“It also explains why she bore a child out of wedlock, why she has come to serve you as overlord of Glenmyre.” Sir Roger imbued the word with all its baser connotations.

Christian felt his ardor rise. The woman had come to serve him in the absence of her former lord. All at once, his excitement dimmed. “That means . . .” He reached for his wine, needing to chase a bitter taste from his tongue.

“That she might have been Monteign’s leman,” Saintonge supplied.

Christian thrust the unpleasant image from his mind. Monteign had been a big and burly man, more than twice Clare Crucis’s age.

They sat for a moment in private contemplation.

“Do you think she seeks a new protector?” Christian dared to ask.

Sir Roger wiped the sheen of grease from his chin. “We have taken our guesses to extremes,” he replied, crushing his lord’s burgeoning hopes. “She might also be a spy, sent to take stock of our defenses. Or to avenge a husband’s death.”

Those same fears had coursed Christian’s mind like muddy rivers, sullying the relief that Simon had been saved. “I will get the truth from her yet,” he vowed, hurrying to finish.

With eagerness whittling away his appetite, he abandoned his trencher and stood. The knight’s parting caution echoed in his head as he took the tray from Maeve and carried it up the stairs.

Try subtlety, my lord. It works better than threat.

The room that Clare had been allotted stood adjacent to the nursery. Christian approached the knight who was supposed to be standing guard. Sir Gregory sat on the floor with his back to the wall and his head between his knees. He snored loud enough to herald an army.

“God’s toes!” Christian muttered, battling the urge to jerk the old man to his feet. He stepped over him instead and snatched the torch from the holder. Angling himself into the nurse’s room, he held the torch aloft and looked around.

Dame Crucis lay on the high mattress, fast asleep. By all appearances, she’d intended to join him. She wore the gown he’d found in his late mother-in-law’s discarded wardrobe. A brush lay loosely in her palm. It appeared that she had simply wilted onto the bedcovers, lulled by the warmth of the brazier.

In the innocent posture of sleep, she didn’t look capable of spawning any mischief. She did, however, fit the description of a female valued for her womanly charms. Brushed to smoothness, her hair poured fire over the bleached pillowcase. She had bathed the dust from her body, revealing pale, soft flesh beneath. The room smelled of lavender and woman.

Even in a dress more suited to a matron, she possessed a sensual allure. The turquoise bodice strained across her breasts, its laces scarcely meeting. Christian’s gaze moved from her tiny waist to the flare of her hips. Her skirts molded the shapely length of her splayed thighs, invited his gaze to fall into the indent between them. How simple it was to imagine himself moving over her, pressing himself into her vulnerable core.

Christian gave himself a mental shake. He could not afford to blind himself with lust until he knew the woman’s purpose.

The cry of his infant penetrated the wall of the nursery. Clare Crucis stirred but failed to waken. Witnessing the extent of her exhaustion, Christian placed the tray beside the bed and carried the torch to the nursery, stepping over the knight, who blocked the corridor.

The vision that awaited him brought choked denial to his throat. Simon lay naked in his box, his skin nearly blue with cold. The swaddling had been taken off him and tossed over the end of the cradle. He wore no soiling cloth, and the crib was wet with urine.

Christian threw the swaddling over his screaming son and caught him up. “Hush,” he soothed, rubbing the baby’s limbs to speed the return of warmth. The infant’s distress filled him with helpless rage.

How long had Simon lain there shivering? Had Clare Crucis done this to him? By God, he would tear her limb from limb if he saw guilt upon the nurse’s face! But first he would teach that doddering, old knight not to sleep on the job.

With his temples throbbing, he girded his baby’s loins in a fresh soiling cloth and swaddled him as best he could. His ministrations only enraged the infant more. Simon’s fists broke free of the inept swaddling, and he bellowed loud enough to make the chamber echo.

Sir Gregory muttered in protest as Christian stalked into the hall. “Get up!” the warlord snapped, prodding the man with his toe.

The knight threw his head up suddenly, smacking it against the wall. With a cry of pain, he scrambled to his feet, muttering unintelligibly.

“Someone took the swaddling off my son,” Christian told him in a voice that made his own blood run cold.

Sir Gregory’s mouth fell open. “Oh!” he cried. “I . . . I . . . I didn’t see anything.”

“Of course not, you sluggard,” Christian snarled. “You were sleeping! Go and tell Sir Roger what just happened, and stay well away from me!”

