by Marliss Moon
Clarise remembered clearly the tales her father had told of that heathen warlord. How horrible for an innocent novice to be debauched by a man who held no law to be higher than his own.
“My mother endured the shame of bearing a child when she was supposed to be chaste,” he continued, his mouth twisting with bitterness. “Fortunately, her superiors were compassionate and refrained from casting her from their order. She gave birth to me within the convent walls, and I remained there, to the age of twelve.”
Amazement and understanding came to Clarise in the same instant. No wonder Sir Roger had called his lord devout. The man had grown up in a convent, of all places!
“When I was twelve,” he continued, his voice flattening with tension, “my mother fostered me to a nearby family. I wasn’t told that the lord of the house was my father.” He broke off, waiting to see her comprehension. “ ’Twas an act of forgiveness, she told me later.” Though his face was now a mask of ruthlessness, she saw the pinch of pain overtake him briefly.
Horror followed in the wake of amazement. Why would the nun want such a man to raise her child? And yet this tale explained why the Slayer was a man of contradictions, a fascinating blend of good and evil. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why give you up to him?”
His jaw muscles bulged. “She thought he would change for the better once he knew me.” A frosty look entered his eyes, and she knew he was reliving painful memories.
It took little insight to realize the Wolf had mistreated his son. Clarise felt for the boy he was then. Every child deserved a father like her own, a man who had doted on his daughters and adored his wife. “I’m so sorry for you,” she told him, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes. She blinked them back, surprised by the depth of her empathy.
The Slayer gave her a searching look. “You need not pity me,” he said, straightening his spine. “I had the benefit of a good education, and my father, despite his failings, made me strong. Without his training I would not have become a master-at-arms here.” He gave her a grimace that was meant to pass as a smile, then he applied himself to finishing his letter.
With her heart pounding, Clarise realized the time had come to tell the truth. Surely this man was capable of mercy, for that was a virtue his mother would have taught him. She would begin by telling him how her own father had been slain, and then he would know that she had no allegiance to Ferguson. Other than her lies, she had nothing to be ashamed of. She’d refused to poison the Slayer, and she had brought Simon from the brink of starvation. The Slayer’s punishment, if any, was bound to be light, she reasoned.
The warrior’s tongue appeared at the edge of his lip. Seeing it, Clarise’s stomach performed a cartwheel. She remembered the banked desire smoldering in his eyes. What would it be like to be kissed by him? she wondered, distracted from her resolution.
He glanced up in time to catch her considering look. It was too late to disguise the direction of her gaze. A smile kicked up the edges of his mouth. “Did I swear you would be safe with me?” he inquired, his eyes sparkling.
Her voice deserted her, and she gave a jerky nod.
“Pity.” He looked down again, melting wax to form a seal.
The lightness of his tone was unexpected. Clarise gave a laugh that was half relief, half amusement. Suddenly she was not afraid to tell him anything—even that she’d substituted goat’s milk for the precious breast milk she was unable to give.
With a shy smile he looked up at her. “I like you, lady,” he admitted, astonishing her with his honesty.
Flustered and beset with guilt, she could say nothing by way of reply. She realized, suddenly, that Simon was stirring. From the bundle at her hip rose a garbled cry. It wasn’t like any other cry she’d heard from him before. Clarise plucked the blanket off the baby, giving him air.
Simon did not look happy. With concern knifing through her, she touched her fingers to his cheek.
“What is it?” the Slayer demanded, noting her expression. He rose to his feet and peered down into the sling at his son.
It was worse than she feared. Simon’s skin was burning to the touch, his face beet-red with fever. “God’s mercy,” she whispered. “He has taken ill!”
She looked up in time to see the warlord’s Adam’s apple rise and fall. He put his hands out. “Let me have him,” he demanded.
