by Marliss Moon
“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.
With her face averted, Clarise rolled her eyes. Nell’s imagination didn’t bode well for her own secrets. She sensed the culmination of her own deceit coming steadily closer. “I would like to take a bath alone,” she informed the maid. “You may come later when I’m done.”
“Aye, milady. May I wash yer hair?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Nell left the room, reluctant to return to her less glamorous chore of laundering.
Many hours later, smelling of lavender and sleeping in her newly laundered chemise, Clarise’s eyes sprang open. A fleck of moonlight had fallen on her face, reminding her to waken. She sat up slowly. Simon was sleeping in his cradle for a change. He had yet to rouse for a midnight feeding. If he did, she would have nothing to feed him. The pail was empty as it usually was by this late hour.
She dragged herself from bed. The servants would have sought their pallets by now. It was time to make her move. Opening the chest, she retracted the empty pail. She wriggled her feet into her slippers and set out on another perilous quest for goat’s milk.
This is
truly madness, she thought, not for the first time. Her stomach endured a familiar uneasiness as she slinked through the darkened castle and out the rear door. She edged cautiously around the kitchen and arrived at the animal pen. The ground seemed to glow under the incandescent moon. A fresh layer of straw crunched beneath her feet.
At least the goat was used to producing at this time, she comforted herself. The door to the pen gave an agonizing groan. She pinpointed the two nanny goats by the whites of their eyes. The one with the dark patch on its side was her favorite. As she stalked it, her foot came in contact with a bucket.
The full pail sloshed but didn’t tip. She bent down to examine it.
It was a full bucket of goat’s milk, fresh from the udder if its warmth was any indication. She dipped her finger and tasted it. Sour, just like Roger said.
Who would be so careless as to forget a pail of milk? She straightened and eyed the bucket thoughtfully. One of the milkmaids must have left it behind.
Why waste the time of milking a goat when she ran the risk that Simon would awaken? What if he were crying even now, drawing the unwanted concern of his father? Mere stone could not disguise the baby’s volume.
Making a quick decision, Clarise snatched up the bucket and hastened back into the castle. Remembering the fall of Troy from Homer’s famous volume, she hoped she wouldn’t regret this gift the way the Trojans regretted the gift horse and the enemies who lay concealed within it.
“Lady Clare!”
Clarise winced openly and ground to a halt. She’d been tiptoeing past the Slayer’s solar, hoping not to gain his notice. It was Friday afternoon, and the servants were scheduled to leave for Abbingdon at any time. This was her big chance to enlist the Abbot Revesby’s aid in getting word to Alec.
“My lord?” she inquired, stepping closer to the open doorway.
The warlord was seated at a writing table, quill in hand. Sunlight streamed through the window behind him, framing his torso in a haze of gold. He looked different, she noticed, and then she realized why. He wore a bleached undershirt and no tunic. She’d never seen him in white. He looked like the archangel Gabriel.
Until he looked up. The scar on his face betrayed an inner tension that was entirely at odds with an angel’s serenity. “Call me Christian,” he demanded, stabbing the inkwell with the tip of his quill. He paused to take in her appearance.
She wore a different gown today, a smock of forest green with a satin ribbon that laced up the front. His gaze fell to the sling she carried against her hip. “Where are you going?” he added sharply.
She rubbed her moist palms against her linen skirt. “I would like to go to Abbingdon to hear the Abbot of Revesby preach,” she replied, holding her breath.
“With my son in a sling?” His eyebrows predictably lowered.
“He will come to no harm,” she assured him. “I go in the company of many servants, even men-at-arms, to keep us safe.”
“My son does not pass outside these walls,” the Slayer quietly explained. His expression was stern enough to make her fidget.
“But I wish to confess,” she insisted, fighting to keep her tone mild. “Is there another here who may watch Simon in my stead?”
The warlord clenched his jaw. The scar on his cheek became more pronounced. “What if he hungers whilst you are gone?” he queried. “ ’Tis an hour’s walk in either direction, and I have no horses docile enough that you could ride with a babe.”
“Then I will take him with me and nurse him on the road.” A full bottle of milk was tucked inside the sling, thanks to the bucket she’d discovered last night.
The Slayer laid down the quill and scrutinized the scratches on the parchment. “Are you so devout, then?” he asked, frowning mightily.
She sensed the struggle within him. He was trying to be fair. “My lord, you have no priest here,” she pointed out.
He looked up at her then. “What sins have you committed that you must confess?”
“That is between me and God,” she retorted sharply. Frustration welled within her. He had no idea how important this mission was to her. The Abbot of Revesby was not due to visit again for another month. In the meantime, every day brought her mother and sisters closer to death. “Oh, just forbid me to go and have done with it then!” she snapped. She threw him a glare and was halfway down the gallery when he called her back.
“Lady Clare.”
She slowed to a halt but refused to turn around.
“Please stay,” she heard him beg.
