by Marliss Moon
Lubricated with her moisture, his finger eased neatly into her passage. At the same time, his thumb pressed against the nub that pulsed above it.
Clarise ripped her lips from his. “Stop,” she begged, disconcerted by the unfamiliar tightness. “You mustn’t do that.” She was concerned for her maidenhead, a precious commodity for a maid who wished to be a virgin bride.
“I won’t take your maidenhead,” he assured her, as if reading her mind. “ ’Tis firmly lodged. ’Twould take more than my finger to break through it.”
“Why are you doing this?” she demanded, with belated panic. “You said you only wanted to kiss me.”
“I do.” He recaptured her mouth. The hot insistence of his tongue was more than she could resist. His finger moved in and out of her, and his tongue mimicked the plunge and retreat, driving her to an instant frenzy. Tension coiled in Clarise’s belly. His thumb began to play with the nubbin of flesh that was quivering with excruciating sensitivity.
Clarise forgot to breathe. Something powerful, inexorable, and sweet beyond her imagining threatened to roll over her and wrap around her. Again and again, the Slayer’s finger plumbed her softness. Again and again his tongue thrust into her mouth. His thumb slicked mercilessly over her pouting flesh, and then it happened.
She spasmed, rocked by her first climax. It flung her to a place she’d never been before. Stars seemed to flicker behind her eyelids. Her muscles clamped down hard, squeezing, pulling, milking the pleasure that went on, and on, and on.
Then with a ragged sigh, she released the breath she was holding. Her muscles went limp with exhaustion. She spasmed once again as the Slayer’s finger slipped out of her. He pulled slowly away, smoothing her skirts down as he did so. Her breasts were still naked, glowing like pale orbs in the semidarkness.
The Slayer slid back so that he was no longer touching her. He lay on his side, waiting, watchful. His eyes glittered with an intensity that could not be disguised by the darkness. The lines of his reclining body looked rigid.
In the painful silence that followed, Clarise scurried to regather her wits. She sat up swiftly, fumbling with the laces at the front of her gown. Her fingers trembled so badly that she could not tie them. Shame burned up her throat and singed her cheeks. She was painfully aware of the Slayer’s silent perusal.
How could she have responded with such abandon? She was a maiden, by heaven, still betrothed to Alec Monteign, should he decide to leave the priesthood. Yet she’d behaved like the wanton leman she’d once professed to be!
She wanted to die! She wanted to leave Helmesly Castle and never set eyes on the Slayer again. And yet he’d promised to take up arms for her, so that was impossible. She forced herself to focus on their agreement. After all, the arrangement had just been sealed, hadn’t it?
“Now you’ll take up arms for me and free my family?” She was dismayed to find her voice thin.
His hungry gaze caused an unwanted awareness to ripple through her. “Not quite,” he corrected. “First, you’ll agree to be my mistress.”
His answer hit her like the broadside of a sword. Clarise reared back at the unexpectedness of it. “Nay!” she cried in protest. “You said I owed you a kiss and that was all!”
“The way I look at it, lady, you owe me a great deal more than a kiss,” he retorted on a growl. “You have taken advantage of me since your arrival at my gates. If you want me to kill Ferguson, you will have to give me something in exchange. What I want is you. All of you.”
Her body quivered with excitement, betraying her. Her mind exploded with rage. A bright red haze rose up before her eyes. “You lowlife, sneaking bastard,” she hissed, pulling back an arm to strike him.
Moving swifter than a snake, he caught her descending arm in a grip that was bruising. Just as suddenly he let her go. She scooted wisely off the bed, surprised to find her legs so weak as she came to her feet. “How dare you promise me one thing and then raise the price,” she raged, wishing she could do him lasting harm.
He said nothing at all, frustrating her desire to do battle.
“Oh!” she raged, stamping a foot on the rush mat. “You . . . you conniving, scheming blackguard! How dare you blackmail me in such blatant fashion? Why you’re nothing but a—”
“Save your breath, lady,” he interrupted. “I’ve been called those things before. Go on now,” he added, jarring her with his demand that she leave. “Doris must be wondering where you are.”
