by Marliss Moon
The Slayer dropped the bottle as if it were a venomous serpent. He stalked to a basin and splashed water on his face.
Clarise felt like a piece of fraying rope. A moment ago she’d thought that the root of her deceit had been detected, but it had only been a small part of her complex lie. And the Slayer was furious with her for just that small transgression. How would he react to learn that goat’s milk was all the baby ever got?
He turned around, then, dragging a towel over his face. His expression was irritated but not murderous. “From now on, Simon will only take nourishment at your breast,” he warned. “He is the next Baron of Helmesly, by God. He will not take milk from a goat that eats anything to cross its path!” His volume rose so that by the end of the sentence he was practically yelling.
Clarise lowered her gaze to the baby. She felt she deserved his chastisement. “I am sorry, my lord,” she choked out. Guilt cut deeply into her heart as she realized the milk had very likely been the reason for Simon’s affliction. Had it just been rancid? Or had someone possibly poisoned it?
Her pallor must have convinced the Slayer of her contrition. He tossed aside the cloth and strode toward the bed to sit beside her.
She glanced at him warily.
“I don’t mean to be harsh,” he said, propping his elbows on his knees. He frowned down at his feet, his scar distinctly pale upon his cheek.
With surprise, she realized he felt sorry for having just raised his voice at her. She rushed to reassure him. “Nay, you were right to be angry. ’Twas my fault. I must guard him more closely.”
He turned his head then, his gaze probing. “Why do you love him?” he inquired with genuine puzzlement.
She pulled back and frowned at him. “Why?” She glanced at the baby. “How could I not? He is innocent, he is beautiful. Look at him!” She gestured to Simon.
The warlord glanced at his son, then back at her. “You are beautiful,” he corrected her roughly. His eyes warmed to a clear, bottomless green. “And I thank you for loving him.” He leaned toward her unexpectedly and pressed his mouth to hers. Clarise gave a start of surprise, her eyes flying wide.
His lips felt just as she’d imagined, warm and firm. He put brief and gentle pressure on her mouth and then withdrew, taking away the promise of more.
She felt as though she’d been doused in a warm, fragrant rain that abruptly stopped. The Slayer had just kissed her! She could only stare at him, amazed that she wanted to be kissed again.
“A kiss of thanks,” he explained, waiting.
She needed to be kissed again.
Without thinking of the consequences, she slipped her hands into the long strands of his hair and pulled him back for more. She had kissed Alec to convey the depths of her love and willingness to wed him. In this instance, she had nothing in mind but to feel the Slayer’s mouth on hers and the thrill of courting danger.
He held perfectly still, his breath quick and shallow, while she placed feathery kisses upon his mouth, along his bottom lip, and at the corners. Flushed and confused that he was not responding, she pulled back, chagrined by her boldness.
He slowly raised a hand and captured her jaw, keeping her motionless. His eyes flashed a warning, and then he lowered his head and the assault became his.
His kiss was surprisingly gentle, given the steely strength of his fingers on her face. He fused his lips softly to hers. The contradiction of gentleness and strength brought heat coursing through her veins. With focused intent he added pressure to his fingers, causing her jaw to fall open. With great tenderness the Slayer slipped his tongue between her parted lips and slowly, thoroughly explored her mouth.
Caught up in a whirlpool of dizzy delight, Clarise gripped his shoulders. Never had she known a kiss could be so sweet, so intoxicating. When the Slayer lifted his head, she made a sound of protest.
With a look of bemusement he studied her flushed face and bright eyes. His fingers moved from her jaw to slide across her slightly parted lips, and his own face darkened with desire. He lowered his head again and kissed her with sudden, unrestrained force.
Shocked by his sudden savagery, Clarise clung to him, her heart pounding with expectation. His erotic plunge and retreat was nearly more than she could stand. It left her breathless and squirming and desperate for some unknown relief.
He pressed her smoothly back against the pillows, and she sank into the softness, disoriented. The room seemed to wheel behind her eyelids as their mouths merged again. She was vaguely gratified to feel the hard length of him against her. She strained upward, needing to feel more, her breasts aching with some vague hunger.
