The mercenary gazed out at the flower-dotted meadow. “She was a saint,” he quietly divulged. “She wanted to be a nun, but as her father’s only child, ’twas up to her to produce an heir.”

Clarise heard more in his words than what he was actually saying. “Such is the lot of a noblewoman,” she pointed out, implying that nobility didn’t come without a price.

She ran a gaze over the warlord’s powerful back and long legs. His virility struck her anew as he planted his feet apart and squared his shoulders. Genrose must have been terrified to wed him. Clarise felt suddenly sorry for Simon’s mother, as well as the warrior. Their joining must have been painful for them both.

With his next sentence the Slayer confirmed her conclusions. “She was afraid of me,” he admitted. He turned around, leaning a shoulder against the shutters. “She allowed me my husbandly right just once. That was the night that Simon was conceived.”

Clarise’s eyebrows rose toward her hairline. In her mind’s eye she pictured the mercenary taking his marital rights with the pristine Genrose. He would have waited patiently for the daughter of a nobleman to be ready and then . . . but instead, she saw herself, lying flat on her back as his dark head came down, his mouth licking fire at her breasts, his thighs spreading hers. Her knees went weak to the point that she feared they would give out completely. “Why you?” she asked, shifting the focus of their conversation slightly. “Her father might have wed her to someone else.” As soon as she said it, she realized it was a mistake.

“Someone with better lineage, you mean,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You wonder how a bastard like me came to marry a baron’s daughter.”

The savagery in his tone did not frighten her as much as it had before. “The thought did cross my mind,” she admitted frankly.

He eased his backside onto the window ledge. “The Baron of Helmesly had no sons, as I said. Yet he balked at the idea of leaving his lands to the Church, since he disliked the Abbot of Rievaulx so intensely. I was already safeguarding his lands as his master-at-arms. ’Twas a logical step to consider me for his daughter. He reasoned, should anything happen to him, that it would take a strong arm to protect the baronetcy for his grandson and heir.”

Clarise inclined her head. “That is sound reasoning,” she agreed. She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip. “However, there is a rumor,” she dared to add, “that you had the baron killed while he was away on pilgrimage.” She watched the Slayer’s reaction carefully.

The look in his eyes became downright frosty. “I have no ambition to be Baron of Helmesly,” he informed her. “That right belongs to my son.”

She had no doubt he spoke honestly. The man seemed truly offended to be accused of killing his in-laws. She wondered why he didn’t actively combat such rumors. “The baron was right, then,” she decided, “to choose you for a son-in-law. If not for you, Simon would have no chance.”

Her vote of confidence brought that same startled look to his eyes that she’d glimpsed before. “I could say the same for you,” he retorted gruffly. “You saved Simon’s life by coming here. For that I thank you.”

She forced a smile, though she really felt like cringing. Blessed Mary, what would happen if he learned she was feeding his son plain goat’s milk! Worse yet, if he learned that she had come to Helmesly to poison him! God help her then.

“Tell me about you,” he asked, tipping his head slightly to one side. “What makes you so outspoken, so brave?” His eyes now burned with interest.

Flushed by the intensity of his gaze, Clarise averted her face. “Oh, I suppose I was raised much like a boy.” She thought of her father and a knot swelled in her throat. “My . . . tutors encouraged me to learn by questioning, as Socrates did. I was taught always to have an opinion and to speak my mind.” It was even possible her father asked too much of her. His request that she protect her mother and sisters was proving impossible to fulfill.

“Were you educated with your cousin?”

It took her a second to realize he meant Alec. “Aye,” she said. “We did everything together.”

“Was he as”—he cast about for a word—“as spirited as you?”

She gave in to the urge to laugh. “Nay, Alec is a lamb. He was always preoccupied with moral issues, yet he would do anything his father requested of him. One time Monteign told him to steal back a sheep that had wandered onto the holding of a villein. Alec went straightways to the villein and paid him five denarii to get the sheep back. He believes that people should have a common share in all things; therefore, the sheep, having strayed onto the freeman’s lands, was his. Yet on the other hand, Alec could not defy his father’s wishes.”

The Slayer seemed to mull over her tale. “He sounds like a goodly man,” he decided, frowning.

