He pressed a finger to Simon’s palm and received a hearty squeeze. Amazement coursed through his veins. The urge to laugh made his throat tickle.
He glanced toward the empty doorway, relieved that no one had overheard his rusty chuckle. The nurse was dawdling, he thought, with exasperation. She’d had time enough to recover from her travels. Now was the time for honesty. If she were linked to the minstrel’s subterfuge in any way, they would know it today.
Still, he had his doubts. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but the thoughts flickering in the nurse’s eyes were not shifty thoughts. There were times when she was truly afraid of him, but they were few and far between. Rather, she watched him as if assessing him. He hoped it meant she was toying with the notion of coming to his bed. His blood quickened at the thought.
He growled in irritation at her delay. The sooner the truth of the matter was unburied, the sooner he would know if his burgeoning desire would find release. It had been so long, so long since a woman had held him tenderly.
Ignoring the heaviness in his groin, he turned his attention back to Simon. The future Baron of Helmesly, he thought with bone-deep satisfaction. No one would call his son a bastard. He would be loved by all and, in turn, rule his vast demesne with justice and might.
Clarise lingered in the garderobe for as long as she dared. With the water that trickled through a pipe from a cistern on the roof, she wet a sponge and rubbed it on the harsh lye soap. The tales that she would tell today left her feeling less than wholesome. She gave herself a cat bath, then scrubbed her teeth and plaited her hair.
In vain she tried to smooth the rumpled dress, yet it didn’t really matter what she looked like, she decided, ceasing to groom herself. She might confess to having been a man’s mistress, but that didn’t mean she had to look the part.
Helping herself to a few stolen moments, she gathered her thoughts before returning to her chamber. She didn’t like to have to lie, and she prayed that Monteign’s soul would forgive her. She had always thought of him as her future father-in-law, and she was certain he had viewed her as a daughter. Nonetheless, this was the surest way to avert suspicion. The Slayer had come too close, too many times, to guessing who she really was.
Returning slowly to her chamber, she drew up short at the scene that awaited her. The Slayer had seated himself on the chest in which the pail of milk was stowed. With the baby in his arms, he looked halfway tamed, but for the locks of dark hair falling to his shoulders as he gazed intently down at his son.
She approached them cautiously and took in Simon’s rapt expression. “He wants to be like you,” she said, intending her words to be a compliment.
The warlord’s head came up swiftly. “Why the devil would he want that?” He gave her his fiercest scowl.
She would have thought the answer was obvious. “You’re a mighty warrior, the best there is.”
His eyes narrowed as he fixed them fully on her.
She realized she’d revealed too much of her own fascination for the man. “All boys want to be like their father,” she added belatedly.
He gave a smile that was more a baring of his teeth. “Not all,” he refuted.
She remembered suddenly that the warlord was a bastard. She wondered if he’d even known his father.
He must have read the question in her eyes. “My father was the Wolf of Wendesby,” he said in a voice as harsh as the lye soap she’d just used.
Clarise’s brain stuttered at the news. “The Wolf? But . . . that means you—”
“Killed him,” he finished for her. He rose swiftly, causing the baby to fling out his little arms.
Not just the Wolf, but every other living soul at Wendesby.
Clarise watched him stalk to the door. My God, she thought. Wasn’t it enough that he’d killed the Lady Genrose and the minstrel, too? Every time she thought the warlord worth redemption, she discovered another flaw in him.
She remembered suddenly that they would need the cradle. She called him back.
He rounded on her with amazement. “Aren’t you afraid to talk to me now?” he snarled.
In the light of what she had just learned, she ought to be. Her ears still rang with the knowledge of who his father was: a Danish warlord who’d ravaged the countryside during her father’s era. “Should I be?” she dared to ask, holding her breath as she awaited his answer.
His gray-green eyes burned with an emotion she couldn’t understand. “You and Saintonge are the only people who ever speak to me.”
The admission was as unexpected as it was pitiful. It came to her in a flash that this man was lonely. “Why did you kill your father?” she pressed, wanting desperately to hear a reasonable reply.
The muscles of his chest flexed beneath the linen tunic. “ ’Tisn’t a matter I discuss with strangers.”
She felt a peculiar twinge in her chest. “I just want to . . . to . . .” She shrugged, unable to voice the warring emotions inside of her, both disdain for his actions and sympathy for his plight. Added to those was the alarming knowledge that she didn’t want him to consider her a stranger. “I am trying to understand you, Christian de la Croix,” she admitted, her voice quavering.
The mask of anger slipped briefly from his face, usurped by surprise. Just as quickly he veiled his gaze, bending to place Simon in his cradle. “I am what you see,” he said quietly. With that, he lifted the cradle effortlessly and turned away to carry it to the hall.
Clarise trailed close behind. Her gaze strayed to the wild locks of his hair. The black strands looked soft to the touch. The scent of juniper trailed after him, betraying that he had bathed recently. The breadth of his shoulders blocked her view of the stairwell entirely. I am what you see, he’d said.
What she saw was an awesome warrior, a man possessed by demons, a lonely man. She needed his strength and experience. But asking for his help was like bargaining with the very devil. If anyone could free her family from Ferguson, it was this man. But she would have to sell her soul to him to gain their liberation. And she wasn’t quite brave enough to do it.
What would the Slayer do if he learned she was Clarise DuBoise, the stepdaughter of his archrival? What made her think that she might even have the chance to bargain with him at all? Perhaps he would strike her dead the moment he discovered the truth.
If only Alec could receive the Slayer’s offer! Then she would be spared the necessity of playing a fallen woman. Then she would have a champion worthy of her admiration. She struggled a moment to construct a vision of Alec’s boy-like face. She found she could not; the memory of him seemed to have faded. The only face that came to mind was slashed by a scar and framed by hair the color of night.
Chapter Seven
Clarise’s gaze was drawn to the high table where Sir Roger stood with a gyrfalcon on his gloved hand. He was dressed for hunting in a pea green tunic and soft hide boots. He met her gaze and smiled, placing the falcon on the back of his chair. Its silver jesses jangled as it scooted free, scenting the air with an open beak. Clarise felt suddenly like its prey.
She lifted her chin and walked straight to the high table. The story she would offer was a credible one. She had nothing to fear from the master-at-arms. As the Slayer lowered the cradle beside the dais, Clarise reached in and plucked the baby free.