His hand molded her hip and slid along the indentation of her waist. His touch inflamed the strange, new restlessness that was building in her. His hand closed suddenly over the swell of her breast, and she gasped in surprise and pleasure. The memory of his tongue gliding over her nipple caused it to rise toward his palm as though beckoned. With a groan, the warrior squeezed her tenderly. Then he tore his lips from hers and nipped her shoulder through the material of her gown.
The light sting intensified her sensitivity. His mouth moved lower. Suddenly he was grazing her erect nipple with his teeth. She moaned aloud at the stabbing pleasure. Then he closed his mouth over the linen bodice and sucked, straight through the moistened fabric, his mouth hot and insistent.
Clarise cried out in mixed astonishment and delight. She sank her fingers into his hair, confused by the mixed urge to push him away and pull him closer. “My lord, you must stop,” she begged in a voice without substance. She realized now this was moving too far, too fast.
His mouth moved stealthily upward and kissed her into acquiescence. She briefly forgot her concerns; after all, kissing could cause no harm. But then he pressed his hips against her, and the enormous proof of his arousal brought her quickly to her senses.
With sudden alarm she began to struggle. “Let me go,” she begged, between his kisses. In retrospect she realized she should never have encouraged his attentions. She should never have fallen asleep in his chamber, should never have let him put her in his bed. “Please, release me at once!”
The Slayer lifted his head. He stared at her stricken face and frowned. And then he thrust himself away. Whatever he might have said, whether in apology or in anger, was forestalled by a pounding at the door. He leaped from the bed and went to answer it.
At least he had the presence of mind to shield her from the caller’s view. She could only imagine what she looked like with her hair in disarray and her clothes disheveled!
“My lord,” Sir Roger rapped out. “Our spies say Ferguson will strike Glenmyre at dawn tomorrow.”
The warlord seemed to grow in size as he gripped the door latch. “Tell Justin to ready my horse. I will speak with you anon. Let me dress.”
He shut the portal quietly. Clarise slipped to the edge of the bed and wrapped her arms over her torso to keep herself from trembling. Without looking at her, the warlord moved toward his boots. He stamped his feet inside them and laced them up without a word. Silence grew to unbearable proportions. When he straightened again, he seemed to have made a decision.
“Watch over Simon carefully,” he instructed, scowling so fiercely she was tempted to flinch. “No one may tend him but you,” he added.
“How long will you be gone?” The knowledge that he was off to fight Ferguson filled her with excitement and trepidation. Maybe he would kill the Scot without her asking him to do so.
The muscles in his jaw clenched rhythmically. “I know not.” He studied her defensive posture, then he sighed almost despairingly. “Will you kiss me when I return?” he asked.
The request was almost boyish in its uncertainty. She was tempted to say yes, if only to reassure him. Part of her longed to resume their passionate kisses! She had never tasted anything like them. But she had no intention of offering her favors in exchange for his sword arm. She was the daughter of a nobleman, not the leman she professed to be.
She
looked away, wishing she could blurt the truth. ’Twas safest to say nothing at all, she decided.
“I see,” he said, reaching for his belt. In a furious gesture he slung the strip of leather against the bedpost. The resulting crack made her leap with alarm. The baby came awake with a gasp. The warlord snatched up a charcoal-colored tunic and strode to the door.
Simon began to cry. “Lord Christian,” Clarise called out as she reached for the baby.
When he looked at her, his anger was subdued. “Aye, what?” he asked, taking in the two of them.
“Be careful. Ferguson uses alchemy as a weapon. But I suppose you know that already.”
His gaze narrowed with interest. “What do you know of it?” he demanded.
The truth quivered on her tongue, but his volatile temper made her loath to confess it now. “I told you, Monteign feared Ferguson and his trickery. Beware the powders that he uses to spread fire. Beware any ruse for peace, for he will use deceit to gain advantage.”
He pondered her words in silence, seeming to take them to heart. Then, with a brusque nod, he left the room.
