by Marliss Moon
Nevertheless, he thought, squaring his shoulders, she would have to pay a price for her deceit. She was guilty of putting a hunger in his heart, and he would not be satisfied until he forged his spirit in her fire.
Chapter Twelve
A murmuring of masculine voices was audible through the closed solar door. Clarise hovered on the gallery, uncertain whether to wait for their conversation to end or to knock. Though she trusted Doris to care for Simon in her stead, she could not leave the baby alone with the cook all evening.
She was eager to put this reckoning with the Slayer behind her. Throughout the meal, she had caught him sending her narrow-eyed looks, and she’d held her breath, awaiting a public denunciation, only it hadn’t come. At the same time she’d had to keep an eye on the food’s distribution as Harold struggled to perform his duties without his wife.
Following supper, the abbot had excused himself to visit the chapel. The Slayer had scraped back his chair and announced to his second-in-command that they should retire to the solar. Clarise was left to deal with a fussing baby. She withdrew to her own chamber, chafed by the delay in the inevitable confrontation.
Never before was she so hopeful of the Slayer’s help. He’d made it clear by his looks that he knew who she was. And yet he hadn’t mocked or publicly exposed her. Perhaps all her worries had been for naught.
The door of the solar opened suddenly, and Sir Roger stepped through it, stopping just short of plowing her down. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “I was just coming to get you. . . Clarise DuBoise.” At the purposeful mention of her name, she drew a quick breath and searched his face for condemnation. His expression was taut. The smile that hovered perpetually at one corner of his mouth had fled.
“Please,” she begged, grabbing his sleeve as he held the door for her, “I never wanted to lie to you. Please understand that I had a very good reason.”
“Go in,” he said, ignoring her plea, but his tone had mellowed. He gave her what she took to be a pitying look.
Her heart beating with dread, Clarise inched through the portal, expecting the worst. Her gaze flew to the Slayer, who was seated behind his writing table. With the candle behind him, shadows pooled in the hollows of his face, concealing his expression.
She looked back at the knight in a silent plea for his support. But then he shut the door between them, and she was left alone with her nemesis.
Two tallow lamps cast feeble light onto the tapestries. Rain beat loudly on the closed shutters. The room seemed full of menacing shadows, not the least of which was the Slayer himself, dressed in the black tunic he had worn to dinner.
“Where is Simon?” he asked, breaking the stillness.
The hard edge of his tone made her stomach cramp. “With Doris in my chambers,” she replied. “I will fetch him right away—”
“Stay,” he commanded before she could flee. He propped his elbows on the writing desk and leaned forward. Light rose up his cheekbones, illuminating the scar on his cheek. “You owe me an explanation first,” he told her very softly.
To give herself courage, she thought of how he’d come by that scar. “My lord, I will tell you the truth,” she promised him, “and you must ask yourself what you would have done in my stead.”
“Fair enough.” He watched her with a steady gaze.
Clarise clasped her hands together and squeezed them. “A year and three months past Ferguson appeared at our gates, a traveler with just a band of men,” she began, saying the words she had rehearsed in expectation of this hour. “They begged my father’s hospitality and we gave it, never suspecting how we would be repaid.” She took a breath to steady the tremor in her voice.
“That night Ferguson sprinkled poison in my father’s drink. He hides his powders in his brooch rings.” The memory replayed itself, and the words came more easily. “My father fell from the dais, stricken with pains. The Scots jumped up, catching our knights unawares. They pulled daggers from their boots and killed every man that dwelled in Heathersgill. Then Ferguson took his sword and severed my father’s head from his body.”
A thundercloud had gathered on the Slayer’s forehead. Encouraged by his look of outrage, she sought to convey the depth of her horror. “Ferguson dragged my mother to the upper chambers. She had just seen her husband beheaded and now she was being forced . . .” She put her hands to her ears, hearing the awful screams again. “Oh, God, I could not stop him from raping her!” she cried.
