Grateful for the momentary respite, Clarise let out a pent-up breath. Exhaustion swamped her. She sat more heavily on the three-legged stool and lifted the mug to taste the formula herself. She was pleased to note that it had been boiled for some time.

The crush of rushes under the sole of a boot had her pricking her ears. Clarise dragged her eyelids upward. The warlord stood an arm’s span away, his gray-green gaze on the pendant that lay between her naked breasts.









Chapter Three


















The Slayer had joined her in the little alcove. Clarise gasped with surprise and promptly sucked milk down her lungs. She succumbed to a fit of coughing. With the flagon in one hand and the baby in the other, she stared helplessly up at the warlord, her eyes stinging.

“Will you be all right?” he asked as she wheezed for breath.

She swallowed hard. Nay, she would not be all right. She would be flayed for a fraud and a liar. He would see straight through her flimsy disguise to the ugly truth that brought her here.

He stood so close that the candle’s flame was doubly reflected in his eyes. His eyes saw everything. Clarise’s blood ran cold as she waited for judgment to come crashing down.

“He seems content,” he said, focusing again on the locket.

The words flowed over her, diluting her terror. God have mercy, had she actually deceived him? One knot at a time, her muscles relaxed.

Was he looking at the pendant to avoid looking at her breasts? She glanced down to see how suspect the hollow ball appeared.

“ ’Tis unusual for a servant to wear jewelry,” he said, causing her heart to pound. “Is it gold?”

“Oh, nay,” she replied, hastily covering the locket with the fabric of her gown. “My mother gave it to me. ’Tis naught but bronze.”

“Your mother?” he repeated. “And who was she?”

Did his narrowed gaze betray suspicion? “Jeannie Crucis,” Clarise supplied. “She was a peasant.”

“Why is it you speak like a noblewoman?” he demanded.

She struggled to subdue her galloping heart. “My ancestors were Saxon nobles,” she told him, grasping at straws. “When the Normans seized our home, our family served them, learning their language.”

“You practiced speaking like a lady?”

There was genuine skepticism in his voice this time. “I’m a freed serf,” she insisted. But she knew that he did not believe her tale. She would stick to it as long as she had to, and then she would be gone. If she lived that long, the man before her would be dead.

“Whence do you hail?” he asked, giving her no time to think.

“From Glenmyre,” she answered, wishing he would cease his interrogation.

Glenmyre. The name rolling off the woman’s tongue sent Christian’s spirits plummeting. He turned away as shards of darkness wormed their way beneath his skin.

He resumed his place by the window, letting the night air take the edge off his self-incrimination. Genrose, his saintly wife, had died for his ambitions. Nineteen peasant women wept for the loss of their husbands. Glenmyre’s fields would go to seed without hands to farm it. He was a plague to them all. A Slayer who butchered the lambs.

Behind him, Clare Crucis shifted. Simon emitted a wail, one that was immediately muffled. The baby’s grunt of pleasure was followed by little sucking noises, sounds that tempted Christian to thank God out loud. Here, at last, was something good. He had been certain God would take his son from him. He’d expected it.

But an angel interceded on Simon’s behalf. Hope pulsed anew in his breast—not for himself, but for Simon’s future, Simon’s soul. Unless there was more to this angel than met the eye.

“Did your husband die defending Glenmyre from my attack?” he inquired. Silence exploded in the tiny chamber, and he feared he had his answer. The woman had a motive for vengeance.

“He . . . he died in a skirmish,” she finally answered.

Christian searched his mind. There had been several skirmishes at Glenmyre, but no loss of life until just recently. “He must have been in Ferguson’s slaughter, then,” he surmised, realizing the full extent of Clare’s suffering. Here was a widow of one of the slain peasants. “I am sorry I wasn’t there to prevent it,” he added awkwardly. “I was called away for the birth of my son.”

Clarise gnawed the inside of her lip. She’d told Sir Roger that her husband was not one of those unfortunate peasants. Should she correct the warlord’s assumption? Now that she considered it, it made sense to say her husband had been killed in Ferguson’s attack, for then it followed to reason that she would turn to the Slayer—her overlord—for protection and sustenance.