Keeping the full nursing bladder out of sight, she wedged her hands beneath the baby and passed him carefully to his father. Simon’s eyes were opened but glazed. Again, he issued a cry that sent anxiety twisting through Clarise’s heart. “What can we do?” she begged, raising an uneasy gaze to the Slayer’s face.
Only once before had she seen such a stricken look on a man. Her father had worn that look the moment he realized he’d been poisoned.
“From the cold,” the Slayer rasped, staring down at his son. “The other night, when I found him naked . . . he was so cold.”
“Yet he has thrived since then,” she pointed out, touching Simon’s burning cheek.
“Someone in this castle is responsible,” the warlord growled. He sounded capable of killing with his bare hands. He glanced up at her then, his eyes now an icy gray. “You have reason to avenge me,” he accused.
She threw her arms around her body, feeling suddenly defenseless. How could he think she would harm Simon—or any baby? My God, she had just been on the verge of telling him who she was! If he reacted so rashly to Simon’s illness, what would he have done had she confessed her true identity?
“I did not do this,” she said succinctly. She looked the Slayer squarely in the eyes. “Now, what can we do for him? Can we send for a physic?”
He dismissed her suggestion with a shake of his head. “I trust no one in these parts,” he said shortly.
“Not even a wise woman from the village? A midwife mayhap?”
At the mention of the midwife, his eyes flared with outrage. “The midwife gets her herbs from the abbey. The scourge may spread from there to here. Nay!” he thundered. “I will care for him here. I will bring his cradle to my room and watch over him. You will stay with me until he is well again.”
The underlying threat was plain. Until the baby recovered, she would remain suspect in the Slayer’s eyes. Inwardly she cringed. This was the side of him that terrified his servants and made him a lonely man.
“Of course I will,” she retorted, defying his temper as her own anger flared. “But we must have medicine to save him. The illness has to be purged from his body. We cannot save him alone.”
“What do you suggest we do?” he snarled.
Beneath the blustering tone, she heard a thread of desperation and she answered more reasonably. “I will ask Nell or Sarah what they know of healing. Those two are loyal to Simon; I know it.”
“Go fetch them, then.” He skewered her with a warning look. “But you’d best come back,” he threatened.
She whirled on him, her entire body trembling with distress. “I happen to love your son,” she countered, her voice breaking on the final word. With that, she raced through the door to find help. For love alone she would do all that she could to ensure that the baby lived. Only then might she herself be saved.
Christian was used to sleepless nights. More times than he could count, he’d stood watch beneath the heavens and not succumbed to drowsiness. The Wolf had molded him into a disciplined soldier. Like a smithy, he had hammered his son into an instrument that felt neither pain nor deprivation. The Wolf had taught him that mercy to the enemy could be fatal, that might prevailed, and morality was the great tormenter of souls.
In one hideous night’s work Christian had implemented every tool of war that the Wolf had taught him. He had killed his father in his very own bedchamber. He had slaughtered the Wolf’s men who came after him. He had set fire to Wendesby, and the smoke had killed both women and children. At the time he’d felt no remorse, only blinding fury. That was the night he had learned the Wolf was his father—a vicious, war-loving Dane.
His envious gaze fell to the sleeping nurse. Lady Clare suffered no affliction like his. After hours of silent vigil, she had wilted onto the floor beside the baby’s box, her head resting on an out-flung arm. Her body was curved around Simon’s cradle as though protecting him, even in her sleep.
Christian gazed at her in the light of the sputtering tallow lamps, and his bitterness softened at the miracle of what he saw. This woman was no enemy. She could not have been the one to steal the covers off his son. In the past twelve hours she, Nell, and Sarah had devoted themselves to Simon’s welfare. Fear was not their motivation, but rather love.
Clare had spoken the truth when she said she loved his son. Her appearance at Helmesly had saved Simon from starvation. And after tonight he could only believe that fate had delivered her to his stronghold for a purpose. Could she possibly bring herself to love the Slayer, too?