To be thrust from his room was just as humiliating as his ultimatum. With a cry of outrage, Clarise cast her eyes about and spied an earthenware pitcher. Snatching it up, she hurled it with all her might at the Slayer. To her chagrin, it bounced harmlessly on the mattress and landed by his thigh. She wished, then, that it had been full of water. “Go to the devil!” she raged, marching for the door. Tears of humiliation smarted her eyes as she wrenched it open.
She gained small satisfaction in slamming it as hard as she could behind her.
With a low whistle of amazement, Christian fell back against the bed. Clarise’s passionate nature was evident not only in her body’s response to him but also in her formidable temper. He hoped he had not ruined everything by giving her such an ultimatum. And yet he’d decided that unless Clarise DuBoise was the prize, there was little allure in engaging in a long siege for the purpose of retaking Heathersgill. He already had his hands full with Glenmyre. Such chivalry was for other men, men who couldn’t bear to see a damsel in distress. Not he. He wanted to have a palpable reward for his efforts. He wanted Clarise DuBoise’s body for his sole possession. He wanted to be on her, over her, in her, and around her, always.
His body throbbed with a hunger too fierce to be ignored. Rolling down the tops of his chausses, he caught up his swollen shaft and eased it up and down. He had brought Clarise to a shattering orgasm! The truth of it exhilarated him; it excited him beyond bearing. Her body had been so responsive, yet so innocent with its tight sheath. He vowed he would have her soon.
The scent still lingered on his hands. He breathed it in, stroking his flesh as he lost himself to his imaginings.
Would she agree to be his mistress? He knew it was no light decision, giving her soul to the Slayer of Helmesly. Much depended on how badly she wanted Ferguson eliminated.
But for now, he pretended she would tell him yes. Then tomorrow at this time he would sink his aching shaft into her softness and know true fulfillment. The thought hurtled him to a speedy climax. Scalding hot seed spattered his tunic and wet his hand. He let out a groan, and realized later that he’d groaned Clarise’s name.
Chapter Thirteen
Clarise read aloud the entire chapter on the life of St. Dunstan without absorbing a word of the text.
If you want me to kill Ferguson, you will have to give me something in exchange. What I want is you. All of you.
The Slayer’s words reverberated in her head, making other thoughts impossible. She found herself at the end of the chapter with no memory of what she’d read.
Across the trestle table Harold wore a wistful expression. His white hair was bleached by the sunbeams slanting through one of the windows. The lingering aroma of trout griddled in herbs filled the empty hall. Clarise had left Simon safe in Doris’s care in order to fulfill her promise to the steward. Reading, he said, was something his niece had done for him. The girl, apparently, had died quite recently.
“Did you like the story?” she asked, wresting his attention from a corner of his mind known only to him.
Harold smiled at her sheepishly. “Aye.” He sighed. “You read as well as my lovely Rose.”
“Was that your niece?” Clarise asked, closing the book. “Rose, that’s a pretty name.”
“Our pretty Rose has wilted,” he intoned in a singsong voice. His vague blue eyes darkened with loss.
Clarise felt a pang of sympathy for the old man. She reached across the plank table and touched his hand. “She is with the saints now,” she comforted, knowing Harold’s fas
cination for saints and martyrs.
Harold’s gaze drifted until it landed on her face. “My Rose had a baby,” he told her mournfully. He frowned as though struggling to remember something.
“Did she die in childbirth? ’Tis such a sad thing. Simon’s mother also died,” she reminded him.
“Not Doris,” he said, sounding relieved.
“Nay, Doris is well, thank God. ’Twas her babe that died,” she clarified, thinking him confused.
He scratched the bristles on his jaw. “So sad,” he echoed her earlier statement. “She was a baby once, my Rose. I rocked her on my knee. Here’s your horsey.” He clicked his tongue to imitate the clip-clopping of hooves.
“You must have been a wonderful uncle.”
“Harold, brother of John,” he said, as though introducing himself.
Awareness stirred at the edges of Clarise’s mind, but with her thoughts elsewhere, she failed to grasp what it was. Instead, she found herself recalling the conversation she’d shared with the Slayer over breakfast.
