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“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.

With a start of surprise, she realized he felt pity for her loss. Not only was he sympathetic, but instead of threatening her with physical violence, he’d listed his hopes and fears regarding Simon. With his words the lens of fright dropped briefly away, and Clarise found herself looking at a real human being, a vulnerable man.

A very big and powerful warrior-man. She grew suddenly aware of his hard, honed body hovering over her.

“Very clear, my lord,” she whispered, her voice deserting her.

“In exchange for your service to my son, you will enjoy my protection,” he added. “You will sleep on this feathered bed, eat in my hall, and wear the gowns that I give you. Do you question this arrangement?”

“Nay.” She could hardly see past him for the breadth of his shoulders. His arms bulged on either side of her. His neck was thick and corded with muscle. Ferguson wouldn’t stand a chance against him, came the errant thought.

He flashed her his unexpected smile. “Good,” he said, looking suddenly more intent. His gaze shifted to her mouth.

It was then Clarise remembered that her bodice was unlaced. So did he. His gaze traveled lower, where the tight material thrust her full breasts upward. The breath wedged deep in her throat. He did not bother this time to keep his gaze on the pendant. In reaction to his hot stare, her nipples crowned. She couldn’t help it.

“By God, you would tempt a man to madness,” he muttered.

The words sobered her instantly. Did he think she was tempting him? She lifted hands to his shoulder and pushed with agitation, but he didn’t budge.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, taking note of her reaction. The baby curled his fists in her hair and screamed. “Ah, Simon wants you to himself,” he concluded, seeing her wince.

To her melting relief, he lifted himself a fraction higher. Then, just as she expected him to step off the bed, he dipped his head. Clarise’s eyes flew wide. In a gesture as shocking as it was unexpected, he rasped his tongue over her nipple.

Once.

Lightning shot up her spine. She gasped, drawing back into the mattress. The Slayer straightened from the bed. He looked as dazed by his temerity as she was. Dull red color crept toward his cheekbones. “We will speak again,” he warned, falling back on bluster. “And I will have honest answers from you next time.”

With a scowl gathering on his forehead, he retrieved the goblet and pitcher and exited the chamber.

Clarise watched the open doorway in the event that the Slayer returned. To pacify the unhappy baby, she retrieved the nursing skin, which was thankfully unharmed, and stuck it in his mouth. The pendant swayed momentarily against her arm, reminding her again of the nightmare she’d awakened from. She realized with astonishment that she could never bring herself to poison the Slayer.

The man was too decent, too clever, too virile to be dispatched at an early age. He’d had the opportunity to take her by force, and he’d restrained himself. Ferguson would never have let such an opportunity pass. She could not kill the Slayer—not even to save the lives of those she loved.

Dazed by the revelation, Clarise watched little Simon suckling happily, unknowing of all the evil in the world. She’d gotten herself deep into a cover that served no purpose at all but to give her shelter and food. Yet she couldn’t leave now, not when the baby needed her. There had to be another way!

She would try to contact Alec one more time. Alec owed her a boon for abandoning her at the altar. As soon as she got word to him, Alec would raise an army on her behalf and challenge Ferguson’s right to Heathersgill. Alec would be her champion yet. She had not given up on him.

It was well past dawn when Clarise awoke. She had missed the morning meal. She had slept until the sun rose high enough to leap the outer wall and pierce the crack between the bed drapes. She opened one eye and groaned. Alas, it was not a dream.

She was dwelling in the castle of the Slayer. The welfare of the future baron rested on her narrow shoulders. She had her work cut out for her, given the number of times Simon had awakened for a feeding.

And if that were not enough, her virtue was also at stake. The memory of the Slayer’s caress made her groan again. He’d made it shockingly clear that he desired her. And though she knew in her heart that she could never poison him, she had no intention of becoming the Slayer’s lover. The mere thought made her break out in a sudden sweat. She kicked off the covers to relieve the heat.