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. She should never have fallen asleep in his chamber, should never have let him put her in his bed. “Please, release me at once!”
The Slayer lifted his head. He stared at her stricken face and frowned. And 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 warlord 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. Clarise slipped to the edge of the bed and wrapped her arms over her torso to keep herself from trembling. Without looking at her, the warlord moved toward his boots. He stamped his feet inside them and laced them up without a word. 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.
“How long will you be gone?” The knowledge that he was off to fight Ferguson filled her with excitement and trepidation. Maybe he would kill the Scot without her asking him to do so.
The muscles in his jaw clenched rhythmically. “I know not.” He studied her defensive posture, then he sighed almost despairingly. “Will you kiss me when I return?” he asked.
The request was almost boyish in its uncertainty. She was tempted to say yes, if only to reassure him. Part of her longed to resume their passionate kisses! She had never tasted anything like them. But she had no intention of offering her favors in exchange for his sword arm. She was the daughter of a nobleman, not the leman she professed to be.
She looked away, wishing she could blurt the truth. ’Twas safest to say nothing at all, she decided.
“I see,” he said, reaching for his belt. In a furious gesture he slung the strip of leather against the bedpost. The resulting crack made her leap with alarm. The baby came awake with a gasp. The warlord snatched up a charcoal-colored tunic and strode to the door.
Simon began to cry. “Lord Christian,” Clarise called out as she reached for the baby.
When he looked at her, his anger was subdued. “Aye, what?” he asked, taking in the two of them.
“Be careful. Ferguson uses alchemy as a weapon. But I suppose you know that already.”
His gaze narrowed with interest. “What do you know of it?” he demanded.
The truth quivered on her tongue, but his volatile temper made her loath to confess it now. “I told you, Monteign feared Ferguson and his trickery. Beware the powders that he uses to spread fire. Beware any ruse for peace, for he will use deceit to gain advantage.”
He pondered her words in silence, seeming to take them to heart. Then, with a brusque nod, he left the room.
Her thoughts ran after him. She found herself wishing him the best possible outcome, fearing for his life. If only he could kill Ferguson in the conflict to come! Then her family would be free, and then she would dare to tell him who she was, knowing Ferguson could not learn of her betrayal.
Suddenly she realized she should have told him the truth after all. Wasn’t the Slayer going to Glenmyre? The people of Glenmyre would unknowingly expose her, for there had never been a Clare de Bouvais in their midst, only an Isabeux by that name.
She looked at Simon with consternation. Aye, she should have told him who she was. Instead, she’d lied and lied again, simply to avoid the Slayer’s wrath. With those lies she’d sealed her own uncertain fate, whatever it might be.
Several mornings later Clarise parted the cupboards of the lord’s conservatory and eyed the stale bread with lukewarm enthusiasm. This was what she got for sleeping so late and missing the morning meal. Her late-night exploits to the goat pen had left her exhausted.
On three more instances she had found the same offering of milk awaiting her. With every discovery her skin tightened and a chill washed over her. She was certain someone knew of her masquerade. But who? And how could they know when Nell was the only one to enter her chamber?
Since Simon had fallen ill, Clarise knew better than to use the milk. She’d dumped the bucket in the corner of the shed and milked the nanny goat herself. She wouldn’t take the risk that the offering was poisonous. If a plot was afoot to see Simon murdered, she refused to be party to it.
It was not entirely the baby’s fault that she was tired. After stumbling into bed again, she would lie awake, thinking of her family and wondering how they fared in her absence. Often her interference was the only thing that kept Ferguson from cuffing her mother in plain sight of his men. Her vigilance kept Merry from being fondled by the Scottish men-at-arms. The only time that Kyndra bathed was when Clarise toted her, kicking and screaming, to the bathhouse.
She was also preoccupied by thoughts of the Slayer. Word had come from Glenmyre that Ferguson had not attacked on the first day. The warlord remained at Alec’s stronghold, ready to defend it if the need arose, free to make inquiries into her background.
The knot in her stomach would not allow for a big breakfast. Clarise poured herself a mug of watered ale and cut a wedge of cheese from a wheel. Carrying her food to the only trestle that hadn’t been put away, she adjusted the sling in which she carried Simon and sat down.
The food was tasteless. The reason for her anxiety, she acknowledged, was not whether the Slayer could repel Ferguson’s attack. She had confidence in his abilities. It was his reaction to the truth she feared. She ought to have told the warlord who she was before he came to his own conclusions.
Glumly she nibbled on her cheese. A few well-placed questions would expose her. When the peasants were asked if they’d ever heard of a Lady Clare, they would inquire if he didn’t mean Clarise, for the names were all too similar. And then they would describe the elaborate betrothal that had taken place there just a month before the Slayer seized Glenmyre.
She’d had ample opportunity to tell Lord Christian the truth. Because of her reticence, he would likely assume the worst.
What could she do to soften the blow? How could she appease the warlord when he came storming back to Helmesly?
“Oh, oh, oh!”
This cry of lamentation wrenched her gaze to the far end of the hall. Clarise spied Harold pacing before the fire pit, wringing his hands and muttering in distress. She looked around for the source of his worry. Other than the two of them, the hall was deserted. Harold gave another cry of despair, and she abandoned her breakfast to hurry over to him.
“Why, Harold, whatever is the matter?” She put a hand on his shoulder to gain his attention.
The steward looked amazed to see her there. “Oh!” he cried again, halting his frantic pacing. “Lady Clare,” he said, staring at her blankly.
“What is it, Harold?” she asked again. “Tell me what is troubling you?” Her first guess was that his overbearing wife had caught him filching pastries from the kitchen, as it was a common occurrence.
“ ’Tis Doris,” he blurted, his color high, his white hair waving as he rocked himself. “She’s going to have a baby, a baby.”
“Who is Doris?” Clarise asked in bewilderment.
“The cook!” Harold seemed to force the words out.
Immediately Clarise envisioned the heavyset woman who prepared all the meals at Helmesly. Surely she was well beyond her childbearing years. “Are you sure?” she asked.