by Marliss Moon
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 hu
nting 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.
