“ ’Tis what Maeve told me. Struck him down where he stood.”

Clarise frowned at the inaccurate gossip. Rowan had been caught carrying important papers in his lute. Espionage was a crime punishable by death, though murder was a bit excessive given the boy’s lack of defense.

Reminded that she might well become the next victim, Clarise rose to her feet and hefted the pail. Peering out of the enclosure, she determined it was safe to leave the pen, so long as she kept to the shadows of the garden wall.

The milk sloshed loudly in her bucket as she scurried for cover. All the while she strained to hear the conversation coming from the kitchen door. She could just make out a young girl and a plump cook conversing by the hearth they worked to light. To her amazement, she realized she was now the topic of their conversation.

“Well, who is she?” the girl wanted to know.

The cook shrugged her massive shoulders. “She were seen sharin’ words with the minstrel yesterday. They say she’s a spy as well, which means the seneschal will kill her, too. That’s what Maeve thinks.”

Clarise’s eyes widened. She nearly tripped over her own two feet.

“Well, I don’t think her a spy. I think she’s beautiful,” said the girl. “Me sister Nell says she’s a gentlewoman.”

The girl was clearly kin to Nell and Sarah. Clarise was grateful for the vote of confidence, even if it came from an insignificant source.

“She might be a noblewoman for the airs she gives herself,” the cook replied, “but Maeve says she’s a leman. She overheard Sir Roger say it.”

Clarise stopped in her tracks. She, a leman? A nobleman’s mistress?

Surprise rooted her beside the bed of ivy. She considered the rumor, disdaining it at first for its inaccuracy. Yet she understood why the knight had come to his conclusion. She’d supposedly given birth to a child out of wedlock. And she’d claimed no family, no allegiance to anyone.

Just as suddenly she realized the idea had merit. Indeed, it gave her the perfect excuse for coming to Helmesly. Moreover, it explained Rowan’s song about the king’s mistress, for she could say that he had recognized her as . . . as Monteign’s mistress. She could barely swallow the thought of carnal relations with Alec’s father. Yet it was the best solution all around.

Still, if she didn’t get back inside the keep, it wouldn’t matter what story she gave. She glanced toward the rising sun, dismayed to find it peeking over the garden wall.

In the kitchen the servants moved away from the hearth to tend other tasks. Clarise dashed to the entrance and yanked open the door.

Thankfully, no one stood in the corridor that sped her to the great hall. There, she found Harold setting up the trestle tables one by one. He lives in his own world, Sir Roger had said. Clarise put that assessment squarely to the test and walked briskly toward the stairs. The steward never once looked up from his work.

She adjusted her grip on the pail and picked up speed. Her heart threatened to explode from her chest as she passed the Slayer’s solar and ran up the twisting tower stairs. Once within her chamber, she leaned weakly against the door and gasped for breath. She’d done it, thank the saints! And she would never, ever fetch milk at such a risky time again.

The baby, bless his heart, was still asleep. Clarise dropped a kiss on his cheek and went to light the brazier. She would steam the milk in the pail until it boiled. When Simon awoke, the formula would be ready for him.

Thoughts ricocheted within her mind as she went about her business. She would construct an identity based on the gossip she’d just heard. Her plan to cultivate the Slayer’s trust had been shaken but not destroyed. She would rise above suspicion yet.

There was still time left in Ferguson’s ultimatum . . . if she could only get word to Alec!

Clarise pressed the pillow over her ear. A pig squealed as though running from the cleaver. Hens clucked. The smithy’s hammer clanged, and the room was hot. She kicked off the blanket and admitted defeat. It was useless to try to sleep any longer.

The few hours’ rest she had gotten since dawn would have to sustain her in the hours to come.

With a lingering stretch, she braced herself for what was certain to be a trying day. Fresh air wafted from the window, cooling her bare calves. She wondered where the air was coming from when she had closed the shutters intentionally.

Someone must have opened them.

She lifted her head off the pillow and found her fears confirmed. The Slayer stood beside her bed with one hand upon the bedpost. His gray-green gaze pinned her to the mattress.

“Do you always enter women’s chambers without knocking?” she snapped, forgetting for the moment who he was.

“Do you always sleep so late?” he countered, with an even stare.

She noticed the stillness in him right away, and she sat up with a start. “Is it Simon?” she asked, directing her attention to the baby, now asleep in his cradle. She saw at once that he was snuggled in his swaddling and sleeping soundly.

“Nay,” said the Slayer. “He is peaceful. The midday meal is being served, and I would have you join us.”

The inevitability of the confrontation made her stomach clench. The warlord was impatient for answers, yet she doubted her ability to eat well and spin lies at the same time. “As you wish,” she said, resigned to getting it over with.

She tended first to Simon. By luck alone she’d pulled the nursing skin from his mouth and tucked it out of sight. Evidence of the early-morning feeding would have ruined her disguise.

As she put her legs over the end of the bed, she noticed the wrinkled state of her gown. She didn’t look the part of a leman.

As if thinking the same thing, the warlord asked, “Why do you sleep in your clothes?”

“My chemise is being laundered, and I have nothing else to wear.”

“Sleep naked,” he suggested.

She glanced at him sharply and was not surprised to see the watchfulness in his light green eyes. Now that she’d heard the rumors, she understood his reason for such suggestive words. This was as good a time as any to corroborate his suspicions. “To what purpose should I sleep naked,” she asked, meeting his gaze boldly, “when I sleep alone?” She raised her eyebrows at him.

Her pitch clearly worked, for a glimmer of interest entered the warrior’s eyes. He raked the length of her rumpled gown. “That’s an easy problem to remedy,” he drawled.

