Nay, she would not dwell on what awfulness could occur. Instead, she glared at the Slayer, standing helpless in the face of uncertainty, until he was the first to look away.
“I will send for his bed,” he muttered. Stalking toward the door, he bellowed for a servant. At his yell, Simon neither flinched nor flailed.
Regarding his tiny, limp body, Clarisse thought of her sister Merry—still young but adept at healing. If only Merry were near enough to offer her advice. Alas, the Slayer trusted no one near or about Helmsley to help them. Simon would have to survive whatever ailed him with only love and comfort to get him through.
“Oh, God,” she cried, closing her eyes to send up a swift prayer while at the same time giving thanks for not having admitted who she really was. For if Simon sickened and died, the Slayer might have assumed she’d sickened him at Ferguson’s behest.
Only if the babe recovered fully would she even think of casting herself on the Slayer’s mercy again.
Chapter Nine
Christian was used to sleepless nights. More times than he could count, he had stood watch beneath the heavens and not succumbed to drowsiness. The Wolf had molded him into a disciplined soldier. Like a smithy, he had hammered his son into an instrument that felt neither pain nor deprivation. The Wolf had taught him that mercy to the enemy could be fatal, that might prevailed, and that morality was the great tormenter of souls.
In one hideous night’s work, Christian had implemented every tool of war that the Wolf had taught him. He had killed his father in his very own bedchamber. He had slaughtered the Wolf’s men who came after him. He had set fire to Wendesby, and the smoke had killed both women and children who ran before the flames. At the time, he’d felt no remorse, only blinding fury. That was the night he had learned the Wolf was his father—a vicious, war-loving rapist.
Remorse had found him before dawn. Fury faded in a matter of hours. Then and still, the screams of innocents haunted him nightly. His soul bled with remorse for the slaughter committed by his hand. Moreover, sleep was no longer a refuge for him but a place of anguish.
His envious gaze fell to the breathtaking woman who now slept in his chamber. Clare de Bouvais suffered no affliction like his. After hours of fervent prayer and silent vigil, she had wilted onto the edge of the bed next to the baby’s cradle. Her body remained turned toward Simon with one arm out-flung to keep a hand on him, protecting him, even in her sleep.
Christian gazed at her in the light of the sputtering tallow lamps, and his bitterness softened at the miracle of what he saw. This woman was no enemy. She could not have been the one to steal the covers off his son, to sicken him.
In the past twelve hours, she had devoted herself to easing Simon’s discomfort as the babe wailed in misery. She had wiped him clean when he’d expelled foul-smelling stool that made it look as if the baby had been poisoned.
By whom? And how?
It could have been only when Clare’s back was turned. She would have to increase her vigilance in the future—and he could not think otherwise than that there would be a future for his son. If need be, she could bring Simon to him when she needed a moment alone.
His mistrust of her had fled in the face of her loving attentiveness. He now knew he could trust her. She did love Simon, just as she’d insisted in that quavering voice that seemed to bespeak strong emotion. That marvelous circumstance made him wonder if she might bring herself to love him, too? Or was he being selfish to desire such a gift?
One of the lamps dimmed, telling him the wick was drowning. It was well past midnight. Rising from his desk, he crossed to the open window. A brief spell of rain had passed, leaving thick patches of mist floating above the land. It looked like fleecy sheep were dotting the meadow. He closed the shutters and moved to stand over the baby’s cradle.
Simon had suffered pains that could only be communicated through his cries. Nell could not supply fresh cloths at the same rate that Simon soiled them. The baby’s suffering had driven home Christian’s helplessness. He had relived the fear he’d felt at Simon’s birth—that his babe would be snatched away; that his lonely marriage and Genrose’s sacrifice had been for naught.
However, Clare, with her tender and efficient touch, had brought the baby through the worst of it. Her voice, her consolation, had done as much to comfort Christian as it had his baby. Gratitude put a vice on his heart.