His deep voice pitched on such a humble note was her undoing. Turning slowly, she stalked back to the door with her mouth compressed. “Why?” she demanded.
“I need your help.” He gestured to the vellum sitting on his desk. “ ’Tis a letter to Alec. Since I’m unable to speak to him in person, I will put my offer on parchment and see it delivered.”
A letter to Alec? Maybe she need not ask the Abbot of Revesby after all! Adjusting the sling on her hip, Clarise ventured into the Slayer’s solar.
The room was a very different place than the rest of the castle. Here, rich blue tapestries padded the walls. The rushes under her feet were woven into a thick mat. At one end of the room stood a massive bed, draped in blue velvet. At the other end was his writing table and a chest laden with manuscripts.
The sight of so many books distracted her. “Oh!” she exclaimed, stepping over to the chest to admire the jeweled covers. “Proverbs of Solomon,” she cooed, picking up a book and reading the titles of its lengthy poems. “History of the English,” she added, putting it down. “Where did you get these?” She hoped he wouldn’t say he’d acquired them in his sieges.
“They were a gift from the abbot you just mentioned. Ethelred illustrated them when he was master novice at Rievaulx.”
“Ethelred,” she echoed him. “You know him well enough to use his first name?”
“He wed me to Genrose,” said the warlord shortly.
With that simple admission, Clarise’s hope for help expired. Was there no way around her troublesome quandary? Perhaps this letter would finally put the matter to rest. “What did you need my help with?” she reminded him.
The Slayer glanced around. “Let me find you a stool.”
“Simon will wake if I sit,” she declined. It was true. The minute she held still, the baby rose from his slumbers. He seemed especially agitated today. She stood by the table, swaying softly to keep him lulled.
The warlord seemed distracted by her movements. He sat behind his desk and forced his gaze downward. “Let me read what I have already written. ‘Amiable and God-fearing knight, Greetings from your humble neighbor and friend, Christian de la Croix, and wishes for good health . . . ’ ” His eyebrows sank so low they formed an unbroken line over his eyes. Half a minute of silence ensued. Clarise gazed in consternation at the rigid warlord. “Is that how you address a man whose father you have murdered?” he finally asked, in a voice gritty with remorse.
Compassion flooded her. While sunlight sat brightly on his shoulders, shame also weighed them down. He looked forlorn, clutching the quill as though his words alone would redeem him. “Give me the words,” she heard him mutter.
She knew an insane urge to shelter the beast. “You must apologize,” she instructed him. The letter would have to be worded carefully. If Alec accepted the warlord’s offer, he would need a wife to help him rule Glenmyre. But was he strong enough to defend her? she wondered disloyally. “Confess your guilt,” she instructed, “and accept full blame for killing Monteign. He will respect your honesty.”
She noted, absently, that the Slayer’s lashes rimmed his eyes the way Simon’s did. He took up his quill and began to write.
His handwriting was forceful and sweeping. Black ink bled into the vellum as the Slayer worded his apology. His hand seemed to tremble slightly. She could not read what he wrote, as the script was upside down and some distance from herself. The words were for Alec—and perhaps even God, if he meant them true enough.<
br />
When he lifted his gaze to look at her, she was surprised by the honesty in his gray-green eyes. She was suddenly convinced that he hadn’t killed his wife. People simply delighted in keeping the rumor alive.
“Shall I mention you?” the Slayer asked.
Alec would need to know where to find her. “Please do,” she answered, wondering why she wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of Alec’s rescue. “Tell him Cousin Clare dwells safely at Helmesly, caring for your son in exchange for your protection.”
It would take Alec a moment to puzzle through that statement, but then he would arrive at the conclusion that Clarise had taken up residence at Helmesly, using an alias to hide her identity. Curiosity would then bring him to Helmesly to ask for her. The sooner he came the better, she thought, chewing on her bottom lip.
The quill scratched away at the parchment. It stopped just as suddenly, and the Slayer looked up at her. “I take it he knows what his father did to you,” he guessed, the lines of his face hardening with disapproval.
Guilt rose up in her like bile. How she hated to be reminded of her deceit, especially when the warlord seemed so genuinely concerned. “Of course,” she said tightly. “We went to Rievaulx together.” The moment the words were out, she regretted them. With his letter the Slayer was unburdening his soul. Why not confess her own sins now and tell him who she really was? Her pulse accelerated at the thought. Could she afford to pass up such an opportunity, with the Slayer in such an amenable mood?
“Forgive me,” he said, stabbing at the inkhorn, unknowing of her thoughts. “It must be a painful matter to discuss. My own mother was raped, you know, by my father.”
She didn’t know. But his admission stirred her curiosity.
“She was a nun at the time, a novice gathering herbs outside the convent walls,” he added, gazing down at his work. “A lone rider surprised her and took her by force. He boasted that he’d defiled a child of the Christian God, and he told her his name—Dirk of Wendesby.” He made another stab at the inkwell.