Alarm bells tolled in her head. “Oh, I forgot. I don’t sleep alone, do I? I sleep with Simon now.” She mustn’t let the Slayer think her favors were available for the asking. The mere notion sent panic swirling through her. The man was too large, too powerful, and by far too male. Today he wore a charcoal tunic that strained over the breadth of his chest. The sleeves were rolled back to reveal a dusting of hair on his powerful forearms. Black leggings hugged his long, muscular thighs.

She tore her gaze away. “Well, I’m up,” she said, coming to her feet. “Give me a moment to refresh myself and I will join you in the hall anon.”

“I wish to escort you,” he replied implacably. “You have tarried long enough.”

She weighed the wisdom of resisting him with the necessity of earning his charity. “As you will.” Shaking out a protective sheet, she lifted the sleeping baby and laid him on the bed. “Kindly wet this for me,” she instructed the Slayer, handing him a cloth, “and squeeze out the excess water.”

To her relief, he complied without protest. While his back was turned, she shoved the nursing skin farther under the bedcovers. She was glad she’d had the foresight to leave the pail inside the chest.

The warlord handed her the moistened cloth. The baby lurched into wakefulness as she placed it against his bottom. “He has a rash,” she commented, not knowing what else to say. “Perhaps Sarah knows of an ointment that will soothe him. Did you know she raised all eight of her siblings?” She realized she was rambling, and she clamped her mouth shut.

“My servants don’t share confidences with me,” admitted the mercenary shortly.

Clarise tossed the soiled linens into the basket Nell had set aside for her. She couldn’t resist giving him the tiniest bit of advice. “Perhaps you should speak with them first. Good servants don’t initiate conversations.”

He accepted her words without comment, though his eyebrows rose from their scowling line.

Clarise diapered the baby in fresh cloth, then dressed him in a gown of finest lawn. At last she spared a thought for her own pressing needs. “Here,” she said, thrusting Simon at his father. “Hold him for a moment, please.”

Their skin brushed as he put out his hands to accept the baby. Clarise hurried for the door, disturbed by the warm, smooth texture of the Slayer’s skin.

“Where are you going?” he called as she stepped into the corridor. There was a hint of panic in his tone.

She neither slowed her step nor answered him. There were some matters that were best kept private.

Abandoned, Christian gazed with consternation at his gowned son, who stared back at him with equal trepidation. It took a full minute to realize that the baby wouldn’t cry. Confidence reemerged, and Christian began to enjoy the close encounter.

He noticed right away that his baby’s cheeks were fuller. A link of fear fell away, making him breathe a sigh of gratitude. The nurse had saved his son from sure starvation. Even if Roger found she were a spy, he knew he couldn’t punish her. He owed Clare Crucis for saving Simon’s life.

He studied his son’s features, his tiny nose and watchful eyes. He could hardly believe that something so perfect had sprung from his loins. The awakening he’d felt at Simon’s birth was not fleeting revelation. The desire to be a good father burned in him like a steady flame.

He pressed a finger to Simon’s palm and received a hearty squeeze. Amazement coursed through his veins. The urge to laugh made his throat tickle.

He glanced toward the empty doorway, relieved that no one had overheard his rusty chuckle. The nurse was dawdling, he thought, with exasperation. She’d had time enough to recover from her travels. Now was the time for honesty. If she were linked to the minstrel’s subterfuge in any way, they would know it today.

Still, he had his doubts. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but the thoughts flickering in the nurse’s eyes were not shifty thoughts. There were times when she was truly afraid of him, but they were few and far between. Rather, she watched him as if assessing him. He hoped it meant she was toying with the notion of coming to his bed. His blood quickened at the thought.

He growled in irritation at her delay. The sooner the truth of the matter was unburied, the sooner he would know if his burgeoning desire would find release. It had been so long, so long since a woman had held him tenderly.

Ignoring the heaviness in his groin, he turned his attention back to Simon. The future Baron of Helmesly, he thought with bone-deep satisfaction. No one would call his son a bastard. He would be loved by all and, in turn, rule his vast demesne with justice and might.

Clarise lingered in the garderobe for as long as she dared. With the water that trickled through a pipe from a cistern on the roof, she wet a sponge and rubbed it on the harsh lye soap. The tales that she would tell today left her feeling less than wholesome. She gave herself a cat bath, then scrubbed her teeth and plaited her hair.

In vain she tried to smooth the rumpled dress, yet it didn’t really matter what she looked like, she decided, ceasing to groom herself. She might confess to having been a man’s mistress, but that didn’t mean she had to look the part.

Helping herself to a few stolen moments, she gathered her thoughts before returning to her chamber. She didn’t like to have to lie, and she prayed that Monteign’s soul would forgive her. She had always thought of him as her future father-in-law, and she was certain he had viewed her as a daughter. Nonetheless, this was the surest way to avert suspicion. The Slayer had come too close, too many times, to guessing who she really was.

Returning slowly to her chamber, she drew up short at the scene that awaited her. The Slayer had seated himself on the chest in which the pail of milk was stowed. With the baby in his arms, he looked halfway tamed, but for the locks of dark hair falling to his shoulders as he gazed intently down at his son.

She approached them cautiously and took in Simon’s rapt expression. “He wants to be like you,” she said, intending her words to be a compliment.

The warlord’s head came up swiftly. “Why the devil would he want that?” He gave her his fiercest scowl.

She would have thought the answer was obvious. “You’re a mighty warrior, the best there is.”

His eyes narrowed as he fixed them fully on her.

She realized she’d revealed too much of her own fascination for the man. “All boys want to be like their father,” she added belatedly.

He gave a smile that was more a baring of his teeth. “Not all,” he refuted.

