His words made her think of Ferguson. She considered, not for the first time, that the Scot would also want the baby dead, for Simon was the rightful heir to the seat of Helmesly. She looked down at the innocent infant, stricken by the thought of him murdered. Had Ferguson also sent someone to kill the baby?

She rebelled at the thought. “I will protect him with my life,” she heard herself say, and she found that she meant it.

Clarise grew suddenly aware that the Slayer’s thigh was touching her knee. She could feel the heat of him through the linen fabric of her skirts. This was far too intimate. She was boxed in a little room with a warrior who watched her every move. There was every chance that he would realize her deceit if she didn’t guard her words and actions carefully.

“Thank you for bringing Simon to my chamber,” she said, encouraging him to leave. “He will sleep in this room with me if you prefer.”

“I prefer it so,” said the warlord, giving her permission to move the cradle to her chambers.

She adjusted the baby, as though preparing to nurse, but the Slayer didn’t budge. “Since my son is content to be held, you should eat. You must have nourishment to feed him.” He stood up and retrieved a tray from the nearby chest.

Clarise noticed for the first time the aroma of pastry. Her gaze fell greedily to the meat pie in a crusty shell. To the side was a cup of Frumenty pudding. Her stomach gave a hollow rumble.

Hearing it, the Slayer flashed her the same brief smile she’d seen before and placed the tray by her bent legs. “Eat,” he invited, sitting more comfortably at the end of the mattress.

With the smile encouraging her, she attacked the food with gusto. Even while leaning over the now quiet baby, she managed to consume as much as her stomach could contain. She scraped the last bit of pudding from the cup and licked her spoon clean.

The warlord watched her every move with his gray-green eyes. Simon’s little fists clutched the fabric of her bodice, but for his part, the baby seemed content. Clarise eyed the goat’s milk—the only drink upon the tray. She was relieved not to have to ask for it again. But given the warlord’s vigilance, she feared she would have to drink it herself.

“My vassal swears that you are fond of goat’s milk,” he remarked.

“Very fond.” She smothered a burp. “However, I shall have to save it for later. I’m exceedingly full.”

“Wine, then,” he suggested, coming to his feet. “You must have something to drink.”

“I am fine, truly.” She wished he would simply leave the room. The man made her nervous.

“There is wine in the conservatory,” he insisted. “ ’Tis no trouble at all to fetch it.”

She watched with dismay as he left the chamber. Why was the Slayer so solicitous, she wondered, when he’d just questioned her about the care she’d given his son? A rash of goose bumps prickled her skin. Perhaps he meant to drug her with wine, first, and then he would question her.

She seized advantage of his absence to pull the nursing skin from beneath the pillow. She filled the vessel for a second time, having had success with it earlier. Then she put it back beneath the pillow and waited for the Slayer’s return. Her pulse tapped against her eardrums. She could hear no evidence of a guard standing outside the nursery door. What has become of Sir Gregory? she wondered.

At last she heard the unmistakable tread of the warlord. He stepped through the doorway, bearing an earthenware bottle and a silver goblet.

“Forgive me, lord,” she hastened to say, “but I was so thirsty I drank the milk after all. I’ve no need of wine, now.”

He halted in his tracks, his black brows sinking slowly over the ridge of his nose. Clarise cringed at her unfortunate timing. With torchlight licking over him, the man looked huge, dangerous, and angry. She was insane to think she could manipulate him.

“You will share it with me,” he insisted on a growl.

Simon responded to his father’s threat with a shriek. Clarise nearly smiled at the baby. “I have to feed your son,” she informed him, seizing the excuse.

He stalked to the high bed. “Then we will speak whilst you nurse him,” he insisted.

Her full stomach began to churn. Her deception would be put to the test again.

She laid the baby deliberately in the shadows and turned her back on the seneschal to loosen her bodice as before. Reclining by Simon, she pretended to latch him to a breast. Instead, she pulled the nursing skin from its hiding place and stuck the tip into Simon’s mouth, counting on the shadows to hide it. The baby latched on as eagerly as before.

Scarcely breathing, Clarise eyed the Slayer’s shadow, cast by torchlight onto the bed curtain before her. She saw him raise an arm, saw the wine’s reflection sparkle as he filled his goblet. Stoneware clinked against the floor. Then he propped a shoulder on the bedpost.