One of the lamps dimmed, telling him the wick was drowning. It was well past midnight. He rose from his desk and crossed to the open window. A brief spell of rain had passed, leaving thick patches of mist floating above the land. It looked like fleecy sheep were dotting the meadow. He closed the shutters and moved to the baby’s cradle.
Simon had suffered pains that could only be communicated through his cries. Nell could not supply fresh cloths at the same rate that Simon soiled them. Together, he and Clare had forced the infusion blended by the servants down the baby’s throat. They’d dispelled the evil humors, causing Simon to purge whatever ailed him.
The baby’s suffering had left Christian pale with helplessness. He relived the fear that Simon would be snatched away, that his strange and lonely marriage had been for naught.
Clare, with her tender and efficient touch, had brought the baby through the worst of it. Her voice, her consolation, had done as much to comfort Christian as it had his baby. Gratitude swelled in Christian’s heart.
Kneeling by the cradle, he turned his attention to his son. Simon’s skin was waxen, his eyelids sunken and bruised. Bending his head, Christian found a prayer on his lips.
He had not prayed for more than thirteen years—not since the Wolf discovered the altar he had built in a corner of the stable. Christian had been mocked for his piety and flogged for seeking help from anyone, even God.
Helpless men pray, Dirk of Wendesby had scoffed.
I am helpless. There was nothing within the range of Christian’s powers that would save his infant’s life. The choice was entirely up to providence.
Hot tears pooled in his eyes as he begged the Almighty to spare Simon. A part of him still felt that he was wasting his time. He didn’t deserve a son.
Clarise found the floor unbearably hard. With her shoulder paining her and her arm growing numb, she stirred from slumber. The sound of fervent whispers brought her fully awake. She shifted slightly and cracked an eye. Lord Christian was kneeling over the cradle. In the faint bluish light she saw that his head was bent. His hands gripped the wooden box.
He is praying, she realized with amazement. And his Latin was perfect.
A rush of empathy brought a lump to her throat. She gazed at him for what seemed an eternity. He was an enigma to her! One moment he struck her as merciless and fear-inspiring. The next he demonstrated a deep streak of honor and generosity. He was well read, with nearly as many books in his solar as her father had owned.
Ignoring her discomfort, she decided not to disturb him. He needed peace in his heart more than anyone she’d ever met. Besides, it pleased her to watch him, to know that he was just as human as she was. At last her eyelids grew weighted and drifted shut.
Moments later she felt herself being lifted. The unyielding floor dropped away, and she sank into a feather mattress. It was the Slayer’s bed, she realized in her semiconscious state. Yet she felt no fear of ravishment. I like you, he had said to her today. The simple proclamation offered reassurance in spite of how quickly he’d accused her of making Simon ill.
Christian gazed at the graceful figure in his bed. Her scent clung to him from the brief moment he’d held her in his arms. She smelled of lavender and woman. Her scent was comforting in the same way that his mother’s sweet smell had been when he was small.
She murmured in approval of her newfound comfort and snuggled into the coverlet. Her bosom rose and fell with a sigh. He remembered the lush perfection of her breasts. Poor woman, she had been misused by a man, just as his mother had. He had no right to entertain the thoughts that sizzled through his mind each time he looked at her.
With a self-directed sneer he turned away. All he could think of lately was possessing the woman for himself. That made him no better than Monteign, no nobler than his father.
Making his way to the tallow lamp, he snuffed the flame. Then he moved toward the far side of the bed, where he hoped he wouldn’t reach for Lady Clare in his sleep. Something unseen lay in his path. He tripped over the cloth object, then bent down to retrieve it.
In the sooty darkness he identified the sling that Clare had carried Simon in. Something soft and heavy was caught in the material’s folds. His hands closed over a pouch of some kind. The slosh of liquid helped him realize what it was.
It was the same nursing skin Sarah had used without success before Clare’s intervention. As he clutched the smooth vessel, his mind began to churn. What would a nurse need with such a tool? Had she given Simon milk that was not her own?