She remembered suddenly that the warlord was a bastard. She wondered if he’d even known his father.

He must have read the question in her eyes. “My father was the Wolf of Wendesby,” he said in a voice as harsh as the lye soap she’d just used.

Clarise’s brain stuttered at the news. “The Wolf? But . . . that means you—”

“Killed him,” he finished for her. He rose swiftly, causing the baby to fling out his little arms.

Not just the Wolf, but every other living soul at Wendesby.

Clarise watched him stalk to the door. My God, she thought. Wasn’t it enough that he’d killed the Lady Genrose and the minstrel, too? Every time she thought the warlord worth redemption, she discovered another flaw in him.

She remembered suddenly that they would need the cradle. She called him back.

He rounded on her with amazement. “Aren’t you afraid to talk to me now?” he snarled.

In the light of what she had just learned, she ought to be. Her ears still rang with the knowledge of who his father was: a Danish warlord who’d ravaged the countryside during her father’s era. “Should I be?” she dared to ask, holding her breath as she awaited his answer.

His gray-green eyes burned with an emotion she couldn’t understand. “You and Saintonge are the only people who ever speak to me.”

The admission was as unexpected as it was pitiful. It came to her in a flash that this man was lonely. “Why did you kill your father?” she pressed, wanting desperately to hear a reasonable reply.

The muscles of his chest flexed beneath the linen tunic. “ ’Tisn’t a matter I discuss with strangers.”

She felt a peculiar twinge in her chest. “I just want to . . . to . . .” She shrugged, unable to voice the warring emotions inside of her, both disdain for his actions and sympathy for his plight. Added to those was the alarming knowledge that she didn’t want him to consider her a stranger. “I am trying to understand you, Christian de la Croix,” she admitted, her voice quavering.

The mask of anger slipped briefly from his face, usurped by surprise. Just as quickly he veiled his gaze, bending to place Simon in his cradle. “I am what you see,” he said quietly. With that, he lifted the cradle effortlessly and turned away to carry it to the hall.

Clarise trailed close behind. Her gaze strayed to the wild locks of his hair. The black strands looked soft to the touch. The scent of juniper trailed after him, betraying that he had bathed recently. The breadth of his shoulders blocked her view of the stairwell entirely. I am what you see, he’d said.

What she saw was an awesome warrior, a man possessed by demons, a lonely man. She needed his strength and experience. But asking for his help was like bargaining with the very devil. If anyone could free her family from Ferguson, it was this man. But she would have to sell her soul to him to gain their liberation. And she wasn’t quite brave enough to do it.

What would the Slayer do if he learned she was Clarise DuBoise, the stepdaughter of his archrival? What made her think that she might even have the chance to bargain with him at all? Perhaps he would strike her dead the moment he discovered the truth.

If only Alec could receive the Slayer’s offer! Then she would be spared the necessity of playing a fallen woman. Then she would have a champion worthy of her admiration. She struggled a moment to construct a vision of Alec’s boy-like face. She found she could not; the memory of him seemed to have faded. The only face that came to mind was slashed by a scar and framed by hair the color of night.

Chapter Seven

Clarise’s gaze was drawn to the high table where Sir Roger stood with a gyrfalcon on his gloved hand. He was dressed for hunting in a pea green tunic and soft hide boots. He met her gaze and smiled, placing the falcon on the back of his chair. Its silver jesses jangled as it scooted free, scenting the air with an open beak. Clarise felt suddenly like its prey.

She lifted her chin and walked straight to the high table. The story she would offer was a credible one. She had nothing to fear from the master-at-arms. As the Slayer lowered the cradle beside the dais, Clarise reached in and plucked the baby free.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Your son is wide-awake,” she said. “If you want to hear him screaming, then I will leave him in his bed. Elsewise, I must hold him.”

She had another reason for wanting to hold the baby. The more accustomed the Slayer was to seeing Simon in her arms, the more secure her future.

The warrior gave a shrug and put a hand beneath her elbow to help her up the dais steps. She could feel the latent power in his fingertips. An unexpected thrill chased up her spine.

“Good day, Sir Roger,” she greeted the knight with outward confidence. “It appears you are going hunting,” she added.

The knight’s eyes gleamed like silver platters. “I am, damsel,” he replied. “Do you like to hunt?”

“I enjoy the challenge as much as any man,” came her retort.

“Would you care to come with me today?”

She knew the offer was simply a gesture. “I’m afraid I have a baron to watch,” she replied. “I have vowed to take good care of him.”

The knight acknowledged her answer with a crooked smile. “Please sit,” he said, holding out a chair. Both men helped to push the heavy chair into place. The Slayer seated himself on her left side, boxing her into the space between them. She realized with a start that she was sitting in the lady’s chair.

What game were they up to? she wondered. Her heart beat erratically as she assessed the reaction of the pages carrying out the meal. The servants appeared outraged.

“Gentlemen,” she said, addressing her companions firmly. “You do the servants an injustice by seating me in the lady’s chair. Kindly seat me elsewhere.”

“We have questions to put to you,” the knight replied in the same steely tone. “And we would both do so at once.”

She hesitated a split second. “Suit yourselves,” she said, setting Simon in her lap. “If your servants are displeased, I warrant you they will find a way to let you know.” She turned her attention to the baby, who seemed content to gaze at the azure tablecloth.

Sir Roger and his lord shared looks.

“Let us eat,” the Slayer growled. He nodded at the waterbearer, and the boy approached them with the bowl to dip their fingers. Clarise noted that the basin trembled in Peter’s freckled hands. Here was another servant afraid of his master.

