Clarise 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’s fever is gone!” she cried. She bounced to her knees and gestured at the cradle. “Look! He sleeps peacefully.”
Hope kindled in the warlord’s eyes. He scooted across the bed and leaned over the cradle to study his son. She remembered his fervent prayers of last night, and she was certain they’d 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. “I am grateful Simon is restored to good health. I so was 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. “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.
He flung himself off the bed and bent to collect the cloth sling from the floor. “I found this,” he said, holding up the nursing skin.
The breath in Clarise’s lungs evaporated, but her mind produced another lie quickly. “You will note that it’s full,” she said. “I carried it thinking Simon might cry on the way to Abbingdon and I could assuage him without . . . without stopping.”
“Did he drink any of it?” he demanded harshly.
She found she couldn’t deny it. “He had a little. Apparently it didn’t agree with him,” she added faintly.
The Slayer dropped the bottle as if it were a venomous serpent. He stalked to a basin and splashed water on his face.
Clarise felt like a piece of fraying rope. A moment ago she’d thought that the root of her deceit had been detected, but it had only been a small part of her complex lie. And the Slayer was furious with her for just that small transgression. How would he react to learn that goat’s milk was all the baby ever got?
He turned around, then, dragging a towel over his face. His expression was irritated but not murderous. “From now on, Simon will only take nourishment at your breast,” he warned. “He is the next Baron of Helmesly, by God. He will not take milk from a goat that eats anything to cross its path!” His volume rose so that by the end of the sentence he was practically yelling.
Clarise lowered her gaze to the baby. She felt she deserved his chastisement. “I am sorry, my lord,” she choked out. Guilt cut deeply into her heart as she realized the milk had very likely been the reason for Simon’s affliction. Had it just been rancid? Or had someone possibly poisoned it?
Her pallor must have convinced the Slayer of her contrition. He tossed aside the cloth and strode toward the bed to sit beside her.
She glanced at him warily.
“I don’t mean to be harsh,” he said, propping his elbows on his knees. He frowned down at his feet, his scar distinctly pale upon his cheek.
With surprise, she realized he felt sorry for having just raised his voice at her. She rushed to reassure him. “Nay, you were right to be angry. ’Twas my fault. I must guard him more closely.”
He turned his head then, his gaze probing. “Why do you love him?” he inquired with genuine puzzlement.
She pulled back and frowned at him. “Why?” She glanced at the baby. “How could I not? He is innocent, he is beautiful. Look at him!” She gestured to Simon.
The warlord glanced at his son, then back at her. “You are beautiful,” he corrected her roughly. His eyes warmed to a clear, bottomless green. “And I thank you for loving him.” He leaned toward her unexpectedly and pressed his mouth to hers. Clarise gave a start of surprise, her eyes flying wide.
His lips felt just as she’d imagined, warm and firm. He put brief and gentle pressure on her mouth and then withdrew, taking away the promise of more.
She felt as though she’d been doused in a warm, fragrant rain that abruptly stopped. The Slayer had just kissed her! She could only stare at him, amazed that she wanted to be kissed again.
“A kiss of thanks,” he explained, waiting.
She needed to be kissed again.
Without thinking of the consequences, she slipped her hands into the long strands of his hair and pulled him back for more. She had 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 and the thrill of courting danger.
He held perfectly still, his breath quick and shallow, while she placed feathery kisses upon his mouth, along his bottom lip, and at the corners. Flushed and confused that he was not responding, she pulled back, chagrined by her boldness.
He slowly raised a hand and captured her jaw, keeping her motionless. His eyes flashed a warning, and then he lowered his head and the assault became his.
His kiss was surprisingly gentle, given the steely strength of his fingers on her face. He fused his lips softly to hers. The contradiction of gentleness and strength brought heat coursing through her veins. With focused intent he added pressure to his fingers, causing her jaw to fall open. With great tenderness the Slayer slipped his tongue between her parted lips and slowly, thoroughly explored her mouth.
Caught up in a whirlpool of dizzy delight, Clarise gripped his shoulders. Never had she known a kiss could be so sweet, so intoxicating. When the Slayer lifted his head, she made a sound of protest.
With a look of bemusement he studied her flushed face and bright eyes. His fingers moved from her jaw to slide across her slightly parted lips, and his own face darkened with desire. He lowered his head again and kissed her with sudden, unrestrained force.
Shocked by his sudden savagery, Clarise clung to him, her heart pounding with expectation. His erotic plunge and retreat was nearly more than she could stand. It left her breathless and squirming and desperate for some unknown relief.
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 merged again. She was vaguely gratified to feel the hard length of him against her. She strained upward, needing to feel more, her breasts aching with some vague hunger.
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. His hand closed suddenly over the swell of her breast, and she gasped in surprise and pleasure. The memory of his tongue gliding over her nipple caused it to rise toward his palm as though beckoned. 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 with his teeth. She moaned aloud at the stabbing pleasure. Then he closed his mouth over the linen bodice and sucked, straight through the moistened fabric, his mouth hot and insistent.
Clarise cried out in mixed astonishment and delight. She sank her fingers into his hair, confused by the mixed urge to push him away and pull him closer. “My lord, you must stop,” she begged in a voice without substance. She realized now this was moving too far, too fast.
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 her, and the enormous proof of his arousal brought her quickly to her senses.