“Aye, m’lord,” quaked Sir Gregory. He hobbled away with a hand pressed to the growing lump on his head.

Christian glared after him. With some portion of his wrath thus exorcised, he turned to the nurse’s chamber. ’Twould have been a simple thing for her to perpetrate this mischief. His blood boiled at the thought. Recalling Sir Roger’s advice, however, he tempered his rage and pledged himself to subtlety.

The baby still wailed, but the woman slept on as Christian entered the chamber. He stared at her in angry disbelief, then deposited Simon by her hip. The baby grasped her gown and turned his cheek in a desperate search for milk. Christian watched his futile efforts for a moment. Then he put his hand on the woman’s shoulder and shook her hard.









Chapter Four


















Clarise pushed herself to run faster, but her legs kept tangling in her skirts. The hallways of Heathersgill seemed endless as she raced for the courtyard. At last she burst through the oak door. It was nearly too late. Her mother and sisters were lined up on the gallows with kerchiefs covering their eyes. They would die because she failed to do what Ferguson had commanded.

“Stop!” she screamed, racing across the cobbled area. The Scot was standing on the platform behind them. At her cry of protest her stepfather grinned through his flaming beard and shoved the stool out from her mother’s feet. Jeanette dropped abruptly, then dangled like a doll on the end of a rope.

“Nay!” Clarise screamed through a tight throat. “You bloody bastard! Murderer!”

The sound of her own voice snatched her from her dream. Her eyes flew wide in time to see a shadow looming over her, but it wasn’t Ferguson. She gasped and scrambled backward. The man was immense. Something small jerked against her hip. Its wail of distress oriented her at once.

She realized with horror that she had just called the Slayer a murderer. In the wavering orange light, she could barely make out his features.

“ ’Tis I,” he rasped, ignoring the epithet, at least for the time being. “Simon is hungry. You were sleeping and failed to wake to his cries.”

The accusation in his voice made her scalp tingle. He’d come alone to her chambers? Couldn’t a servant be sent to awaken her?

“Your pardon.” She tried to decipher the mercenary’s mood. Anger seemed to emanate from his tense form, and she tried to guess the reason for it. “I was combing my hair.” She lifted the brush she still clutched in her hand. “I must have fallen asleep.” Perhaps he was upset that she hadn’t joined him at supper.

It was no excuse, but after her bath, the warmth of the brazier had left her so drowsy, she sank onto the feather mattress, grateful that she hadn’t been given a straw one, and that had been her last thought.

You were sleeping and failed to hear his cries. “Oh, the saints, I beg your pardon!” It was her sloth that angered him, of course! She reached for the baby at once, pressing him to her breast. Would the Slayer dismiss her? Would all hope of saving her family be dashed because she’d succumbed to exhaustion?

The moment she lifted him, Simon quieted. Clarise kissed his petal-soft cheek, grateful for the baby’s cooperation. Her gaze slid warily to his watchful father. To her dismay, the Slayer seated himself on the corner of the bed. The mattress dipped and the bed ropes creaked.

“You have a way with him,” he growled. The words would have eased her fears if not accompanied by that same threatening undertone.

“Th-thank you,” she stammered. “He is easy to love, as most babies are.”

Silence stretched over the next minute, interrupted only by a soft crackle from the brazier.

“Did you take the blankets off my son?” he asked.

The question came unexpectedly, like a cut from a razor. “I’m sorry?” She didn’t understand.

“I found my son, just now, with no swaddling to warm him and no soiling cloth, either. He was naked and shivering.”

She stared dumbfounded at the warlord. With his face in shadow, she could make out only two features: his rock-hard chin and glowing eyes. He had spoken through his teeth.

The breath in Clarise’s lungs evaporated. “I swear to you, I left him swaddled in clean linens. He was sleeping contentedly.” Her thighs tensed with the urge to flee. “Lord de la Croix,” she gasped, picking up speed as she begged for mercy, “I swear it on my soul I would never hurt this babe. You must believe me! Someone else must have slipped into the nursery intending to harm him.”

A breeze blew softly through the window, and the torchlight brightened, revealing his face—one side like an angel’s, the other slashed from eye to jaw. He searched her face to see if she lied. Then he gave a little nod, as though accepting her word. “I will have your oath, Dame Crucis, that no harm will befall my son when he is with you,” he said, with far less violence. “I am surrounded by those who wish him ill. He is heir to the land that others covet.”