Her thoughts ran after him. She found herself wishing him the best possible outcome, fearing for his life. If only he could kill Ferguson in the conflict to come! Then her family would be free, and then she would dare to tell him who she was, knowing Ferguson could not learn of her betrayal.
Suddenly she realized she should have told him the truth after all. Wasn’t the Slayer going to Glenmyre? The people of Glenmyre would unknowingly expose her, for there had never been a Clare de Bouvais in their midst, only an Isabeux by that name.
She looked at Simon with consternation. Aye, she should have told him who she was. Instead, she’d lied and lied again, simply to avoid the Slayer’s wrath. With those lies she’d sealed her own uncertain fate, whatever it might be.
Several mornings later Clarise parted the cupboards of the lord’s conservatory and eyed the stale bread with lukewarm enthusiasm. This was what she got for sleeping so late and missing the morning meal. Her late-night exploits to the goat pen had left her exhausted.
On three more instances she had found the same offering of milk awaiting her. With every discovery her skin tightened and a chill washed over her. She was certain someone knew of her masquerade. But who? And how could they know when Nell was the only one to enter her chamber?
Since Simon had fallen ill, Clarise knew better than to use the milk. She’d dumped the bucket in the corner of the shed and milked the nanny goat herself. She wouldn’t take the risk that the offering was poisonous. If a plot was afoot to see Simon murdered, she refused to be party to it.
It was not entirely the baby’s fault that she was tired. After stumbling into bed again, she would lie awake, thinking of her family and wondering how they fared in her absence. Often her interference was the only thing that kept Ferguson from cuffing her mother in plain sight of his men. Her vigilance kept Merry from being fondled by the Scottish men-at-arms. The only time that Kyndra bathed was when Clarise toted her, kicking and screaming, to the bathhouse.
She was also preoccupied by thoughts of the Slayer. Word had come from Glenmyre that Ferguson had not attacked on the first day. The warlord remained at Alec’s stronghold, ready to defend it if the need arose, free to make inquiries into her background.
The knot in her stomach would not allow for a big breakfast. Clarise poured herself a mug of watered ale and cut a wedge of cheese from a wheel. Carrying her food to the only trestle that hadn’t been put away, she adjusted the sling in which she carried Simon and sat down.
The food was tasteless. The reason for her anxiety, she acknowledged, was not whether the Slayer could repel Ferguson’s attack. She had confidence in his abilities. It was his reaction to the truth she feared. She ought to have told the warlord who she was before he came to his own conclusions.
Glumly she nibbled on her cheese. A few well-placed questions would expose her. When the peasants were asked if they’d ever heard of a Lady Clare, they would inquire if he didn’t mean Clarise, for the names were all too similar. And then they would describe the elaborate betrothal that had taken place there just a month before the Slayer seized Glenmyre.
She’d had ample opportunity to tell Lord Christian the truth. Because of her reticence, he would likely assume the worst.
What could she do to soften the blow? How could she appease the warlord when he came storming back to Helmesly?
“Oh, oh, oh!”
This cry of lamentation wrenched her gaze to the far end of the hall. Clarise spied Harold pacing before the fire pit, wringing his hands and muttering in distress. She looked around for the source of his worry. Other than the two of them, the hall was deserted. Harold gave another cry of despair, and she abandoned her breakfast to hurry over to him.
“Why, Harold, whatever is the matter?” She put a hand on his shoulder to gain his attention.
The steward looked amazed to see her there. “Oh!” he cried again, halting his frantic pacing. “Lady Clare,” he said, staring at her blankly.
“What is it, Harold?” she asked again. “Tell me what is troubling you?” Her first guess was that his overbearing wife had caught him filching pastries from the kitchen, as it was a common occurrence.
“ ’Tis Doris,” he blurted, his color high, his white hair waving as he rocked himself. “She’s going to have a baby, a baby.”
“Who is Doris?” Clarise asked in bewilderment.
“The cook!” Harold seemed to force the words out.
