After a moment’s incomprehension, she realized he made reference to the surname she’d invented, Crucis, yet she failed to see the humor in it.

The warlord flashed his vassal a smile. With teeth gleaming white, his smile was like a jag of lightning in a sullen sky. It took Clarise’s breath away.

Unaware of her amazement, he added, “You have done well in your search, Sir Roger. This damsel even bears my name.” His cool gaze ran over her, and she felt a tingling of awareness.

“Christian de la Croix, madam,” he introduced himself. He sketched a bow—more for mockery than courtesy. But it gave her the time she needed to understand his amusement. The name she’d given herself was the same as his, but in Latin. She couldn’t believe she’d overlooked that detail.

A fluke, she told herself, sinking to a curtsy. She knew an overriding need to remove herself from his scrutiny, to run as far and as fast as possible. Surely he could see the guilt on her face! The pendant burned like the flames of hell against her chest.

The baby’s cries told her what to do next. His wails were raw and desperate. She turned to comfort him and encountered the weeping maidservant.

“You may go,” Clarise murmured. The girl snatched up her skirts and ran, nearly toppling Sir Roger as she launched herself through the door.

With a trembling in the pit of her belly, Clarise reached into the cradle and lifted the baby. She settled him in her arms and thrust her awareness of the Slayer aside. This child was her alibi, her reason for being. If she convinced the men she was caring for the baby, she would avert suspicion long enough to do what was necessary.

The shrieking subsided. Clarise found herself the focus of a bottomless, gray gaze. A tiny, heart-shaped face was framed in a cowl of thick blankets. He doesn’t look like the spawn of the devil was her first thought.

She noticed suddenly that he was bundled so tightly perspiration drenched his swaddling. Oh, poor mite, she thought, clicking her tongue at the incompetence of others. She eased the material from around his limbs and freed his hot head. With that, the infant grew peaceful. A tender wind blew across Clarise’s heart. The babe felt natural in her arms, a precious burden. She turned toward the window, needing to see the baby better.

Though barely days old, from what she understood, he was cast in the image of his father. She could now see that he boasted a head of black hair. His little mouth trembled with the memory of distress, but he made no sound.

Tenderness gave way to uncertainty. Thus far, she had only thought of herself and her own safety. This child’s very life rested in her hands! What if she failed in her attempts to feed him? What if she left him orphaned with no one to ensure his survival?

Hiding her concerns, Clarise ducked her head and kissed the baby’s cheek. She felt the wetness of his tears on her mouth. Unthinking, she pulled the kerchief from her own head and dabbed at the silken cheek. From behind, she heard a sharp intake of breath, and she turned.

Christian couldn’t help but stare. Clare Crucis had wrought the miracle of Simon’s silence. She had burst into the room like a sunbeam, dispelling his fear that his son might die. As she moved toward the window, she’d removed her head covering, and he could see that her hair was the color of a flame, her eyes like honey. He could not prevent himself from hissing in a breath of appreciation. She glanced at him warily, then lowered her eyes again to study his infant son.

Christian feasted his gaze on her lovely profile—sculpted cheekbones, a delicate nose, lips so soft as to make a man weep. Yet her expression of tenderness was the quality that arrested him most.

“What is his name?” she asked, her accent nearly continental. He could only assume she had served a Norman family since birth.

“Simon.” He had to clear his throat. “Go on, feed him,” he urged. “He is half starved.” The baby gave a start at the sound of his voice. To Christian’s amazement, the nurse took note of this and frowned.

“The child must nurse in private, my lord. Kindly leave us and be assured that he will hunger no more.”

Christian felt his jaw slacken. He glanced at Sir Roger to see if he had heard the woman right. His vassal merely grinned.

By God’s right eye, the woman had just dismissed him from the room! He could think of no one—man or woman—who had dared such a thing before.

The novelty of it aroused him instantly.

Clarise was forced to mask her desperation. Hadn’t the warriors heard her? They behaved as if they were pegged to the stone floor, doomed to grow shadows on the wall. She stepped closer to reason with the pair.

The Slayer stood a full head higher than his vassal. His scowl alone would frighten the fleas off a hound, but she could not afford to be intimidated. If the men did not leave, her masquerade would end ere it began.

“Am I not to be given privacy?” she asked, her tone implying she would leave her post, if such were true.