Kneeling by the cradle, he studied his sleeping son. Simon’s skin was still waxen, his eyelids sunken and bruised. Bending his head, Christian found a prayer on his lips.
He had not prayed for more than thirteen years—not since the Wolf discovered the altar he had built in a corner of the stable. Christian had been mocked by the heathen Dane for his piety and flogged for seeking help from anyone, even God. Especially God!
Helpless men pray, Dirk of Wendesby had scoffed.
I am helpless.
There was nothing within the range of Christian’s powers that would save his infant’s life. The choice was entirely up to God.
With hot tears pooling in his eyes, he begged the Almighty to spare Simon. A part of him still felt that he was wasting his time. He did not deserve a son. And wishing for a woman’s tenderness was an even bigger waste of his time.
The sound of fervent whispers brought Clarisse awake. Finding her arm numb from its awkward placement, she adjusted her position and cracked an eye. Christian knelt on the other side of the cradle, his head bent over the baby, palms locked together.
He is praying, she realized with amazement. Moreover, his Latin was perfect.
A rush of empathy brought a lump to her throat. She gazed at him for what seemed an eternity. He was an enigma to her! One moment he struck her as merciless and fear- inspiring. The next he demonstrated a deep streak of honor and generosity. He was well read, with nearly as many books in his solar as her father had owned.
Ignoring her discomfort, she decided not to disturb him. He needed peace in his heart more than anyone she had ever met. Besides, it pleased her to watch him, to know that he was just as human as she was. At last, her eyelids grew heavy and drifted shut. She gave brief thought to the fact that she was lying in the Slayer’s bed. Yet she suffered no fear of ravishment.
I like you, he had said to her today. The simple proclamation offered reassurance in spite of how quickly he’d accused her of making Simon ill.
Soft yellow light penetrated Clarisse’s eyelids. The gentle cooing of a pigeon came from somewhere close by. In the courtyard, a supply wagon rumbled over the cobbles. Reluctantly she opened her eyes. She could not remember for a moment where she was. Then she recognized the azure drapes on the Slayer’s bed. She was lying in his solar.
Turning her head on the pillow, she gave a gasp to find him sleeping silently beside her, his jaw dark with unshaved bristles. A streak of hair had fallen over his forehead, softening the severity of his brow. The scarred half of his face was buried in the pillow.
How youthful he looks without that flaw, she thought. How handsome.
Her gaze wandered from the powerful curve of his cheekbone to his stubbornly square chin. His mouth fascinated her. She wondered what it would feel like if he kissed her.
Then she remembered Simon.
Holding her breath, she rolled the other way, peering wide-eyed into the cradle next to her, terrified she would find the baby dead.
He looked utterly at peace. At the telltale rise and fall of his chest, she bit back a sob of relief. Touching a finger to Simon’s cheek, she found his skin warm, but not overly so. The color had returned to his face.
Releasing a cry of joy, Clarisse laid her head back on the pillow, jarring the mercenary into wakefulness. He sprang up, gripped her by the shoulders, and pinned her to the mattress before she uttered a word.
She found herself trapped beneath his rock-hard body, the breath pushed from her lungs. As she struggled to inhale, the scent of juniper and manliness washed over her. The heat of his body seeped through her clothing and warm
ed her skin. Christian looked just as astonished as she was to find that they were pressed together, chest to thigh.
Putting his hands to the bed, he lifted some of his weight, but not all of it His alert gaze centered on her lips. “My apologies,” he said, not sounding at all contrite. And then he rolled away.
Clarisse felt robbed of something. It took her a second to remember the reason for her joy. She sat up and seized the Slayer’s white shirt, noting how soft it felt against his muscled arm.
“Simon is well!” she cried. She bounced to her knees and gestured at the cradle. “Look! He sleeps peacefully.”
Hope kindled in the warrior’s eyes. He scooted across the bed and leaned over the cradle to study his son. She remembered his fervent prayers during the dark hours, and she was certain they had been answered. Tears of gratitude sprang to her eyes.