Pages swarmed into the hall, carrying with them an aroma of cooked meat and thyme. Thanks to Maeve’s efficiency, the food was still steaming. But Clarise’s appetite had dwindled. She regarded the trencher of venison, boiled in milk and whole wheat, and wondered how she would eat it.

As he had done yesterday, Sir Roger cut their trencher in half, giving her the choicest portion of the fare. The Slayer got a whole trencher to himself. She had scarcely taken a bite when he nudged her with his shoulder and said, “I visited the abbey yesterday.”

Knowing that already, she nodded and kept chewing. The warmth of his shoulder burned through the sleeve of her gown.

“There is an inscription over one of the doors,” he added casually. “It bears your name—Crucis.”

Her heart forgot to beat. Could a simple word give her away? “In truth?” she murmured, trying to sound bored.

On her right side Sir Roger called her name. “Dame Crucis, what was that song the minstrel sang to you yesterday?”

The men weren’t wasting any time. “ ’Twas ‘The Fiery-Haired Lady,’ ” she replied. “Have you never heard it?”

“Perhaps I have. The words sounded different this time.”

She had nothing to say to that observation.

“Did you know the minstrel?” he persisted.

“I cannot say that I did.”

“You cannot say? Or you did not know him? Please be clearer in your answer, madam.”

She was already weary of this questioning and it had scarcely begun. She laid down her spoon abruptly. “Yes, let us be perfectly frank with one another. The minstrel knew me, it seems, but I never knew the minstrel before my arrival at Helmesly, and I will never see him again, thanks to your lord’s enthusiasm with a blade.” She sensed, rather than saw, the Slayer stiffen beside her. “My encounter with the man was merely circumstantial. The mockery that he made of me with his song deserved a good tongue-lashing, and that is what I gave him.”

Her forthright answer left both men temporarily mute. Sir Roger was the first to recover. “What was it about his song, Dame Crucis, that so displeased you?”

Clarise gathered herself to speak the necessary lies. “ ’Twas a reference to my past, Sir Knight. The minstrel knew me as Clare de Bouvais. I was Richard Monteign’s mistress.”

The silence that followed her pronouncement brought color streaking to her cheeks. She was certain every ear in the great hall had overheard her. Pages froze with interest. The men-at-arms quit guzzling their beer to peer over the tops of their mugs. She could only imagine the expressions on her companions’ faces, as she couldn’t bring herself to look at them.

Sir Roger cleared his throat. “Lady Clare de Bouvais?” he asked, clearly recognizing the prestigious surname.

Clarise was pleased to hear his chagrin. “Aye, Sir Knight. I am Alec’s second cousin—the daughter of a third son who was cousin to Lord Monteign.”

“But how did you . . . ?”

“Become his mistress?” she finished when he floundered for the words. She wondered how many paternosters she would have to say to be forgiven her lies. “I came to my uncle’s keep when I was only eight. After my aunt died, I was the only female remaining the household. I regret to say that Monteign turned his sights on me.”

Following these daring words, Clarise held her breath. She hoped her story would be believed, for much of it was based on fact. The cousin of Alec’s who had lived with the family for years had left in disgrace and with child, only it was the stable master who had compromised her, not Monteign.

To her left, the Slayer hissed a stream of deprecations under his breath. She had clearly provoked an emotion in him so strong as to be nearly palpable.

Sir Roger persisted with his questions. “Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?” he demanded. “Why accept the lot of a commoner when your blood entitles you to more?” He sounded offended on her behalf.

Clarise was prepared for that query. “When I told you that I hailed from Glenmyre, Sir Roger, I saw suspicion in your eyes. You thought I’d come to avenge Monteign’s death. I assure you that my uncle meant very little to me.”

The Slayer spoke forcefully on her left. “You spoke highly of him the other night,” he accused. The thunder in his tone gave Simon a start. The baby’s face crumpled, and he began to wail.

“Kindly lower your voice, my lord,” Clarise scolded. She placed the baby against her shoulder and patted his back. “Monteign was good to his people—in that I did not lie. But I hold no allegiance to a man who compromised my virtue.”

Her words reduced the men to silence. The noises in the hall seemed unnaturally loud as she waited for their reaction. The Slayer took a swig of his wine. Sir Roger toyed with his knife. “Why did you call yourself Clare Crucis?” the knight finally asked.

“ ’Tis obvious. Six months ago I went to the abbey for protection, along with my cousin Alec. I stayed until the illness . . .” she stuttered over the next few words, finding them the hardest to say, “until my infant took ill and died. I took my name from the inscription at the abbey, rather than use my given name.”

“Yet why make up a name?” the knight demanded. “Why not return to your family to help you?”

“My family has cast me out,” she said shortly. “I am no longer marriageable. They have no use for me.”

“Because you bore a child,” he persisted.

“Exactly.” She did not wish to linger on that part of her tale.

“Are you certain it died of the scourge?”

“Leave her be!” the Slayer suddenly interrupted.

Clarise started at the fury in his voice. She swiveled her head to study his thunderous profile. The spoon in his hand looked in danger of being bent upon itself.

“Leave her be,” he repeated, more quietly.

Sir Roger ducked his head and dug into his trencher.

The meal progressed with scarcely a word more spoken. At the end of the table Hagar belched and patted his belly. Harold slurped the broth off his spoon. Both the seneschal and his master-at-arms were thoughtfully silent.

Clarise was relieved to see the ewer of spiced wine making its way to the table, signaling the meal’s end. The tension swirling about her made eating impossible. She planned to enjoy a sip of wine, then excuse herself with the need to nurse Simon. The men would want some privacy in which to discuss her news.