The warlord came abruptly to his feet and rounded the table. She was startled to feel his arms band around her. He pulled her gently against him, and the last thread of her self-composure snapped. She tried to master herself, but her grief consumed her. A ragged sob tore free from a place in her that she had kept firmly under wraps. “I am sorry,” she wailed, shamed by her loss of control.
“Hush.” With no warning, she felt the floor fall away. He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the high bed.
Clarise was vaguely conscious that the warlord had seated himself at the edge of his bed. He scooped her in his lap, cradling her as if she were a babe.
She was helpless to fight her grief. It rolled over her in waves, drowning her in despair. Memories of her gentle father besieged her—how she missed him! The plight of her poor mother and sisters crushed her spirit. She had done all she could to help them, but ultimately she was helpless without a champion.
At last her tears had run their course. Clarise stirred. Her nose was buried in the crook of Christian’s neck, where every breath was filled with juniper and musky maleness. Just knowing how near his mouth was to hers left her weak with private yearnings. Yet she realized she could not stay where she was. She had yet to confess her reason for coming to Helmesly.
Lifting her tear-stained face, she looked at him uncertainly. His thoughts seemed far away as he brushed aside the tendrils that had straggled into her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he asked, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. “Why did you say you hailed from Glenmyre? You pretended to be a freed serf and then Monteign’s leman.” The lines of his face grew harsher as he shook his head. “Why so many lies?” he demanded.
Sensitive to his rising ire, she tried to get out of his lap, but the warlord held her fast. His grip became bruising.
“Very well, I’ll tell you!” she submitted. “I lied because Ferguson sent me here. Aye!” she cried, seeing the flash of surprise in his eyes. “He sent me to poison you, just as he had poisoned my father.”
The Slayer let go of her wrist, only to seize the locket that still dangled from her neck. “Poison me?” he growled. “With this? Did you carry the poison in here?”
“I did once,” she admitted, meeting his blazing eyes with the appearance of courage. “He said if you weren’t dead in two months’ time, then he would hang my mother and sisters.”
The horror of that ultimatum left him temporarily speechless. “Where is the poison now?” he asked more gently.
“I poured it out.”
“Out? Where?”
“Into the air,” she said, gesturing. “ ’Tis gone. I couldn’t do it.”
He let the locket fall from his grasp. “Why not?” he asked, tilting his head back to look at her.
Why not? She focused her gaze on the scar he’d received because he was once so devout. “Because you are not evil,” she told him simply. “I realized that almost at once,” she added.
For a startled moment, he stared at her. Thoughts ebbed and flowed behind his gray-green eyes. Then he released her, all but thrusting her off his lap.
She staggered on her feet, while he himself prowled to the far side of the room. Clarise backed away from him, uncertain of his actions. Should she flee to her room and let him decide her fate? Nay, ’twas better to remain and answer his questions. She could see that he was battling with the knowledge that the woman who had seemed to be Simon’s best hope was also the one who’d been sent to kill him.
Locking her trembling knees, she awaited the Slayer�
��s judgment. Her heart beat so heavily that it rocked her lightly on her feet. She watched him as he paced back and forth, casting her disbelieving glances, as though trying to reconcile the woman before him with the one he’d known before.
Clarise’s gaze fell to his hands, clenching and unclenching as he stalked in and out of the candlelight. She became aware of a rising sense of sympathy for him. He had just come from salvaging Glenmyre. How must he feel to discover that she too had been sent to undermine him?
“ ’Twill be all right, my lord,” she heard herself soothe. “No harm will come to Simon or to you, I swear it.”
He swiveled suddenly and glared at her. “Were you in league with the minstrel?” he demanded in a chilling voice.
She shook her head. “He’d been sent by Ferguson to assure that I arrived at Helmesly and that I fulfilled my evil task, but I had nothing to do with his pilfering. He said there were others who would gladly see you ousted. They were the ones who helped him steal.”