She’d had no intention of speaking to him at all, for she had no answer to his ultimatum. But hearing him recount for his men-at-arms Ferguson’s attack on Glenmyre, she’d realized he had seen her mother with his own eyes, and she longed for reassuring word of her. “How did my mother look?” she asked, buttering her bread to avoid eye contact. Nonetheless, her face flushed crimson, and she was certain that anyone who looked at her would guess her indignity of the night before.
He had turned his attention from his men to her. “Not well,” he’d said with a frown. “She seemed desperate to enter the gates.”
Desperate. The word sliced deep into her heart. “Could you not have tried to let her in?” It was useless to hide her dismay.
“I did try, lady.” He’d captured her hand, then, the strength of his grip reassuring. “The foot soldiers were too close, and a second wave of men hid in the trees. The most I could do was ensure she didn’t get hit by our arrows when Ferguson called her back.”
She had almost told the Slayer, then and there, she would accept to be his mistress. Ferguson had put her mother in the direct path of the enemy’s arrows! How could she risk the lives of her family by waiting another day?
But pride kept her in check. There was yet another option, one that did not involve the threat to her senses, the indignity of trading her body for the Slayer’s aid. With the Abbot of Revesby’s help, there was still a chance that she could contact Alec.
The scuffle of sandals roused her to the present. Just then, the good abbot stepped through the rear entrance of the hall. This morning’s service, followed by the sacrament of burial for Doris’s babe, had afforded no opportunity to catch him alone. Perhaps now, she thought, seizing what might be her only chance.
“Excuse me, Harold.” She abandoned the Slayer’s book on the table and hastened toward Ethelred. He had spotted her as well, and his face lit up. His short stride was charged with purpose. They met by the empty fire pit.
“Lady Clarise,” he greeted her. “I was told to seek your assistance in showing me the herb garden.”
“By all means. But I’ve only stepped foot in it once,” she admitted. “I believe Dame Maeve knows more about herbs than I.”
“It was she who bid me seek you out,” he said, looking puzzled.
“Ah, well, the housekeeper is feeling ill.” Suffering from a case of wounded pride, she nearly added. “Shall we find the garden now? I would speak with you about a certain matter.” She glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder. The hall was deserted at midmorning. The Slayer had left with his master-at-arms to run through drills in the outer ward.
“Lead the way.” The good abbot gestured.
“What exactly are you looking for, Your Grace?” she called a moment later. He paced the walkway of crushed seashells, looking hot in his black robe. Sweat dripped from his temples as he peered at the rows of aster, tansy, and feverfew. He stroked his beardless chin in contemplation.
“I wish I knew, lady,” he cryptically confessed. His gaze hovered over a bright patch of horeshound, then inspected the heavy stalks of foxglove. At last he glanced at Clarise. “Do you know much about healing?” he inquired.
She shook her head regretfully. “Not I, Father. My sister Merry is skilled in the herbal arts. What little I know I learned from her. Why do you ask?” she inquired, feeling a chill despite the heat.
He clasped his hands together and looked away. “ ’Tis a matter the archbishop has asked me to look into,” he answered vaguely. He turned away and paced down another shell-strewn aisle.
Clarise followed his gaze and managed to summon the names of just a few of the plants crowding the narrow beds. Pink lady’s mantle, pale Saint-John’s-Wort, and purple pennyroyal. There were others, but she could neither name them nor list their qualities.
For the moment Ethelred seemed content with his inspection. He approached her, smiling a bit grimly. “What is it you wished to speak to me about?” he asked.
Clarise’s heart began to pound. She had waited so long for a priest to assist her. At the same time she felt as though she were bent on a secret mission, one that the Slayer would disapprove of should he catch wind of it. “Your Grace,” she hedged, plucking the folds of her salmon-pink gown. “There is a novice monk at Rievaulx, an old friend of mine. I’ve been unsuccessful at reaching him, either by letter or in person. I fear,” she added, feeling the heat of embarrassment on her cheeks, “that he may be stricken by illness there.”
“What is this brother’s name?” the abbot asked. His probing blue gaze was not without sympathy, and Clarise took heart.
