The tension in the knight’s face eased, making him look younger. “You are safe here,” he said sincerely.

Clarise dared a peek at the Slayer’s face as he drew her toward the stairs. It seemed all at once that he was cloaked in predatory silence. She felt threatened by the simple touch of his fingertips as he escorted her to the stairs.

“Change him,” the warlord instructed, letting her go. “I will send more gowns to your chamber. You may choose those that please you.”

His narrowed gaze dared her to decline his generous offer. She passed an uncertain moment, wondering if the Slayer assumed, because of her story, that she was now his mistress by default.

Peter rushed toward them with the cradle, and the question went unspoken. With eyes wide and mouth dry, Clarise turned and followed Peter up the stairs.

She hated the niggling suspicion that she’d just dug herself a deeper hole.

Clarise studied the gowns that Nell had draped over the chest, the bed, and the new dressing partition. There were ten in all, in every shade and color of nature: blue, orange, saffron, purple, and green. They were fashioned out of wool and linen, precious cotton and silk. Some were shot with silver thread; others embroidered with ribbons, tassels, and lace. They came with matching slippers, all a bit too big. She had never seen such luxurious clothing in her life.

“Did they belong to Lady Genrose?” she asked with sudden reluctance.

“Oh, nay, milady,” Nell assured her. “These were Lady Eppingham’s, the baron’s wife. She loved to look the part, if ye know what I mean.”

Clarise recalled the rumor that the Slayer had killed the baron and his wife on their pilgrimage to Canterbury. “What happened to her?” she asked, wanting to hear Nell’s version of the story. She ran a hand over a length of lustrous silk.

“She died with her husband on pilgrimage,” the girl predictably answered. “They got nay farther than Tewksbury when they fell fiercely ill. ’Twas the food they ate in an inn, someone said. An awful way to die, do ye not agree?”

Clarise gave a delicate shiver. “Wholeheartedly,” she said.

“Which will ye wear first, milady?” Nell prompted, eager to test her wings as a lady’s maid.

Clarise deliberated a moment. In accepting these gowns from Christian de la Croix, she was in effect accepting her new role in the castle. Was it the role of a guest and a lady, or did he expect her to be his mistress? Either way, she had no choice. The turquoise gown could not be salvaged.

“The saffron one,” she decided at last. She liked the way the sleeves fell away from the arm and draped toward the floor.

“Perfect!” Nell exclaimed.

Clarise withdrew behind the dressing partition that had been dragged into her chamber by two young boys. After peeling off the wine-stained gown, she submitted to Nell’s pampering as the maid wiped her down with lavender water. Before Nell could catch a glimpse of the pale stripes across her back, Clarise tugged on a clean shift. The marks that Ferguson had placed there would be hard to explain in light of her story.

Moments later Clarise examined her reflection in the looking glass. The mirror was too small to tell her much about the gown’s fit, but the saffron color turned her eyes to liquid gold. I look more like a leman than a nurse now, came the troubling thought.

“Ye look lovely, lady,” the maid enthused. “I knew ye was gentry the second I laid eyes on ye. Wille ye still be wantin’ to come with the servants to Abbingdon on Friday?” she asked.

Clarise was counting on it. Everything she had done and said depended on her ability to reach Alec. “I would like to, very much,” she answered. Whether the Slayer would let her go was another question altogether.

Nell chattered enthusiastically as she combed her lady’s hair. Clarise, who had begun to fear that she would never be left alone, was relieved to hear a knock at the door.

Her maid went to answer it. “My lord,” she squeaked, stepping to one side.

The Slayer ducked beneath the lintel and drew up short. Clarise experienced his stare as a bolt of lightning striking her from the sky.

“I wish to speak with you,” he said in a voice that was oddly reserved.

“That will be all, Nell.”

The girl dragged herself from the chamber. Wisely she left the door ajar. Clarise stood up from her seat on the chest. She felt her newly brushed hair swing softly at her hips. She was relieved to see the predatory glint gone from the seneschal’s eyes. In its place was a brooding thoughtfulness.

He looked away to locate Simon. Approaching the cradle, he studied the rise and fall of his baby’s back. Clarise had found just enough time to feed him before Nell’s arrival with the gowns.