Immediately Clarise envisioned the heavyset woman who prepared all the meals at Helmesly. Surely she was well beyond her childbearing years. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“The midwife has come. Oh!” he groaned. “She is going to die. Doris is going to die, oh!”
“Calm yourself.” She tried to reassure the rattled steward. She brought him a flagon of ale and made him drink it, but still she could make no sense of his prattle. She decided to look into the matter right away. With Simon sleeping in the sling, this was the best time.
Clarise headed straight for the servants’ quarters in the castle’s southern wing. A handful of women had gathered outside one of the many tiny chambers. Among their number was Sarah, a brunette version of Nell, looking drawn and pale. “How does she?” Clarise inquired.
Sarah merely shook her head, reluctant to spread poor news. “Dame Maeve haffe summoned the midwife. She be with Doris now,” was all she said.
Clarise peeked through the curtain that separated the room from the hall. The sight that greeted her filled her with dismay. Doris lay like a great mountain on her pallet of straw. Her body was covered in sweat, due to the blazing brazier. It was common practice for midwives to heat the chamber to unbearable temperatures. There was no window to open in order to relieve the occupants.
Clarise did not believe that heat encouraged the body to expel a baby any faster. All it caused was premature exhaustion. She stepped into the cell with the intention of extinguishing the brazier’s flames. The sight of blood between Doris’s legs drew her up short. Her gaze flew with alarm to the midwife’s stoic expression.
“Push with the next pain,” said the shriveled woman. She had yet to notice Clarise, for her shoulder was positioned toward the door. More than that, a blinding film clouded the woman’s right eye.
Doris gave a tortured gasp. The cook’s big body tensed with pain. The midwife leaned forward, lifting the blanket. “ ’Twill soon be over,” she predicted, scooting to the edge of her stool.
Clarise could not have moved if the castle fell into ruins around her. The stain on the pallet spread, until it went clear to Doris’s ankles. The sight was ghastly, yet the midwife’s grip remained steady as she held up the blanket.
Again, Doris was racked with pain.
“Push,” urged the midwife. “Push!”
A baby eased out of the passage in a breech position. It had obviously come before its time. Scrawny in size and coated in a cheesy substan
ce, it lay still and silent on the soiled pallet. There was not a sound in the room, other than that of Doris’s heavy breathing.
Then the midwife bent low and dragged a metal object from the beaten bowl at her ankles. It was an iron cross.
Clarise took a look at the lifeless baby and the dull cross and fled the room. She succumbed to her sudden need to pull Simon from his sling and hold him close.
An hour later she summoned the courage to visit Doris again. The servants had moved into her cramped chamber, telling Clarise that the cook could stand to have at least one more visitor. The women shuffled aside as she entered, giving her room to kneel at Doris’s side. “We suffer with you, Doris,” she said, not knowing what else she could possibly say to ease the woman’s pain.
Doris closed her eyes. Her doughty face was ashen from the loss of so much blood. “ ’Tis God’s will, my lady,” she said bitterly.
Clarise floundered in her helplessness. “What can I do for you?” she dared to ask. She was not the mistress of these people, and yet she felt protective toward them. They had no one to lend an ear to their complaints. No one but the stern Dame Maeve.
A fat tear squeezed between Doris’s stubby lashes. Behind Clarise, the servants scuffled near the box that held the dead infant. “Looks just like ’im,” someone whispered.
Like who? wondered Clarise. Did they know who the father was?
“If I could have a mass for my babe,” the cook finally murmured. “If I could have him buried close, in the castle graveyard, where my mother and brothers lie, ’twould ease my spirit.”
It took Clarise a second to understand the significance of Doris’s request. Priests would not venture near to Helmesly with the interdict in place. Who would perform the burial?
Her spine stiffened with resolve. The chapel must be restored to use. The servants hungered for Godliness. They seemed to blame their seneschal for their inability to worship. It would be a favor to Lord Christian to open his chapel doors. Finding a priest, however, lay beyond her powers. Perhaps she could convince the Abbot of Revesby to ignore the interdict and perform the necessary sacrament.