“Praise God,” said the Slayer hoarsely. He glanced at her then, catching sight of her damp gaze. A long-fingered hand came up and wiped away the tear that had seeped over her lashes. “Is this happiness?” he asked.
His thumb was warm and callused. As it stroked her cheek, she experienced a melting sensation and leaned unconsciously toward his palm, which for a moment, cupped her cheek.
“I am grateful Simon is restored to good health. I was so afraid,” she pushed the confession through her throat, “that you would blame me if ...” She couldn’t finish the thought
He nodded as if understanding, but he looked away, his eyes narrowing. “Yet, you have practiced some deceit,” he accused quietly.
The blood slipped from her face in an instant. What had he discovered?
“Deceit?” she repeated. “What do you mean?” She was amazed that her voice remained so steady.
“Have you let Simon drink goat's milk as well as your own?”
She stared at him dumbstruck. Somehow, he had learned her secret. Yet why was he not incensed by her deceit and even now threatening to kill her?
“How … how do you know?” she stammered, her throat constricting with dread.
“Dame Maeve found these items in your chamber.” Leaning over the bed, he picked up the bucket and nursing skin she had been using to keep Simon alive. “She brought them to me at dawn this morning.”
Dame Maeve! She must have found the items stored inside the chest while cleaning her chamber. Had she suspected her all along? With a stab of suspicion, Clarisse wondered if she had been the one to leave the full pail of milk in the goat pen. Simon had sickened the next day.
Had the milk merely been rancid? Or—God forbid—poisoned? Either way, her fraudulence had been exposed. Or had it?
“I only used it once or twice,” she protested in a thin voice. “To fatten him up. Simon’s appetite is voracious.”
The Slayer rolled out of bed. At first, she thought he meant to snatch up his sword and kill her with it, but he strode right past the weapon to the water basin, where he splashed water on his face and rinsed his mouth.
Feeling like a piece of fraying rope, she awaited his reaction. Would he believe her additional lie or did he suspect the full truth—that goat’s milk was all the baby ever got?
At last, he turned around, dragging a cloth over his face to dry it.
“Show me,” he demanded.
“Sh-show you?” she stammered.
“I would see Simon suckle at your breast and find his contentment.”
“But you’ve seen him nurse before.”
“Indulge me,” he demanded.
The unyielding tone of his voice made it apparent that she had no choice.
“Very well,” she retorted, lifting her chin, her heartbeat speeding up with fear. “But he is sleeping. He needs his rest after such an awful night.”
“He needs sustenance to make him strong again.”
“I agree. And I will fill his belly with my own milk when he awakens.”
For a long moment, they stared each other down. At last, the Slayer nodded, freeing her to breathe again. “Very well,” he agreed. Crossing to the cradle, he looked down at his sleeping son. A small, contented smile curved his lips, easing Clarisse’s fears that he still suspected her.
“Why do you love him?” he asked, looking up at her.
She looked down at Simon and up at the father, perplexed. “How could I not? He is perfect. He is innocent.”
“And I am not,” mused the Slayer.
What did he mean by that?
To her alarm, he rounded the cradle and sat himself beside her. The robes beneath the bed creaked in protest. Ducking his head, he leaned toward her and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. Clarisse drew back with a gasp.
“What was that for?” she asked.
“A kiss of gratitude,” he said. “You saved Simon’s life yet again.”
In truth, she might have nearly killed the babe by giving him rancid or poisoned milk. Yet why would the steward’s wife want to poison the babe if she only meant to teach Clarisse a lesson?
“Please.” Clarisse shook her head. “Do not thank me. I take pleasure in caring for him.”
“I can see that,” he said in a voice both soft and gruff. “I like to watch you with him.”
“Do you?”
“May I kiss you again?” he asked, causing her heart to skip a beat. “On the lips this time?”
She searched his mysterious gaze, darker now that they were half-concealed beneath his heavy eyelids. “I think it unwise to do so, my lord.” How could her words sound so normal when her heart seemed to be pounding in her throat?
“Christian,” he corrected.
