“What is it?” the Slayer demanded, noting her expression. He rose to his feet and peered down into the sling at his son.

It was worse than she feared. Simon’s skin was burning to the touch, his face beet-red with fever. “God’s mercy,” she whispered. “He has taken ill!”

She looked up in time to see the warlord’s Adam’s apple rise and fall. He put his hands out. “Let me have him,” he demanded.

Keeping the full nursing bladder out of sight, she wedged her hands beneath the baby and passed him carefully to his father. Simon’s eyes were opened but glazed. Again, he issued a cry that sent anxiety twisting through Clarise’s heart. “What can we do?” she begged, raising an uneasy gaze to the Slayer’s face.

Only once before had she seen such a stricken look on a man. Her father had worn that look the moment he realized he’d been poisoned.

“From the cold,” the Slayer rasped, staring down at his son. “The other night, when I found him naked . . . he was so cold.”

“Yet he has thrived since then,” she pointed out, touching Simon’s burning cheek.

“Someone in this castle is responsible,” the warlord growled. He sounded capable of killing with his bare hands. He glanced up at her then, his eyes now an icy gray. “You have reason to avenge me,” he accused.

She threw her arms around her body, feeling suddenly defenseless. How could he think she would harm Simon—or any baby? My God, she had just been on the verge of telling him who she was! If he reacted so rashly to Simon’s illness, what would he have done had she confessed her true identity?

“I did not do this,” she said succinctly. She looked the Slayer squarely in the eyes. “Now, what can we do for him? Can we send for a physic?”

He dismissed her suggestion with a shake of his head. “I trust no one in these parts,” he said shortly.

“Not even a wise woman from the village? A midwife mayhap?”

At the mention of the midwife, his eyes flared with outrage. “The midwife gets her herbs from the abbey. The scourge may spread from there to here. Nay!” he thundered. “I will care for him here. I will bring his cradle to my room and watch over him. You will stay with me until he is well again.”

The underlying threat was plain. Until the baby recovered, she would remain suspect in the Slayer’s eyes. Inwardly she cringed. This was the side of him that terrified his servants and made him a lonely man.

“Of course I will,” she retorted, defying his temper as her own anger flared. “But we must have medicine to save him. The illness has to be purged from his body. We cannot save him alone.”

“What do you suggest we do?” he snarled.

Beneath the blustering tone, she heard a thread of desperation and she answered more reasonably. “I will ask Nell or Sarah what they know of healing. Those two are loyal to Simon; I know it.”

“Go fetch them, then.” He skewered her with a warning look. “But you’d best come back,” he threatened.

She whirled on him, her entire body trembling with distress. “I happen to love your son,” she countered, her voice breaking on the final word. With that, she raced through the door to find help. For love alone she would do all that she could to ensure that the baby lived. Only then might she herself be saved.

Christian was used to sleepless nights. More times than he could count, he’d stood watch beneath the heavens and not succumbed to drowsiness. The Wolf had molded him into a disciplined soldier. Like a smithy, he had hammered his son into an instrument that felt neither pain nor deprivation. The Wolf had taught him that mercy to the enemy could be fatal, that might prevailed, and morality was the great tormenter of souls.

In one hideous night’s work Christian had implemented every tool of war that the Wolf had taught him. He had killed his father in his very own bedchamber. He had slaughtered the Wolf’s men who came after him. He had set fire to Wendesby, and the smoke had killed both women and children. At the time he’d felt no remorse, only blinding fury. That was the night he had learned the Wolf was his father—a vicious, war-loving Dane.

Remorse had found him before the dawn. Fury faded in a matter of hours. Now the screams of innocents haunted him nightly. His soul bled with remorse for the slaughter committed by his hand. And sleep was no longer a refuge for him, but a place of anguish.

His envious gaze fell to the sleeping nurse. Lady Clare suffered no affliction like his. After hours of silent vigil, she had wilted onto the floor beside the baby’s box, her head resting on an out-flung arm. Her body was curved around Simon’s cradle as though protecting him, even in her sleep.

Christian gazed at her in the light of the sputtering tallow lamps, and his bitterness softened at the miracle of what he saw. This woman was no enemy. She could not have been the one to steal the covers off his son. In the past twelve hours she, Nell, and Sarah had devoted themselves to Simon’s welfare. Fear was not their motivation, but rather love.