Peter edged along the back of the dais to fill their goblets one by one. From the corner of her eye Clarise watched him reach for the cup she shared with Roger. A stream of garnet liquid rushed into the vessel. She could not have predicted any more than Peter that the gyrfalcon would suddenly flare his wings, knocking his arm aside.

The newly filled goblet sprang from Peter’s grasp. Wine shot through the air, spattering Clarise’s chest and Simon’s backside. The goblet bounced musically from the dais to the floor.

Clarise gasped in surprise. The baby screamed in alarm. The gyrfalcon, panicked by the uproar, beat his powerful wings to escape the chaos, but his jesses held him fast.

“Clumsy youth!” Sir Roger scolded, attempting to calm the raptor.

The Slayer rose like a thundercloud, saying nothing. Clarise took one look at the ashen page and shot to her feet to protect him. “ ’Twas not his fault,” she declared.

The warrior ran an astonished look over her ruined gown. The men-at-arms ogled the scene from the benches below. Servants froze in expectation of violence.

The Slayer’s gaze cut to Peter. “Clean up this mess,” he snapped. He jerked his head, and the youth reached for the linens Dame Maeve held out to him, nearly spilling the rest of the wine in the process.

“ ’Twas not his fault,” Clarise repeated as the boy stuttered his apologies.

The Slayer glared at her, and she realized it was neither the spilled wine nor the ruined gown that irked him. No, it had more to do with accepting her new identity. She saw anger, even loathing in his eyes, but as best she could tell it was not directed at her.

“You will need a new gown,” he commented, his gaze falling to her sodden chest. A similarly savage but unrelated emotion flashed in his eyes.

It was then that she realized her breasts were clearly visible beneath the wet fabric. The warlord had noticed it, too. Needing to sever the intensity of his gaze, Clarise used Simon as a shield.

“Come,” he added, signaling that they would leave the table.

Sir Roger stood as they skirted his ruffled falcon. “I am sorry, lady, for the inquisition,” he said. The words were awkward and tentative. He was still uncertain of her tale.

Clarise threw him an understanding smile. “Your job is to defend your lord,” she assured him, “and in so doing, you must be suspicious of everyone. Rest assured that I came here for protection, nothing more.” At least that was the case now that she would not do Ferguson’s bidding.

The tension in the knight’s face eased, making him look younger. “You are safe here,” he said sincerely.

Clarise dared a peek at the Slayer’s face as he drew her toward the stairs. It seemed all at once that he was cloaked in predatory silence. She felt threatened by the simple touch of his fingertips as he escorted her to the stairs.

“Change him,” the warlord instructed, letting her go. “I will send more gowns to your chamber. You may choose those that please you.”

His narrowed gaze dared her to decline his generous offer. She passed an uncertain moment, wondering if the Slayer assumed, because of her story, that she was now his mistress by default.

Peter rushed toward them with the cradle, and the question went unspoken. With eyes wide and mouth dry, Clarise turned and followed Peter up the stairs.

She hated the niggling suspicion that she’d just dug herself a deeper hole.

Clarise studied the gowns that Nell had draped over the chest, the bed, and the new dressing partition. There were ten in all, in every shade and color of nature: blue, orange, saffron, purple, and green. They were fashioned out of wool and linen, precious cotton and silk. Some were shot with silver thread; others embroidered with ribbons, tassels, and lace. They came with matching slippers, all a bit too big. She had never seen such luxurious clothing in her life.

“Did they belong to Lady Genrose?” she asked with sudden reluctance.

“Oh, nay, milady,” Nell assured her. “These were Lady Eppingham’s, the baron’s wife. She loved to look the part, if ye know what I mean.”

Clarise recalled the rumor that the Slayer had killed the baron and his wife on their pilgrimage to Canterbury. “What happened to her?” she asked, wanting to hear Nell’s version of the story. She ran a hand over a length of lustrous silk.

“She died with her husband on pilgrimage,” the girl predictably answered. “They got nay farther than Tewksbury when they fell fiercely ill. ’Twas the food they ate in an inn, someone said. An awful way to die, do ye not agree?”

Clarise gave a delicate shiver. “Wholeheartedly,” she said.

“Which will ye wear first, milady?” Nell prompted, eager to test her wings as a lady’s maid.

Clarise deliberated a moment. In accepting these gowns from Christian de la Croix, she was in effect accepting her new role in the castle. Was it the role of a guest and a lady, or did he expect her to be his mistress? Either way, she had no choice. The turquoise gown could not be salvaged.

“The saffron one,” she decided at last. She liked the way the sleeves fell away from the arm and draped toward the floor.

“Perfect!” Nell exclaimed.

Clarise withdrew behind the dressing partition that had been dragged into her chamber by two young boys. After peeling off the wine-stained gown, she submitted to Nell’s pampering as the maid wiped her down with lavender water. Before Nell could catch a glimpse of the pale stripes across her back, Clarise tugged on a clean shift. The marks that Ferguson had placed there would be hard to explain in light of her story.

Moments later Clarise examined her reflection in the looking glass. The mirror was too small to tell her much about the gown’s fit, but the saffron color turned her eyes to liquid gold. I look more like a leman than a nurse now, came the troubling thought.

“Ye look lovely, lady,” the maid enthused. “I knew ye was gentry the second I laid eyes on ye. Wille ye still be wantin’ to come with the servants to Abbingdon on Friday?” she asked.

Clarise was counting on it. Everything she had done and said depended on her ability to reach Alec. “I would like to, very much,” she answered. Whether the Slayer would let her go was another question altogether.

Nell chattered enthusiastically as she combed her lady’s hair. Clarise, who had begun to fear that she would never be left alone, was relieved to hear a knock at the door.

