Danger’s Promise

by Marliss Moon

  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.