“Better cannot be found,” she agreed. She quirked an eyebrow at him. “But why do you ask?”

Instead of answering, the Slayer put another question to her. “Is he strong enough to defend his lands from Ferguson?”

Clarise reeled at the implications. “Is that what you intend to do?” she asked. “Give him back his lands?” Sir Roger had hinted at the possibility, but she hadn’t believed it. The gesture was too magnanimous for a warlord.

“I told you, I had no intention of seizing Glenmyre in the first place. But with Monteign dead and Alec gone, I feared that Ferguson would seize it. Now I’m embroiled in war that drains my weapons and my men. I have a castle of my own to run and no time to indulge Ferguson in his savage games. Yet I am loath to let the Scot take the birthright of young Monteign. I’d gladly give Glenmyre back to Alec, aye.”

Clarise drew a breath to steady her soaring optimism. Alec still Lord of Glenmyre! Surely he would seize the opportunity to claim his inheritance. The moment he emerged from the abbey, she could appeal to him to challenge Ferguson and save her family. “Alec earned his spurs when he was just sixteen,” she heard herself boast. “He is young and strong. He won a good number of tourneys a year ago.”

The Slayer nodded, then looked away. “A year ago,” he repeated, looking grim.

“What is it?” she asked, fearful that he would suddenly retract his offer.

“How much training do you think he does at the abbey?” he inquired, looking at her.

Her optimism plummeted like a partridge with an arrow through its heart. “None at all,” she guessed.

“Also, there is the illness to think of,” he continued. “Should Alec be stricken by the scourge and survive, he will be much the weaker for it.”

Clarise felt a flutter of alarm. Without Alec, who would be her champion? She would have to admit to the Slayer who she really was. In her desperation she would have to ask him for his aid and admit to all the lies she’d spun.

“Nonetheless,” the warlord added with more force, “Alec should rule Glenmyre. I have tried to get word to him, but the abbot professes to be ill, and the monk at the gate will not convey a message for me.”

“Then you should go about it another way,” Clarise suggested. She was about to mention the Abbot of Revesby’s name when the Slayer stood up, taking a step that brought him suddenly closer. She locked her knees to keep from backing up. Whatever she was going to say died forgotten on her tongue.

The Slayer’s shadow folded over her, immense and cool. “I have to go now,” he said, cutting their conversation abruptly short. “When Sir Roger hunts, I train the men.”

She forced a response through a tight throat. “I imagine you enjoy that,” she said breathlessly.

He gave her one of his rare smiles, one that nearly blinded her with its brilliance. “I do,” he admitted. His hand came up and captured a length of her hair. He let it slip through his fingers, apparently pleased with its texture.

Clarise swallowed convulsively. She did not understand the thrill that chased down her neck and shortened her breath.

“I won’t hurt you,” he promised, seeing her shudder. He caught up one strand of her hair and brought it close to her face. He lightly trailed the curl over her neck and her chin. The cool glide of her hair caressed her lips, sending pleasure rippling across her entire body.

She looked in his eyes for an explanation. What she saw there made her heart miss a beat. Banked behind a wall of wistful longing was a fire of raging desire.

Panicked by the height of the flames, she forced herself to say something, as silence would only encourage him. “I think you should go now,” she told him, speaking through stiff lips. “I’m no longer any man’s mistress.”

He dropped her hair as though scalded. For a stricken moment he stared at her, the tan on his face paling. With a muttered apology, he turned away and fled through the open portal without a word or a backward glance.

Clarise went to the window to cool her heated cheeks. The warlord’s visit had left her shaken and disturbed. At least she no longer feared that he would ravish her. Her status as a lady, albeit a sullied one, protected her somehow. That meant he was guided by a code of ethics, making him a better man than Ferguson, which she had guessed already.

Yet at the same time, her response to his touch revealed a frightening truth: she was attracted to him. Not only did his skill with a sword hold fascination for her, but the man himself was luring her along a frightening path that threatened her identity. She reminded herself that she was not a mistress by trade, but a lady, the beloved daughter of Edward DuBoise.

Furthermore, she was Alec Monteign’s betrothed. Alec was going to be her champion. And yet she felt the inexorable pull of the Slayer, bringing her closer and closer to admitting the truth, to casting herself on his mercy.