The warlord made a sound of disgust and stalked to the window to lean out of it. He gulped down air as though needing its purity. The rain outside spattered the windowsill. Droplets bounced off the stone to wet the warlord’s tunic, but he didn’t seem to care.
“My lord, there is something more I need to tell you,” Clarise admitted. Now that she was baring the truth to him, she wanted no more secrets between them. They would start anew and be guided by honesty as Ethelred had suggested.
He turned around warily. “How could there possibly be more?” he growled.
“ ’Twill anger you,” she acknowledged miserably. “ ’Tis about Simon. I want you to know that I take full blame for the harm it nearly caused him.”
Darkness settled over him. “Go on.”
“I never gave him milk of my own,” she rushed to confess. “I couldn’t, for I have never been with child.”
The Slayer’s face was expressionless, telling her nothing. “You mean that you always fed him with that nursing skin?” he asked evenly.
“Aye,” she confessed, casting herself utterly at his mercy.
His gaze fell to the outline of her bosom, defined by the narrow bodice of her purple gown. “But I saw you nurse him.”
“I did that to convince you,” she admitted, her breasts tingling beneath his regard. “I needed an excuse to find my way inside of Helmesly. I believed I could care for the babe, because I’d done the same for my youngest sister when our mother suffered the birth fever.”
His eyes had narrowed to slits. “Simon deserves better,” he stated, through his teeth.
“Which is precisely why Doris feeds him now,” she cut him off.
“Doris?” His tone was now incredulous.
“I asked her just this morning, after we buried her baby, if she would nurse Simon in my stead. I believe her to be most loyal to you,” she added. “And I have supervised every feeding but the one that is taking place right now.”
An insurmountable silence settled between them. The warlord ran his gaze over her lithe form, lingering in a manner that left her feeling exposed. “I suppose you expect me to help you now,” he said, his tone emotionless.
She shifted nervously, wishing the lighting were better. She knew he must be furious with her, yet his voice now betrayed no emotion whatsoever. “What do you mean?” she asked.
He couldn’t mean he was volunteering to be her champion. Surely she hadn’t wasted all this time hiding the truth from him when she only needed to ask for his help!
He took three quiet steps in her direction, bringing him within an arm’s reach. “I suppose you want me to take up arms for you,” he paraphrased, his eyes like a hawk’s as he scrutinized her face.
Clarise sensed a trap. Perhaps it was the predatory gleam in his eyes. “You would do that?” she asked, her heart beating unevenly. “Challenge Ferguson for me?” Hope rose like a bubble before the realist in her squashed it down. “In exchange for what?” she wanted to know.
He hesitated, his gaze dropping to her breasts. “In exchange for a kiss.”
His answer brought her to prickling, physical awareness. He stepped closer still, his shoulders blocking the light of the tallow lamps completely. His evergreen scent filled her head, making her suddenly dizzy.
“A . . . a kiss?” she stammered, thinking vaguely that such an exchange was more than fair. In truth, if he didn’t kiss her now, she would be sorely disappointed. “Very well, if . . . if you so desire.”
He slipped a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her mouth to his. The taste and texture of him filled her hungry senses. Ever since their first kiss, she’d secretly longed to be kissed again, in that same plundering way that weakened her knees and brought a moan rising from the depths of her feminine soul.
With his kiss came the glorious realization that she had found a champion at last! The enormous burden she had carried alone was no longer hers to bear. In gratitude, she parted her lips to him, offering him the deepest recesses of her mouth, not protesting when he pulled her deeper into his embrace, his arms like giant manacles, keeping her captive.
Without warning, he lifted her completely off her feet. She realized he was taking her to his bed. Alarm bells tolled in her head, but he stifled her protest with his lips.
Without severing their mouths, he lowered her onto the bed and pressed her slowly back, coming down on top of her. His body, heavy and hard against her, caused excitement to shimmer through her. If any place were dangerous for a maiden to lie, it was beneath this man of brawn, steel, and determination.