Christian waited for the woman to answer him. Perhaps she was too bereaved to speak. He pictured her bowed over his baby, overwhelmed by her recent loss. Guilt cut deeply into him. “The Scot has no respect for human life,” he growled. The words offered only hollow comfort. It was his fault the peasants were slain, but there was nothing he could do to bring her husband back.

The silence in the chamber grew oppressive. He longed to hear her honeyed voice again. Seldom did he come across a soul willing to converse with him. “Why did you journey south?” he prompted. “Why did you come to Helmesly?” It was a two-day walk from Glenmyre, perhaps farther. The road offered untold perils.

“I could stay no longer.” He was relieved to hear resignation in her tone and not weeping. “ ’Twas logical that I come to Helmesly, as you are now the ruler of Glenmyre. I came to . . . to serve you as I can.”

Her observation caused him to remember the fateful day he rode upon Glenmyre. Monteign’s forces had spilled over a hill without warning. There was no time for words, no time for explaining. Monteign thought he was defending himself from attack. He fought like a lion, ignoring the banner of peace that Christian’s flagman had frantically waved. Despite effort to subdue Monteign without undue bloodshed, the lord of Glenmyre had died and his soldiers had laid down their arms in surrender.

Ignorant of the warlord’s weighty thoughts, Clarise struggled to keep her eyes open. She sensed that the Slayer had finished questioning her. Miraculously she’d survived the initial round. With wildflowers sweetening the evening air and the rhythmic tugging at her breast, she was lulled into a false sense of security. Any moment now she might fall asleep.

Through the bloom of light at her feet, the warlord’s rasping voice reached her again. “I am sorry for the death of your lord, Monteign.”

She could not credit the quiet apology. She must have misheard him.

“I’d heard rumors of an alliance between Monteign and Ferguson. I only meant to question him about the matter.”

“An alliance?” Reality jarred Clarise to wakefulness. Her heart lurched against her breastbone.

“ ’Twas a marriage, between Monteign’s only son and Ferguson’s stepdaughter.”

Her stomach slowly twisted. Her scalp tingled. He couldn’t have guessed who she was already!

“I was told to confront Monteign and put an offer to him that was better than Ferguson’s. The sight of our soldiers must have confused him. He ambushed us as we came over the hill. We had no choice but to fight. He ignored our signal for a truce.”

Stunned, Clarise digested this new information. She’d always assumed that the Slayer had seized Glenmyre by force. This was the first she’d heard of an attempt at negotiations, but perhaps he was lying to her. Men’s recollections of battle were inevitably skewed.

“Tell me,” he added, sounding reflective. “What was Monteign like? What kind of lord was he?”

The question left her reeling. Did the Slayer feel remorse for his sins?

She summoned a picture of Alec’s father. “He was a father to his people,” she replied. “He was fair, yet stern with them. He was stubborn, too, and loyal to his friends.”

“And was he friends with Ferguson?”

She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “I . . . I don’t know. I was only a servant. However, I . . .” Did she dare say more, to admit to any kind of knowledge? “I rather think he feared Ferguson more than anything.”

All at once it was quiet on the other side of the partition, and the quiet was profound.

“Dame Crucis, would you like fresh clothing?”

The question was the last thing Clarise expected. She was certain he had guessed who she was and was preparing to kill her.

Clothing? She looked down at her worn smock. “Please,” she replied, dazed that he would even concern himself.

She heard him move to the door. Straining to see beyond the alcove, she perceived the outline of his powerful frame.

“I expect you to sup with me once you’ve refreshed yourself. Bring my son with you.”

With that peremptory order, the shadow melted into the darkness, and Clarise was left alone with the baby. She pondered the words she’d shared with his father. No matter how she turned them over in her mind, she was left with one burning impression: The Slayer wasn’t the barbaric warrior she’d believed. His intelligence made him a double-edged sword. And something else . . . he seemed to actually have compassion and remorse—rare qualities indeed for a man of such fearsome repute.

How was she to poison such a man without losing her own life, or worse yet, her soul to eternal hellfire?

Christian shifted his legs under the table and encountered the wolfhound bellycrawling beneath it. The dog did not belong on the dais, but the presence at his feet was comforting. Since no one but the dog dared get so close, he let the interloper stay.