Danger’s Promise

by Marliss Moon

  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 Alf
red 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 swirl
ing 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.”