With his knee he nudged her legs apart. His thigh settled between hers, causing her to gasp at the intimate intrusion. She tried to speak, but once again he headed off her protest with a deep, disturbing kiss.
He tasted of wine and darkness, and soon she was lost to the dizzying pleasure of his kiss. He’d begun to move against her, his thigh rubbing so subtly against her womanhood that she didn’t notice it at first. It was the prodding length of his manhood that roused her to reality.
It dawned on Clarise that Christian de la Croix would not be content with a single kiss, as he’d led her to believe. He intended for her to give him everything, her body in exchange for his sword arm!
The realization sent panic streaking through her. She pushed at his shoulders and found him impossible to budge. “Stop!” she cried. “This isn’t what you said at all!”
“Shhh,” he soothed, “I won’t force you, you have my word of honor on it.” He lowered his mouth and kissed her again, this time more gently, persuasively.
She believed him to be an honorable man. If he swore not to force her, then her virtue was safe, wasn’t it? She had difficulty answering the question, for she could scarcely think with the dark, insidious pleasure of his kisses stealing over her again.
His thigh, riding against her crotch, further diffused her thoughts.
When she felt the heat of his hand on her ribs, she did not protest, for he had touched her there before. His hand inched higher, and soon he was cupping a plump breast and squeezing gently. Her nipples ached with exquisite sensitivity, so that when he soothed a thumb over the rigid peak, a jolt of pleasure stabbed straight to her womb. Her insides turned liquid. She wondered, ashamedly, if he could feel her moisture between her legs through the fabric of her gown.
She would have a champion! she marveled anew. Ferguson could never defeat the Slayer. Her hands strayed up his arms to feel the rock-hard muscles bulging there. What a beautiful warrior’s body he had, she thought, clinging now to his immense shoulders. The tension in her tightened another notch. She felt utterly restless and needy. She could not pull him close enough to satisfy her. Her skin grew flushed and heated, so that it came as a relief to feel the stays of her dress slip apart. Cool air wafted over her breasts.
“Let me suckle you,” the Slayer begged, sliding his mouth downward.
His words left her quivering with longing. She lacked the will to resist him; indeed, she tangled her fingers i
n his hair and guided his lips to one breast. He took her nipple deep in his mouth, stroking it between the ridge of his tongue and the roof of his mouth.
Clarise gasped for breath. The tension in her was becoming unbearable. She needed relief, a place to focus the overwhelming sensations. By the time she realized he had worked a hand beneath her skirts, his palm was resting on her thigh, squeezing and molding her sleek muscle.
She knew she should protest the violation. He’d said he would not force her, but at this rate, there would be little force involved. She craved something, craved it so badly that her heart felt it would jump from her chest. His hand slid abruptly higher, so that the heel of his palm was touching her woman’s hair. She struggled to her elbows, dislodging her breast from his mouth. “Don’t!” she cried, trying to clamp her legs together.
“I told you already, I won’t force you.” His voice was as hypnotizing as the hand, moving now in slow, thorough circles, pressing where she was most sensitive.
The pleasure was so exquisite, so overwhelming, that further protests died in her throat. She sought the Slayer’s gaze in the shadows of the boxed bed. His eyes glittered with a sensual intent that snatched her breath away. She realized with deep awareness that he was touching her. This dangerous man whom everyone feared, whose savage scowls made peasants run for cover, was touching her most private places and wreaking havoc on her senses.
She gasped at the wanton realization, and her breasts rose and fell, her nipples so hard that they stabbed the air. The moisture between her legs was spreading. The Slayer shifted so that he lay half beside her, half on top. His hand shifted also, so that it was not his palm that caressed her but his long, strong fingers. He lowered his head again and kissed her, stifling the whimper of uncertainty that vibrated her vocal chords. His fingers traced the delicate petals of her womanhood.