Clare had spoken the truth when she said she loved his son. Her appearance at Helmesly had saved Simon from starvation. And after tonight he could only believe that fate had delivered her to his stronghold for a purpose. Could she possibly bring herself to love the Slayer, too?

One of the lamps dimmed, telling him the wick was drowning. It was well past midnight. He rose from his desk and crossed to the open window. A brief spell of rain had passed, leaving thick patches of mist floating above the land. It looked like fleecy sheep were dotting the meadow. He closed the shutters and moved to the baby’s cradle.

Simon had suffered pains that could only be communicated through his cries. Nell could not supply fresh cloths at the same rate that Simon soiled them. Together, he and Clare had forced the infusion blended by the servants down the baby’s throat. They’d dispelled the evil humors, causing Simon to purge whatever ailed him.

The baby’s suffering had left Christian pale with helplessness. He relived the fear that Simon would be snatched away, that his strange and lonely marriage had been for naught.

Clare, with her tender and efficient touch, had brought the baby through the worst of it. Her voice, her consolation, had done as much to comfort Christian as it had his baby. Gratitude swelled in Christian’s heart.

Kneeling by the cradle, he turned his attention to his son. Simon’s skin was waxen, his eyelids sunken and bruised. Bending his head, Christian found a prayer on his lips.

He had not prayed for more than thirteen years—not since the Wolf discovered the altar he had built in a corner of the stable. Christian had been mocked for his piety and flogged for seeking help from anyone, even God.

Helpless men pray, Dirk of Wendesby had scoffed.

I am helpless. There was nothing within the range of Christian’s powers that would save his infant’s life. The choice was entirely up to providence.

Hot tears pooled in his eyes as he begged the Almighty to spare Simon. A part of him still felt that he was wasting his time. He didn’t deserve a son.

Clarise found the floor unbearably hard. With her shoulder paining her and her arm growing numb, she stirred from slumber. The sound of fervent whispers brought her fully awake. She shifted slightly and cracked an eye. Lord Christian was kneeling over the cradle. In the faint bluish light she saw that his head was bent. His hands gripped the wooden box.

He is praying, she realized with amazement. And his Latin was perfect.

A rush of empathy brought a lump to her throat. She gazed at him for what seemed an eternity. He was an enigma to her! One moment he struck her as merciless and fear-inspiring. The next he demonstrated a deep streak of honor and generosity. He was well read, with nearly as many books in his solar as her father had owned.

Ignoring her discomfort, she decided not to disturb him. He needed peace in his heart more than anyone she’d ever met. Besides, it pleased her to watch him, to know that he was just as human as she was. At last her eyelids grew weighted and drifted shut.

Moments later she felt herself being lifted. The unyielding floor dropped away, and she sank into a feather mattress. It was the Slayer’s bed, she realized in her semiconscious state. Yet she felt no fear of ravishment. I like you, he had said to her today. The simple proclamation offered reassurance in spite of how quickly he’d accused her of making Simon ill.

Christian gazed at the graceful figure in his bed. Her scent clung to him from the brief moment he’d held her in his arms. She smelled of lavender and woman. Her scent was comforting in the same way that his mother’s sweet smell had been when he was small.

She murmured in approval of her newfound comfort and snuggled into the coverlet. Her bosom rose and fell with a sigh. He remembered the lush perfection of her breasts. Poor woman, she had been misused by a man, just as his mother had. He had no right to entertain the thoughts that sizzled through his mind each time he looked at her.

With a self-directed sneer he turned away. All he could think of lately was possessing the woman for himself. That made him no better than Monteign, no nobler than his father.

Making his way to the tallow lamp, he snuffed the flame. Then he moved toward the far side of the bed, where he hoped he wouldn’t reach for Lady Clare in his sleep. Something unseen lay in his path. He tripped over the cloth object, then bent down to retrieve it.

In the sooty darkness he identified the sling that Clare had carried Simon in. Something soft and heavy was caught in the material’s folds. His hands closed over a pouch of some kind. The slosh of liquid helped him realize what it was.