“So peaceful,” he remarked in an envious tone. He lifted his gaze and caught her curious regard. “I came to apologize,” he admitted unexpectedly.

She cut him short. “Lord Christian, you have been most generous with me. Please, don’t . . .” apologize! She felt her neck grow warm with shame. All she had done was further deceive him.

He stepped to the window where a family of pigeons roosted on a jutting ledge. A green-necked pigeon hobbled along the corbel. “You must think me little better than Monteign,” he added, frowning at the bird.

It took her a moment to realize he was talking about the caress he’d placed on her breast. It was hardly the same as forcing a woman against her will. In stammering words she told him so.

He glanced at her and looked away again. “I see no difference,” he said, unforgiving of his own actions. She wondered briefly if that was the cause of his previous anger. “There is something else I want you to know.”

Her eyes were drawn briefly to his scar as he clenched his jaw. “What is it?” she asked, watching him closely.

“I didn’t kill my wife.”

The statement was so stark that she froze in the face of it.

“I know what my servants have told you,” he continued, breaking away to pace the length of the chamber. Darkness seemed to settle over him, though perhaps it was just a cloud blotting the sunlight. “They told you that I cut her open while she still breathed. Is that not so?” He paused and looked at her. The crease between his eyebrows had taken up permanent residence.

Clarise said the only words that came to mind. “Why are you telling me this?” She was baffled by the man’s intentions.

“You said you were trying to understand me.”

So she had. And she was beginning to do just that. He was a lonely man, indeed, if her opinion meant that much. The hunger that had been in his eyes before returned as he approached her, stopping just an arm’s reach away.

“I didn’t kill her,” he repeated, his searching gaze begging her to believe him. “She stoped breathing, and then I cut Simon free.”

Clarise swallowed heavily at the vision his words created. “I believe you,” she said, quite sure he wasn’t lying. After all, why would he kill the woman who gave him and his son legitimacy?

“Nor did I mean to kill Monteign,” he added, almost as if he were seeking absolution for all his sins. “I told you that he ambushed us as we came to Glenmyre to strike a peaceable agreement.”

She looked at his face, at the hope shining in his eyes. “And the minstrel?” she prompted. “Was that also an accident?”

“Yes!” he said, with controlled intensity.

She shook her head and looked away. “You ask much of me, lord, if you wish me to believe you blameless in all this.” Especially considering he’d admitted to killing his own father, she added silently.

“I never said that I was blameless,” he added, more subdued.

Clarise glanced back at him. There was something about the Slayer that she couldn’t put her finger on. Something eluded her still.

“Why did you come here for protection?” he asked her suddenly. “Why not Monteign’s ally, Ferguson?”

She flinched at the mention of Ferguson’s name. “Ferguson was not an ally,” she replied as neutrally as possible. “Monteign feared him, just as he feared you.”

“But Monteign was willing to ally himself with Ferguson. He would have seen his own son wed to Ferguson’s stepdaughter.” His gaze narrowed as he added, “You said you knew nothing of it the other night,” he accused.

She wondered if he could see the pulse hammering at the base of her neck. “I will tell you what I know,” she promised. “The betrothal had been arranged years ago by Monteign and Ferguson’s predecessor, Edward DuBoise. Ferguson found it convenient to acknowledge it, as it would gain him an ally and a surer foothold in the region. Thanks to your . . . intervention, the wedding never took place.”

He frowned at her, perhaps astute enough to hear the bitterness behind her words. His gaze followed the sweeping sleeves of her gown. “You look lovely in that. Like a true lady.” His voice took on a regretful timbre. “But such is your birthright. Your nobility cannot be taken away from you no matter what . . .” He trailed off.

No matter what anyone does to me, she finished his sentence silently. For him, a bastard, such issues of birthright and nobility were clearly often on his mind.

He moved awkwardly to the window, giving her the chance to breathe again. She marveled at his change in attitude toward her. Whereas before he was watchful and wary, he was now incredibly forthcoming, even friendly with her. Any moment now she expected him to offer her a place as his mistress. She hoped he would not be furious when she refused him.

“My wife wore naught but gray.”

Clarise searched her mind for an appropriate response to the unexpected admission. “The servants speak highly of her,” she replied, clasping her hands before her.