“My Sir Christian,” she said unthinkingly, barely breathing.
He smiled at that, then looked at her lips again before returning his determined gaze to hers. “Just one small kiss?” he pleaded.
She found it oddly difficult to refuse him with her curiosity already piqued. “If you must,” she answered warily.
He bestowed on her his rare smile, lowered his head, and fused his lips to hers. Gentle and warm, his mouth caressed hers briefly and then withdrew, giving rise to a fervent desire in her for more.
Without considering the consequences, she reached for him, slipping a hand into his hair and pulling his head back down for more. She had once kissed Alec to convey the depths of her love and willingness to wed him. In this instance, she had nothing in mind but to feel the Slayer’s mouth on hers, actually enjoying the thrill of courting danger.
His eyes flashed a warning as his lips touched hers. Capturing her jaw with the tips of his fingers, he pressed his thumb to her chin, causing her mouth to open. His tongue stroked between her lips inspiring a flood of warmth in her belly.
The kiss went on and on, sucking her into a warm pool of sensation that made her cling to him and kiss him back. Never had she known a kiss could be so sweet, so intoxicating. When the Slayer lifted his head, she gave a cry of protest.
He pressed her smoothly back against the pillows, and she sank into the softness, disoriented. The room seemed to wheel behind her eyelids as their mouths fused again, deeper this time.
The hard length of his body pressing down on her gratified some mysterious need within her. She arched against him, yearning with some vague hungering for more. Her breasts seemed to swell and to throb. The juncture of her thighs tingled.
His hand molded her hip and slid along the indentation of her waist. His touch inflamed the strange, new restlessness that was building in her. When at last his hand closed over the swell of one breast, she murmured her approval.
With a groan, the warrior squeezed her tenderly. Then he tore his lips from hers and nipped her shoulder through the material of her gown.
The light sting intensified her sensitivity. His mouth moved lower. Suddenly he was grazing her erect nipple through her bodice with his teeth. She moaned aloud at the stabbing pleasure. Then he closed his mouth over the linen and sucked, straight through the moistened fabric, his mouth hot and insistent.
Clarisse cried out in mixed astonis
hment and delight. She sank her fingers into his hair, confused by the impulse to both pull him closer and to squirm free.
“My lord, you must stop,” she uttered in a voice without substance.
His mouth moved stealthily upward and kissed her into acquiescence. She briefly forgot her concerns; after all, kissing could cause no harm. But then he pressed his hips against hers, and the enormous proof of his arousal brought her quickly to her senses.
With sudden alarm, she began to struggle.
“Let me go,” she begged between his kisses. In retrospect, she realized she should never have encouraged his attentions at all. She should never have fallen asleep in his chamber. “I said, let me go!”
The Slayer lifted his head. He stared at her stricken face and frowned. Then he thrust himself away. Whatever he might have said, whether in apology or in anger, was forestalled by a pounding at the door. He leaped from the bed and went to answer it.
At least he had the presence of mind to shield her from the caller’s view. She could only imagine what she looked like with her hair in disarray and her clothes disheveled!
“My lord,” Sir Roger rapped out. “Our spies say Ferguson will strike Glenmyre at dawn tomorrow.”
The Slayer seemed to grow in size as he gripped the door latch. “Tell Justin to ready my horse. I will speak with you anon. Let me dress.”
He shut the portal quietly. Clarisse slipped to the edge of the bed and hugged herself to quell her inward trembling. Without looking at her, Christian moved toward his boots. He stamped his feet inside them and laced them quickly. Silence grew to unbearable proportions. When he straightened again, he seemed to have made a decision.
“Watch over Simon carefully,” he instructed, scowling so fiercely she was tempted to flinch. “No one may tend him but you,” he added. “And no more goat's milk. Swear it to me.” His gaze was locked with hers.
She swallowed hard. He would see it if she lied. She just knew it.
“I swear,” she whispered, wondering how on earth she was going to keep her word. She would have to find a local woman, someone to whom she could take Simon for feedings.
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