Her maid went to answer it. “My lord,” she squeaked, stepping to one side.

The Slayer ducked beneath the lintel and drew up short. Clarise experienced his stare as a bolt of lightning striking her from the sky.

“I wish to speak with you,” he said in a voice that was oddly reserved.

“That will be all, Nell.”

The girl dragged herself from the chamber. Wisely she left the door ajar. Clarise stood up from her seat on the chest. She felt her newly brushed hair swing softly at her hips. She was relieved to see the predatory glint gone from the seneschal’s eyes. In its place was a brooding thoughtfulness.

He looked away to locate Simon. Approaching the cradle, he studied the rise and fall of his baby’s back. Clarise had found just enough time to feed him before Nell’s arrival with the gowns.

“So peaceful,” he remarked in an envious tone. He lifted his gaze and caught her curious regard. “I came to apologize,” he admitted unexpectedly.

She cut him short. “Lord Christian, you have been most generous with me. Please, don’t . . .” apologize! She felt her neck grow warm with shame. All she had done was further deceive him.

He stepped to the window where a family of pigeons roosted on a jutting ledge. A green-necked pigeon hobbled along the corbel. “You must think me little better than Monteign,” he added, frowning at the bird.

It took her a moment to realize he was talking about the caress he’d placed on her breast. It was hardly the same as forcing a woman against her will. In stammering words she told him so.

He glanced at her and looked away again. “I see no difference,” he said, unforgiving of his own actions. She wondered briefly if that was the cause of his previous anger. “There is something else I want you to know.”

Her eyes were drawn briefly to his scar as he clenched his jaw. “What is it?” she asked, watching him closely.

“I didn’t kill my wife.”

The statement was so stark that she froze in the face of it.

“I know what my servants have told you,” he continued, breaking away to pace the length of the chamber. Darkness seemed to settle over him, though perhaps it was just a cloud blotting the sunlight. “They told you that I cut her open while she still breathed. Is that not so?” He paused and looked at her. The crease between his eyebrows had taken up permanent residence.

Clarise said the only words that came to mind. “Why are you telling me this?” She was baffled by the man’s intentions.

“You said you were trying to understand me.”

So she had. And she was beginning to do just that. He was a lonely man, indeed, if her opinion meant that much. The hunger that had been in his eyes before returned as he approached her, stopping just an arm’s reach away.

“I didn’t kill her,” he repeated, his searching gaze begging her to believe him. “She stoped breathing, and then I cut Simon free.”

Clarise swallowed heavily at the vision his words created. “I believe you,” she said, quite sure he wasn’t lying. After all, why would he kill the woman who gave him and his son legitimacy?

“Nor did I mean to kill Monteign,” he added, almost as if he were seeking absolution for all his sins. “I told you that he ambushed us as we came to Glenmyre to strike a peaceable agreement.”

She looked at his face, at the hope shining in his eyes. “And the minstrel?” she prompted. “Was that also an accident?”

“Yes!” he said, with controlled intensity.

She shook her head and looked away. “You ask much of me, lord, if you wish me to believe you blameless in all this.” Especially considering he’d admitted to killing his own father, she added silently.

“I never said that I was blameless,” he added, more subdued.

Clarise glanced back at him. There was something about the Slayer that she couldn’t put her finger on. Something eluded her still.

“Why did you come here for protection?” he asked her suddenly. “Why not Monteign’s ally, Ferguson?”

She flinched at the mention of Ferguson’s name. “Ferguson was not an ally,” she replied as neutrally as possible. “Monteign feared him, just as he feared you.”

“But Monteign was willing to ally himself with Ferguson. He would have seen his own son wed to Ferguson’s stepdaughter.” His gaze narrowed as he added, “You said you knew nothing of it the other night,” he accused.

She wondered if he could see the pulse hammering at the base of her neck. “I will tell you what I know,” she promised. “The betrothal had been arranged years ago by Monteign and Ferguson’s predecessor, Edward DuBoise. Ferguson found it convenient to acknowledge it, as it would gain him an ally and a surer foothold in the region. Thanks to your . . . intervention, the wedding never took place.”

He frowned at her, perhaps astute enough to hear the bitterness behind her words. His gaze followed the sweeping sleeves of her gown. “You look lovely in that. Like a true lady.” His voice took on a regretful timbre. “But such is your birthright. Your nobility cannot be taken away from you no matter what . . .” He trailed off.

No matter what anyone does to me, she finished his sentence silently. For him, a bastard, such issues of birthright and nobility were clearly often on his mind.

He moved awkwardly to the window, giving her the chance to breathe again. She marveled at his change in attitude toward her. Whereas before he was watchful and wary, he was now incredibly forthcoming, even friendly with her. Any moment now she expected him to offer her a place as his mistress. She hoped he would not be furious when she refused him.

“My wife wore naught but gray.”

Clarise searched her mind for an appropriate response to the unexpected admission. “The servants speak highly of her,” she replied, clasping her hands before her.

The mercenary gazed out at the flower-dotted meadow. “She was a saint,” he quietly divulged. “She wanted to be a nun, but as her father’s only child, ’twas up to her to produce an heir.”

Clarise heard more in his words than what he was actually saying. “Such is the lot of a noblewoman,” she pointed out, implying that nobility didn’t come without a price.

She ran a gaze over the warlord’s powerful back and long legs. His virility struck her anew as he planted his feet apart and squared his shoulders. Genrose must have been terrified to wed him. Clarise felt suddenly sorry for Simon’s mother, as well as the warrior. Their joining must have been painful for them both.

With his next sentence the Slayer confirmed her conclusions. “She was afraid of me,” he admitted. He turned around, leaning a shoulder against the shutters. “She allowed me my husbandly right just once. That was the night that Simon was conceived.”

