Clare had spoken the truth when she said she loved his son. Her appearance at Helmesly had saved Simon from starvation. And after tonight he could only believe that fate had delivered her to his stronghold for a purpose. Could she possibly bring herself to love the Slayer, too?
One of the lamps dimmed, telling him the wick was drowning. It was well past midnight. He rose from his desk and 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 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. Together, he and Clare had forced the infusion blended by the servants down the baby’s throat. They’d dispelled the evil humors, causing Simon to purge whatever ailed him.
The baby’s suffering had left Christian pale with helplessness. He relived the fear that Simon would be snatched away, that his strange and lonely marriage had been for naught.
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 swelled in Christian’s heart.
Kneeling by the cradle, he turned his attention to his son. Simon’s skin was 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 for his piety and flogged for seeking help from anyone, even 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 providence.
Hot tears pooled in his eyes as he begged the Almighty to spare Simon. A part of him still felt that he was wasting his time. He didn’t deserve a son.
Clarise found the floor unbearably hard. With her shoulder paining her and her arm growing numb, she stirred from slumber. The sound of fervent whispers brought her fully awake. She shifted slightly and cracked an eye. Lord Christian was kneeling over the cradle. In the faint bluish light she saw that his head was bent. His hands gripped the wooden box.
He is praying, she realized with amazement. And 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’d 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 weighted and drifted shut.
Moments later she felt herself being lifted. The unyielding floor dropped away, and she sank into a feather mattress. It was the Slayer’s bed, she realized in her semiconscious state. Yet she felt 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.
Christian gazed at the graceful figure in his bed. Her scent clung to him from the brief moment he’d held her in his arms. She smelled of lavender and woman. Her scent was comforting in the same way that his mother’s sweet smell had been when he was small.
She murmured in approval of her newfound comfort and snuggled into the coverlet. Her bosom rose and fell with a sigh. He remembered the lush perfection of her breasts. Poor woman, she had been misused by a man, just as his mother had. He had no right to entertain the thoughts that sizzled through his mind each time he looked at her.
With a self-directed sneer he turned away. All he could think of lately was possessing the woman for himself. That made him no better than Monteign, no nobler than his father.
Making his way to the tallow lamp, he snuffed the flame. Then he moved toward the far side of the bed, where he hoped he wouldn’t reach for Lady Clare in his sleep. Something unseen lay in his path. He tripped over the cloth object, then bent down to retrieve it.
In the sooty darkness he identified the sling that Clare had carried Simon in. Something soft and heavy was caught in the material’s folds. His hands closed over a pouch of some kind. The slosh of liquid helped him realize what it was.
It was the same nursing skin Sarah had used without success before Clare’s intervention. As he clutched the smooth vessel, his mind began to churn. What would a nurse need with such a tool? Had she given Simon milk that was not her own?
The question unearthed new doubts. Had the milk been rancid? Had it been tampered with somehow? The doubts, like maggots, began to gnaw at his newfound faith.
Could his son have been poisoned?
Nay, he could not believe it! The woman had just demonstrated the depths of her devotion. She would never have poisoned his son.
Resolve hardened the warlord’s jaw. Because of her devotion to Simon today, he would let her sleep. But she would have to account for the nursing skin the moment she awakened on the morrow.
Chapter Nine
Soft yellow light penetrated Clarise’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 Slayer’s solar. She was lying in his bed.
Her gaze jumped to the warlord, who was sleeping silently beside her. His jaw was 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. She was struck by how handsome he looked without the flaw, how young.
Her gaze wandered from the powerful curve of his cheekbone to his stubbornly square chin. His mouth fascinated her. She wondered again what it would be like to kiss him.
And then she remembered Simon.
Holding her breath, she turned over and dropped her feet to the floor. She peered wide-eyed into the cradle, terrified that she would find the baby dead.
He looked utterly at peace. At the telltale rise and fall of his chest, the breath rushed out of her lungs. She touched a finger to Simon’s cheek. His skin was cool. The fever was gone.
With a cry of joy Clarise spun around on the bed, jarring the warlord into wakefulness. He sprang up, gripped her by the shoulders, and slammed her to the mattress before she uttered a word.
She found herself pinned 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 warmed 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.