“Tell me something, Dame Crucis,” he murmured in a voice buttressed by determination. “Was your husband recently killed by Ferguson, as you led me to believe, or was he slain in a different skirmish? Or could it be you lied on both accounts?”

The cool inquiry turned her cold, then hot. Mercy, but it hadn’t taken them long to notice the discrepancy. She cursed herself for not sticking to her original story. Now he would question her until she broke down and told the truth. Her disguise was a flimsy one indeed.

“I never had a husband,” she admitted, seeing that option as the best solution to her needs.

“Ah.” He sounded happy to hear it. “Then what brings you here?” he finally asked.

Panic fluttered up and down her spine. “I told you, I could stay at Glenmyre no longer.”

“Why?” he asked predictably.

“I was ashamed,” she said, making up her answers as she went along. Luckily, this little bit seemed to fit.

“Ashamed to bear a child out of wedlock?” he asked mildly.

“Aye.”

“What line of work did you do before?” This was asked in almost pleasant tones.

Clarise relaxed a bit. The warlord was certainly more sociable than she’d imagined him to be. “Well, I was, er, a reading tutor,” she replied. She winced the moment the words were out, for she’d never heard of a woman performing such work.

“Is that why you speak French so well?”

“I studied French at a convent.” ’Twas logical, she told herself.

“Which one?”

“St. Giles,” she said firmly. She’d made the name up.

“I’ve never heard of St. Giles, though my mother is the Abbess of St. Cecily.”

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, refusing to mire her any deeper. His mother was a nun? Nay, she must have misheard him.

“Tell me the truth now, Clare,” he cajoled. His voice grew compelling and seductive. “Why did you come here?”

The blood rushed frantically through her. She was tempted to tell him everything—he hadn’t believed her lies anyway. Yet her dream seemed to warn her that defying Ferguson would result in the death of her mother and sisters. If she apprised the Slayer of the truth, their lives would be forfeit. She could say nothing of her purpose.

“I needed work and wages, ’tis all,” she helplessly insisted.

“Are you here to avenge me on someone’s behalf?” he pressed, the seductive tenor of his voice cooling abruptly.

“What!” she cried, wondering if he knew the truth all along. Had he simply ben toying with her?”

“Are you a spy, sent to take account of my men and weapons?”

Worse and worse. “Of course not!” she cried. She twisted her head around in order to persuade him of her innocence. The nursing skin slipped from Simon’s mouth, and the baby let loose a high-pitched cry.

The Slayer frowned with concern, then began to unfold. He’s going to stand! Clarise realized with paralyzing fear. He’ll see what I’m doing! She shoved the nursing skin beneath the pillow, and Simon raged at the sudden deprivation.

“What goes wrong?” the lord demanded. “Why is he not sucking?” In addition to towering over the bed, he felt inclined to raise his voice. Simon responded in kind, his cries growing louder.

Under the threat of doom, Clarise raised her own voice. “He must have quiet, my lord!” she informed him firmly. “Please, sit down and I will calm him!” Her imperious suggestion brought an incredulous look to the Slayer’s face.

Very slowly he put the goblet on the floor. Simon roared in Clarise’s right ear. The Slayer’s shadow fell across the bed. She realized he was crawling onto the mattress, over her. His long fingers sank into the pillow on either side of her head. She had visions of the bladder spewing milk onto the sheets.

Ignoring Simon’s cries, the Slayer lowered his face until his eyes were level with her own. This is it, Clarise considered. Shock slipped over her with the feel of hot oil. He will force me now, and I will be helpless to stop him.

She willed her eyes to shut, but the scar that raked the length of his cheek held her spellbound. His body was so close that she could smell a hint of juniper mixed with the fruity scent of wine.

“Let us settle one thing now,” he told her in a voice as hard as the links of armor he’d thankfully shed. “Simon is heir to the Baronetcy of Helmesly, and that is more than I will ever be. To be baron, he must first survive his infancy. He must have the best care, the best food, the best this world can offer. Do I make myself very clear, Dame Crucis?”

“Yes!” she gasped, struck by his honesty.

“You of all people should understand how I would feel if something were to happen to him.” A flicker of sympathy showed in his face as he said those words.

I, of all people? She tried to grasp what he was saying. He could only be referring to the babe she was supposedly grieving.