Clarise’s eyebrows rose toward her hairline. In her mind’s eye she pictured the mercenary taking his marital rights with the pristine Genrose. He would have waited patiently for the daughter of a nobleman to be ready and then . . . but instead, she saw herself, lying flat on her back as his dark head came down, his mouth licking fire at her breasts, his thighs spreading hers. Her knees went weak to the point that she feared they would give out completely. “Why you?” she asked, shifting the focus of their conversation slightly. “Her father might have wed her to someone else.” As soon as she said it, she realized it was a mistake.

“Someone with better lineage, you mean,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You wonder how a bastard like me came to marry a baron’s daughter.”

The savagery in his tone did not frighten her as much as it had before. “The thought did cross my mind,” she admitted frankly.

He eased his backside onto the window ledge. “The Baron of Helmesly had no sons, as I said. Yet he balked at the idea of leaving his lands to the Church, since he disliked the Abbot of Rievaulx so intensely. I was already safeguarding his lands as his master-at-arms. ’Twas a logical step to consider me for his daughter. He reasoned, should anything happen to him, that it would take a strong arm to protect the baronetcy for his grandson and heir.”

Clarise inclined her head. “That is sound reasoning,” she agreed. She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip. “However, there is a rumor,” she dared to add, “that you had the baron killed while he was away on pilgrimage.” She watched the Slayer’s reaction carefully.

The look in his eyes became downright frosty. “I have no ambition to be Baron of Helmesly,” he informed her. “That right belongs to my son.”

She had no doubt he spoke honestly. The man seemed truly offended to be accused of killing his in-laws. She wondered why he didn’t actively combat such rumors. “The baron was right, then,” she decided, “to choose you for a son-in-law. If not for you, Simon would have no chance.”

Her vote of confidence brought that same startled look to his eyes that she’d glimpsed before. “I could say the same for you,” he retorted gruffly. “You saved Simon’s life by coming here. For that I thank you.”

She forced a smile, though she really felt like cringing. Blessed Mary, what would happen if he learned she was feeding his son plain goat’s milk! Worse yet, if he learned that she had come to Helmesly to poison him! God help her then.

“Tell me about you,” he asked, tipping his head slightly to one side. “What makes you so outspoken, so brave?” His eyes now burned with interest.

Flushed by the intensity of his gaze, Clarise averted her face. “Oh, I suppose I was raised much like a boy.” She thought of her father and a knot swelled in her throat. “My . . . tutors encouraged me to learn by questioning, as Socrates did. I was taught always to have an opinion and to speak my mind.” It was even possible her father asked too much of her. His request that she protect her mother and sisters was proving impossible to fulfill.

“Were you educated with your cousin?”

It took her a second to realize he meant Alec. “Aye,” she said. “We did everything together.”

“Was he as”—he cast about for a word—“as spirited as you?”

She gave in to the urge to laugh. “Nay, Alec is a lamb. He was always preoccupied with moral issues, yet he would do anything his father requested of him. One time Monteign told him to steal back a sheep that had wandered onto the holding of a villein. Alec went straightways to the villein and paid him five denarii to get the sheep back. He believes that people should have a common share in all things; therefore, the sheep, having strayed onto the freeman’s lands, was his. Yet on the other hand, Alec could not defy his father’s wishes.”

The Slayer seemed to mull over her tale. “He sounds like a goodly man,” he decided, frowning.

“Better cannot be found,” she agreed. She quirked an eyebrow at him. “But why do you ask?”

Instead of answering, the Slayer put another question to her. “Is he strong enough to defend his lands from Ferguson?”

Clarise reeled at the implications. “Is that what you intend to do?” she asked. “Give him back his lands?” Sir Roger had hinted at the possibility, but she hadn’t believed it. The gesture was too magnanimous for a warlord.

“I told you, I had no intention of seizing Glenmyre in the first place. But with Monteign dead and Alec gone, I feared that Ferguson would seize it. Now I’m embroiled in war that drains my weapons and my men. I have a castle of my own to run and no time to indulge Ferguson in his savage games. Yet I am loath to let the Scot take the birthright of young Monteign. I’d gladly give Glenmyre back to Alec, aye.”

Clarise drew a breath to steady her soaring optimism. Alec still Lord of Glenmyre! Surely he would seize the opportunity to claim his inheritance. The moment he emerged from the abbey, she could appeal to him to challenge Ferguson and save her family. “Alec earned his spurs when he was just sixteen,” she heard herself boast. “He is young and strong. He won a good number of tourneys a year ago.”

The Slayer nodded, then looked away. “A year ago,” he repeated, looking grim.

“What is it?” she asked, fearful that he would suddenly retract his offer.

“How much training do you think he does at the abbey?” he inquired, looking at her.

Her optimism plummeted like a partridge with an arrow through its heart. “None at all,” she guessed.

“Also, there is the illness to think of,” he continued. “Should Alec be stricken by the scourge and survive, he will be much the weaker for it.”

Clarise felt a flutter of alarm. Without Alec, who would be her champion? She would have to admit to the Slayer who she really was. In her desperation she would have to ask him for his aid and admit to all the lies she’d spun.

“Nonetheless,” the warlord added with more force, “Alec should rule Glenmyre. I have tried to get word to him, but the abbot professes to be ill, and the monk at the gate will not convey a message for me.”

“Then you should go about it another way,” Clarise suggested. She was about to mention the Abbot of Revesby’s name when the Slayer stood up, taking a step that brought him suddenly closer. She locked her knees to keep from backing up. Whatever she was going to say died forgotten on her tongue.