Sir Roger shook his curly head. “My lord, we must talk,” he announced, backing out the door.

This announcement dragged the Slayer’s gaze from Clarise to the empty portal. But Saintonge was gone. The Slayer held his ground.

Clarise regarded him with acute awareness. The sky outside the window had deepened to azure. She could see nothing of his features now. As the baby threatened to sob again, she clutched him more tightly and prayed the Slayer would leave.

“Feed my son,” he said peremptorily.

Panic bloomed in her breast. “I . . . I require privacy,” she stammered. What purpose could the warlord have other than to watch her bare her breasts? She gave a thought to Ferguson’s treatment of female servants, and her blood abruptly thinned.

The floor was turning liquid under her feet. She cast about for a place to sit. But it was too late. She felt herself falling.

She never saw the Slayer move. But in the next second he was holding her upright. Strong arms banded around her, pinning both her and the baby to his chest. She struggled instinctively, panicked by the thought of being at his mercy. He dragged her toward an alcove and deposited her on a stool, where she shrank away, clutching Simon for protection.

“You are ill,” the warrior announced. He loomed over her, an unformed shadow.

“Nay!” Clarise protested strongly. A vision of Horatio’s festered face sprang to mind. “ ’Tis merely that I haven’t eaten in a while.”

Silence followed her answer. “I will see that you get some food at once,” he offered unexpectedly.

She opened her mouth to thank him, but he was already striding away, his boots ringing on the stone floor. Clarise waited until he was gone, and then she dashed to the cradle to seek the nursing skin that the servant must have used. She would need it as much as that woman had in order to feed little Simon.

She could see nothing in the blackened chamber. Cursing at the lack of tapers, she felt inside the cradle and along the floor. At last she found what she was looking for, but the bladder was full of milk, and the milk smelled rancid.

By the time the Slayer returned, Simon was livid with rage. Nothing short of a full stomach would satisfy him. Clarise sat on the stool, her back against the wall, her heart hammering her throat. She was certain her hours were numbered. The Slayer would kill her for failing to comfort his son.

A candle illumined the Slayer’s face as he crouched to place the tray upon the floor. He had brought her a crust of bread, a wedge of cheese, and the goat’s milk. Saliva rushed into Clarise’s mouth, despite her anxiety. She prayed Dame Maeve had let the milk boil long enough.

Glancing at the Slayer, she found him staring at her. The shock of seeing both sides of his face left her speechless. A scar creased his left cheek, running from eye to jaw. The seam was smooth, telling her the wound was an old one and well tended. Yet it marred the perfect symmetry of his face. Some might say it made him ugly.

As though privy to her thoughts, a scowl pressed down on his forehead, carving menace into his features. Clarise looked away and murmured her thanks. Simon wailed.

“Supper is being prepared,” growled the mercenary. He straightened and stepped away to where the ring of light reached only to his shoulders. “You will eat again straightways. Please do hurry,” he urged. “My son is crazed with hunger.”

Clarise grabbed a chunk of bread and stuffed it in her mouth. The lord’s courtesy abated her terror just enough that she could feel how hungry she was. He stepped away from the alcove, leaving her in semiseclusion, but he didn’t leave the nursery. She heard him pause before the window, dominated by the dark of night.

She was truly in a quandary, now. She had managed to dump the sour milk outside the window, but she could scarcely refill the nursing skin with the Slayer in the same room. How, she wondered, would she get the fresh milk down the baby’s throat?

The seconds stretched by. The warlord remained by the window, presumably to give her privacy.

Simon sobbed until his tears dampened her bodice. With a feeling that none of this could be real, Clarise dipped a finger in the milk and offered it to the baby. He nuzzled the offering, then screamed when little came of his exertions.

“How goes it?” the Slayer demanded over Simon’s piercing note.

She heard him take a step toward the alcove, and she tensed with alarm. With no alternative, she tugged at the laces on her bodice. “All will be fine,” she assured him. For authenticity’s sake, she pushed the material apart and offered a breast to the inconsolable baby.

Simon fastened on so fiercely that she had to swallow a cry of pain. By some miracle, his enthusiasm silenced him. It felt strange indeed to have a baby tugging at her breast. He didn’t seem to mind that he was getting nothing from his efforts. To be held, to be pacified was enough for now.