“Alec Monteign. He was once my betrothed,” she admitted, baring all. “He went to Reivaulx six months ago.” She was startled to find that the pain of his desertion had miraculously eased.
“I believe I met him once,” Ethelred mused. “Is he a man of average stature, with golden hair, light eyes?”
“He is!” she cried. “When did you see him?”
“This winter past. He was newly come to Rievaulx, quite zealous to live the life of an eremite. I remember he approached me and asked me questions about my book.”
Alec hadn’t shared his religious zeal with her. It came as a surprise to hear of it. Clarise had to wonder if he hadn’t agreed to wed her for his father’s sake.
“Is it at all possible to get word to him?” she asked, wishing she had more confidence in his skills.
Ethelred thought for a moment. He gave the garden a quick but thorough inspection. Walls surrounded them on every side. The air was saturated with birdsong and the distant gurgling of the moat. “I think I can,” he told her quite decisively. “As you know, I will go to Rievaulx to investigate the matter of the interdict. I will look for Alec while I’m there.”
“But what if Gilbert denies you entrance? After all, Rievaulx is quarantined. He can say that in your best interest you must keep away.”
Ethelred’s eyes sparkled with adventure. “I was master novice at Rievaulx for two years. While I was there, I discovered something Gilbert doesn’t know.”
“And what is that?” she asked.
“A second entrance into the abbey.”
“Verily?” She found herself smiling in wonder.
“Aye, in a cave on the side of the abbey hill, there is a hole, big enough for a wild animal or a small man like me. The cave leads to an underground passage and thence to the chamber where I used to gloss Psalters. Now, should Gilbert deny me entrance, I will still find my way inside.”
“But what of the illness? You must be careful. They say if you breathe through a satchel of herbs, you won’t catch the plague.” She looked helplessly at the garden around them.
He patted her hand. “The illness is the least of my concerns,” he assured her.
She thought him exceedingly brave. “There is one more thing, Your Grace. Lord Christian wrote Alec a letter in which he offered to return Alec’s inheritance to him. Would you ask him if he recei
ved the letter and whether he has considered the offer?”
The good abbot’s eyes narrowed with sudden comprehension. “Do you hope that he will take up arms on your behalf?”
“I have nowhere else to turn,” she admitted, feeling suddenly forlorn, though her chances of getting word to Alec had never been higher.
The abbot frowned in confusion. “I thought perhaps Christian would help you now that you’ve told him the truth of your plight. Perhaps since you care for his son, he would be willing to reclaim your father’s home for you. Have you asked him?”
She looked down at her knotted hands. “I’ve already asked,” she replied, willing herself not to blush. “He refuses to help.”
A thoughtful silence followed her words. She glanced up to find his keen gaze on her face. “Would you like me to speak to him?” he offered kindly. “Perhaps I can convince him—”
A hot wave of mortification crested in her cheeks. “Nay, thank you,” she refused, not wanting the abbot to know of her humiliating choice. “If you can get word to Alec, you’ll have done more than enough.”
The abbot nodded gravely. “Then, I’ll do my best,” he promised.
“When will you go?” Desperation made her bold. She feared the Slayer would try again to persuade her. The thought made her heart race and her mouth go dry.
“Shortly after none’s prayers today.”
Good. If there was any recourse to the Slayer’s proposition, she would know it soon. “Thank you,” she told him. “How can I repay you?”
He winked at her as he tightened the sash around his waist. “I was headed to the abbey anyway,” he said.
Clarise’s spirits rose a notch. “I must go now. Simon is mine for the afternoon.”
“A blessed burden,” said Ethelred.
He is indeed, thought Clarise. Because of Simon, she was actually thinking of accepting the Slayer’s proposition. She had loved the infant from the first. She could not bear the thought of leaving him when the time came to leave Helmesly.
If she left. She refused to accept that the Slayer’s touch might influence her. Yet whenever the memory of her ecstasy replayed itself, her bones seemed to melt like butter, and a delicious shudder overtook her. Humiliation could not defeat desire. There was a part of her that would secretly revel in becoming his mistress. A part of her that found the Slayer exciting and fascinating. Only she refused to acknowledge it.
