The Slayer's Redemption

by Marliss Melton

  He put the pieces together slowly. “So, if she bore a babe out of wedlock, then mayhap she lies about the husband.”

  “’Twould explain the inconsistencies,” Roger countered. He tapped the side of his goblet with his knife and narrowed his eyes. “Which brings up an entirely new possibility,” he murmured, after a moment of intense reflection.

  “And that is?” Christian prompted.

  “Perhaps she was a courtesan, a leman—”

  “A wagtail,” Christian breathed. Now, this explanation he preferred, for he could feel less guilty about the woman’s loss. “Aye, that would explain her candor with me, the jewelry that she wears about her neck,” he added with growing certainty. “She said it was bronze, but it looks like gold to me.”

  “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, who would have been … Monteign. His excitement abruptly dimmed. “That means ...” He reached for his wine, needing to chase a bitter taste from his tongue.

  “That she might have been Monteign’s concubine,” Roger 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 asked.

  Roger wiped the sheen of grease from his chin. “We have taken our guesses to extremes,” he answered, 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 half-full trencher and stood. The knight’s parting caution echoed in his head as he took the tray from Dame 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, both rooms only a few steps from the stairwell. Christian approached the knight who was supposed to be standing guard. Sir Gregory sat slumped against the wall, his head between his knees, snoring loudly 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, balancing the dinner tray in one hand, and snatched the lit torch from its holder with the other. Angling himself into the nurse’s room, he held the light aloft and looked around.

  Dame Clare lay on the high mattress in the boxed bed, fast asleep, the bed curtains hanging open. By all appearances, she had 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.

  Free to feast his gaze on her, Christian devoured her with his eyes. At last uncovered and brushed to smoothness, her hair poured liquid copper over the lye-bleached pillowcase. She had bathed the dust from her body, revealing pale, soft skin beneath. The room smelled of lavender and woman, stirring luxuriant warmth in him.

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

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

  The cry of his infant penetrated the wall of the nursery. Dame Clare 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, once more stepping over the knight, who blocked the corridor.

  The vision that awaited him brought a choked denial to his throat. Simon lay naked in his cradle, his skin nearly blue with cold, the mat beneath him soaked with urine. The swaddling had been removed and tossed over the footboard.

  Throwing the swaddling over his screaming son, Christian caught him up against his chest—possible now that he had shed his chainmail. “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! First, however, 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 further. 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!” he raged, prodding the man with his toe.

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

  “Someone took the swaddling off my son,” Christian informed 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 you’d do well to keep far from me!”

  “Aye, m’lord,” quaked Sir Gregory. He hobbled away rubbing 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 malice. His blood boiled at the thought. Recalling 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 room. He stared at her in angry disbelief, before depositing Simon at her hip. Turning his small scrunched face, the baby grasped the woman’s gown with his wee fingers and searched desperately for a bosom to latch onto.

  Christian watched his son’s futile efforts for the count of three. Then he put his hand on the woman’s shoulder and shook her hard.

  Chapter Four

  Clarisse 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 had failed to do what Ferguson had commanded.

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

  “Nay!” Clarisse screamed through a tight throat. “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. 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 epith
et, at least for the time being. “Simon is hungry. You were sleeping and failed to wake to his cries.”

  The cold quality of his voice made her scalp tingle. He’d come alone to her chambers? Couldn’t a servant have been sent to awaken her?

  She stared at him, at a loss for words. Anger seemed to emanate from his tense form, and she tried to guess the reason for it. “I was brushing my hair,” she said, still feeling stupid with sleep. She lifted the implement still clutched in her hand. “I must have fallen asleep.” Then the second half of his message registered, snapping her to full wakefulness.

  “Oh, the saints, I beg your pardon!” Her idleness had angered him, of course! She tossed aside the brush and scooped up the baby, clutching him against her chest. Would the Slayer immediately dismiss her? Had she already failed in her mission?

  At her embrace, Simon quietened. Clarisse kissed his forehead in gratitude. Her gaze rose warily to his watchful father who, to her dismay, seated himself on the comer 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 chilling 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 sharp blade. “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 Slayer. 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 Clarisse’s lungs evaporated. “I swear to you, I left him swaddled in clean linens. He was sleeping contentedly.” Her thighs tensed in preparation to bolt from the bed.

  “My lord,” she continued, feeling a fervent desire not only to protect herself from his wrath but also to have him actually trust her when it came to Simon’s innocent life. “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 through the window just then, and the torchlight brightened, revealing his face—one side like an angel’s, the other slashed from eye to jaw. He searched her expression through narrowed eyes. Then he gave a little nod, as though accepting her word.

  “I will have your oath, Dame Clare, that no harm will befall my son when he is with you,” he said, with more warmth. “I am surrounded by those who wish him ill. He is heir to the land that others covet.”