The Slayer’s shadow folded over her, immense and cool. “I have to go now,” he said, cutting their conversation abruptly short. “When Sir Roger hunts, I train the men.”

She forced a response through a tight throat. “I imagine you enjoy that,” she said breathlessly.

He gave her one of his rare smiles, one that nearly blinded her with its brilliance. “I do,” he admitted. His hand came up and captured a length of her hair. He let it slip through his fingers, apparently pleased with its texture.

Clarise swallowed convulsively. She did not understand the thrill that chased down her neck and shortened her breath.

“I won’t hurt you,” he promised, seeing her shudder. He caught up one strand of her hair and brought it close to her face. He lightly trailed the curl over her neck and her chin. The cool glide of her hair caressed her lips, sending pleasure rippling across her entire body.

She looked in his eyes for an explanation. What she saw there made her heart miss a beat. Banked behind a wall of wistful longing was a fire of raging desire.

Panicked by the height of the flames, she forced herself to say something, as silence would only encourage him. “I think you should go now,” she told him, speaking through stiff lips. “I’m no longer any man’s mistress.”

He dropped her hair as though scalded. For a stricken moment he stared at her, the tan on his face paling. With a muttered apology, he turned away and fled through the open portal without a word or a backward glance.

Clarise went to the window to cool her heated cheeks. The warlord’s visit had left her shaken and disturbed. At least she no longer feared that he would ravish her. Her status as a lady, albeit a sullied one, protected her somehow. That meant he was guided by a code of ethics, making him a better man than Ferguson, which she had guessed already.

Yet at the same time, her response to his touch revealed a frightening truth: she was attracted to him. Not only did his skill with a sword hold fascination for her, but the man himself was luring her along a frightening path that threatened her identity. She reminded herself that she was not a mistress by trade, but a lady, the beloved daughter of Edward DuBoise.

Furthermore, she was Alec Monteign’s betrothed. Alec was going to be her champion. And yet she felt the inexorable pull of the Slayer, bringing her closer and closer to admitting the truth, to casting herself on his mercy.

As the Slayer had pointed out, Alec had not trained for war in more than six months. He was exposed to illness on a daily basis. What would she do if Alec were too weak to destroy Ferguson before he carried out his threat?

The sound of someone crossing the courtyard drew her gaze outside. She caught sight of the warlord striding through the first set of gates toward the practice yard. Her sudden shortness of breath was unmistakable.

As he walked, he pulled his tunic off over his head. A light sweat broke out on her skin as he emerged again, looping the strap of his scabbard over his bare chest. Even with the practice yard a good distance away, she could see the well-defined muscles under his sun-bronzed skin. He had traded his chausses for a pair of braies that sat low on his hips. He was a giant of a man, yet perfectly put together, she admitted, feasting her eyes.

The Slayer motioned for the men in the practice yard to form a circle around him. In a smooth motion, he pulled his broadsword from the scabbard. The length of steel flung bursts of sunlight into the air as he hefted it and swung it casually. Clarise guessed that it weighed nearly two stone. The men-at-arms gave him a wide berth.

The warlord waved the weapon in a series of graceful arcs. The blade twisted left, right, down, up, then swooped in a lethal arc that would cleave a man from shoulder to groin.

As he performed the drill a second time, she imagined Ferguson standing helpless before the onslaught. The Scot would struggle to raise his double-edged ax in his defense. As the blade came down, she imagined him crumpling to the grass that would turn red with blood. She spun around and blinked to clear the vivid daydream.

Alec would take care of it for her, she vowed. There wasn’t any need to admit to the warlord who she was.

And yet, deep in her heart, Clarise had a feeling it was only a matter of time before she would need to beg the Slayer’s mercy and call upon his might.

Chapter Eight

^“The saints and the apostles!” Nell exclaimed, helping her mistress into the tub.

Clarise did not have to ask the reason for Nell’s sudden outburst. She’d taken great pains to shield her lady’s maid from viewing the stripes on her back, but the task was impossible with Nell hovering so close at all hours. Though the wounds were old and near to fading altogether, it was obvious that the marks hadn’t fallen there by accident.

“ ’Tis nothing,” Clarise assured her. She would have to rush this bath and send Nell away promptly. Simon was thrashing mightily within his cradle. She had just enough milk for one more feeding. Then it was off to the goat pen to procure more for him.

“But, my lady, ye haffe been beaten!” Nell cried. “Who dared do such a thing to ye?”

Clarise put a toe in the water, testing its heat. “Perhaps I will tell you one day, Nell,” she admitted, turning her head to give the servant a stern look. “But for now I cannot. You must tell no one about these marks.” She cringed at the necessity of having to tell more lies. “Promise me,” she added firmly.

Nell gave a reluctant nod. “I promise, milady,” she whispered. “I be right good at keeping secrets,” she assured her. “I ne did tell ye how the seneschal killed our Lady Genrose, did I?”

“No, you kept that well to yourself,” Clarise drawled with irony. She stepped into the steaming water, hissing as it burned her thighs.

The girl clasped a hand to her mouth. “Oh!” she cried. “I just told ye.”

“That’s all right.” Clarise assured her. “I have heard the story already.” She lowered herself into the fragrant bath.

“ ’Tis nay a story,” the maid insisted, propping her hands on her waist. “He plucked the babe out whilst she still breathed. We heard her screams, we did.”

“Nonsense.” Clarise wondered why she felt moved to defend the warlord. She had nothing but his word that he hadn’t killed his wife. “No one mentioned a scream before now. You made that up.” She scooped up a sponge and began to lather it with soap.

Nell seemed to search her memory. “Mayhap I did,” she relented.