The question unearthed new doubts. Had the milk been rancid? Had it been tampered with somehow? The doubts, like maggots, began to gnaw at his newfound faith.
Could his son have been poisoned?
Nay, he could not believe it! The woman had just demonstrated the depths of her devotion. She would never have poisoned his son.
Resolve hardened the warlord’s jaw. Because of her devotion to Simon today, he would let her sleep. But she would have to account for the nursing skin the moment she awakened on the morrow.
Chapter Nine
Soft yellow light penetrated Clarise’s eyelids. The gentle cooing of a pigeon came from somewhere close by. In the courtyard a supply wagon rumbled over the cobbles. Reluctantly she opened her eyes. She could not remember for a moment where she was. Then she recognized the Slayer’s solar. She was lying in his bed.
Her gaze jumped to the warlord, who was sleeping silently beside her. His jaw was dark with unshaved bristles. A streak of hair had fallen over his forehead, softening the severity of his brow. The scarred half of his face was buried in the pillow. She was struck by how handsome he looked without the flaw, how young.
Her gaze wandered from the powerful curve of his cheekbone to his stubbornly square chin. His mouth fascinated her. She wondered again what it would be like to kiss him.
And then she remembered Simon.
Holding her breath, she turned over and dropped her feet to the floor. She peered wide-eyed into the cradle, terrified that she would find the baby dead.
He looked utterly at peace. At the telltale rise and fall of his chest, the breath rushed out of her lungs. She touched a finger to Simon’s cheek. His skin was cool. The fever was gone.
With a cry of joy Clarise spun around on the bed, jarring the warlord into wakefulness. He sprang up, gripped her by the shoulders, and slammed her to the mattress before she uttered a word.
She found herself pinned beneath his rock-hard body, the breath pushed from her lungs. As she struggled to inhale, the scent of juniper and manliness washed over her. The heat of his body seeped through her clothing and warmed her skin. Christian looked just as astonished as she was to find that they were pressed together, chest to thigh.
Putting his hands to the bed, he lifted some of his weight, but not all of it. His alert gaze centered on her lips. “My apologies,” he said, not
sounding at all contrite. And then he rolled away.
Clarise felt robbed of something. It took her a second to remember the reason for her joy. She sat up and seized the Slayer’s white shirt, noting how soft it felt against his muscled arm. “Simon’s fever is gone!” she cried. She bounced to her knees and gestured at the cradle. “Look! He sleeps peacefully.”
Hope kindled in the warlord’s eyes. He scooted across the bed and leaned over the cradle to study his son. She remembered his fervent prayers of last night, and she was certain they’d been answered. Tears of gratitude sprang to her eyes.
“Praise God,” said the Slayer hoarsely. He glanced at her then, catching sight of her damp gaze. A long-fingered hand came up and wiped away the tear that had seeped over her lashes. “Is this happiness?” he asked.
His thumb was warm and callused. As it stroked her cheek, she experienced a melting sensation and leaned unconsciously toward his palm. “I am grateful Simon is restored to good health. I so was afraid,” she pushed the confession through her throat, “that you would blame me if . . .” She couldn’t finish the thought.
He nodded as if understanding, but he looked away, his eyes narrowing. “You have practiced some deceit,” he accused quietly.
The blood slipped from her face in an instant. What had he discovered? “Deceit?” she repeated. “What do you mean?” She was amazed that her voice remained so steady.
He flung himself off the bed and bent to collect the cloth sling from the floor. “I found this,” he said, holding up the nursing skin.
The breath in Clarise’s lungs evaporated, but her mind produced another lie quickly. “You will note that it’s full,” she said. “I carried it thinking Simon might cry on the way to Abbingdon and I could assuage him without . . . without stopping.”
“Did he drink any of it?” he demanded harshly.
She found she couldn’t deny it. “He had a little. Apparently it didn’t agree with him,” she added faintly.
