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 in 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.

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.