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

  “I will protect him with my life,” she heard herself swear. Even having only just met the babe, she nonetheless spoke true.

  At her promise, the Slayer shifted closer, so that his thigh now touched her knee. The heat of his leg seemed to burn through the fabric of her skirt and the chemise beneath it, raising her awareness of the fact that she was cornered in a little room with a warrior whose reputation for butchering innocents preceded him.

  “Thank you for bringing Simon to my chamber,” she said on a steady note. “He will sleep in this room with me if you prefer.”

  “I prefer it so,” he replied. “One of the servants will bring his cradle over.” He frowned before lapsing into dark thought.

  Given what was expected of her, Clarisse began to unlace her stays—slowly, in the hopes that the Slayer took his cue to leave. When he didn’t, she stilled, refusing to expose her breasts to him a second time.

  He spoke up suddenly. “Since my son is content to be held, you should eat.” He rolled away briefly, reaching for a tray perched on the nearby chest.

  The aroma of food drew her eager gaze to the meat pie in a crusty shell, a generous spoonful of frumenty pudding beside it, and another cup of goat’s milk.

  Beholding her greedy gaze, 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 bed.

  Encouraged by his hospitality, 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 plate and licked her spoon clean.

  All the while, the warrior watched her. Simon’s little fists clutched the fabric of her bodice, but for his part, the baby seemed content. Clarisse eyed the goat’s milk, hoping not to have to drink it herself.

  “My vassal swears that you are fond of goat’s milk,” the Slayer said.

  “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 content, truly.” Would he not simply leave her be? The man made her nervous.

  “There is wine in the conservatory,” he insisted, getting up to fetch it.

  Suspicions swarmed her as he left the chamber. Why was the Slayer suddenly so solicitous when he’d just accused her of neglecting his son? A rash of goose bumps prickled her skin. She thought of her most recent attempt to kill Ferguson. Perhaps he meant to put a potion in her wine, drugging her in order to question her. Unfortunately, Ferguson had only sickened from her attempt, but not died. When he’d rallied, he’d had the idea of sending Clarisse to poison the Slayer.

  Seizing advantage of her solitude, Clarisse pulled the nursing skin out from beneath the pillow where she’d hidden it. She quickly filled the vessel for a second time, having had success with the earlier cup of goat’s milk. Her relief when the babe had latched on to the false teat had nigh brought tears to her eyes. If she could avert the Slayer’s suspicions regarding her identity, she was confident she could help his babe to thrive.

  Stowing the skin beneath the pillow, she waited for the father’s return. Her pulse tapped against her eardrums as she rocked his son. She could hear no evidence of a guard standing vigil outside the nursery door. What had become of the knight introduced to her as Sir Gregory?

  At last, she heard footfalls approaching. The Slayer stepped through the doorway, bearing an earthenware bottle and a silver goblet.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” she hastened to say, “I was so thirsty, I drank the milk after all. I wouldn’t want to waste your wine as I have no need of it.”

  He paused, his black brows sinking slowly over the ridge of his nose. Clarisse cringed. With torchlight licking over him, the man looked huge, dangerous, and angry. She was mad to think she could fool him and get away with it.

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

  Simon responded to his father’s abrupt tone with a sudden shriek. Clarisse nearly smiled at the baby. “I have to feed your son,” she informed him.

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

  Her full stomach began to chum. Would her deception continually be put to the test?

  Laying the baby deliberately in the shadows, she turned her back to the Slayer before loosening her bodice. Reclining next to Simon, she pretended to latch him to a breast while discretely sliding the nursing skin out of hiding. Her heart pounded as she worked the false teat between his lips. He fussed for a moment, keeping her tensely fearful, before finally sucking on it.

  Breathing a silent sigh of relief, Clarisse raised her gaze to the man’s shadow, cast by the light of the brazier, onto the drapes facing 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 frame of the bed.

  “Tell me something, Dame Clare,” 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 steely inquiry turned her cold, then hot. Mercy, but it hadn’t taken them long to notice the discrepancy. 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 could no longer stay at Glenmyre.”

  “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.

  She seized his excuse with gratitude. “Exactly.”

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

  Clarisse relaxed a bit. The warrior was certainly more sociable than she’d imagined him to be. “As I told you, I served Lady Monteign.”

  “So that part of your story is true. But what of the rest?” he asked on a contemplative note. “Perhaps you are here to avenge me on someone’s behalf?” His tone abruptly hardened. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “What?” she cried, wondering if he had guessed her purpose after all.

  “Or are you a spy, sent to take account of my men and weapons?” he mused.

  Worse and worse. “Of course not!” Craning her neck, she met his gaze in a desperate attempt to persuade him of her innocence. With her movement, the nursing skin slipped from Simon’s mouth, and the baby let loose a wail of frustration.