She would have known this man had they met as strangers on the open road. What man but the Slayer could be so utterly dark? His alert stance betrayed a lifetime of training. His body was honed and powerful. He was still wearing his chain mail, as though loath to shed the mantle of war. She hoped the powder in her pendant was enough to kill him.
“Of the cross?” he drawled, his voice blessedly quieter than it had been seconds before. His tone was touched with humor, an attractive sound coming from a man who would order her execution if he learned who she was.
After a moment’s incomprehension, she realized he made reference to the surname she’d invented, Crucis, yet she failed to see the humor in it.
The warlord flashed his vassal a smile. With teeth gleaming white, his smile was like a jag of lightning in a sullen sky. It took Clarise’s breath away.
Unaware of her amazement, he added, “You have done well in your search, Sir Roger. This damsel even bears my name.” His cool gaze ran over her, and she felt a tingling of awareness.
“Christian de la Croix, madam,” he introduced himself. He sketched a bow—more for mockery than courtesy. But it gave her the time she needed to understand his amusement. The name she’d given herself was the same as his, but in Latin. She couldn’t believe she’d overlooked that detail.
A fluke, she told herself, sinking to a curtsy. She knew an overriding need to remove herself from his scrutiny, to run as far and as fast as possible. Surely he could see the guilt on her face! The pendant burned like the flames of hell against her chest.
The baby’s cries told her what to do next. His wails were raw and desperate. She turned to comfort him and encountered the weeping maidservant.
“You may go,” Clarise murmured. The girl snatched up her skirts and ran, nearly toppling Sir Roger as she launched herself through the door.
With a trembling in the pit of her belly, Clarise reached into the cradle and lifted the baby. She settled him in her arms and thrust her awareness of the Slayer aside. This child was her alibi, her reason for being. If she convinced the men she was caring for the baby, she would avert suspicion long enough to do what was necessary.
The shrieking subsided. Clarise found herself the focus of a bottomless, gray gaze. A tiny, heart-shaped face was framed in a cowl of thick blankets. He doesn’t look like the spawn of the devil was her first thought.
She noticed suddenly that he was bundled so tightly perspiration drenched his swaddling. Oh, poor mite, she thought, clicking her tongue at the incompetence of others. She eased the material from around his limbs and freed his hot head. With that, the infant grew peaceful. A tender wind blew across Clarise’s heart. The babe felt natural in her arms, a precious burden. She turned toward the window, needing to see the baby better.
Though barely days old, from what she understood, he was cast in the image of his father. She could now see that he boasted a head of black hair. His little mouth trembled with the memory of distress, but he made no sound.
Tenderness gave way to uncertainty. Thus far, she had only thought of herself and her own safety. This child’s very life rested in her hands! What if she failed in her attempts to feed him? What if she left him orphaned with no one to ensure his survival?
Hiding her concerns, Clarise ducked her head and kissed the baby’s cheek. She felt the wetness of his tears on her mouth. Unthinking, she pulled the kerchief from her own head and dabbed at the silken cheek. From behind, she heard a sharp intake of breath, and she turned.
Christian couldn’t help but stare. Clare Crucis had wrought the miracle of Simon’s silence. She had burst into the room like a sunbeam, dispelling his fear that his son might die. As she moved toward the window, she’d removed her head covering, and he could see that her hair was the color of a flame, her eyes like honey. He could not prevent himself from hissing in a breath of appreciation. She glanced at him warily, then lowered her eyes again to study his infant son.
Christian feasted his gaze on her lovely profile—sculpted cheekbones, a delicate nose, lips so soft as to make a man weep. Yet her expression of tenderness was the quality that arrested him most.
“What is his name?” she asked, her accent nearly continental. He could only assume she had served a Norman family since birth.
“Simon.” He had to clear his throat. “Go on, feed him,” he urged. “He is half starved.” The baby gave a start at the sound of his voice. To Christian’s amazement, the nurse took note of this and frowned.
“The child must nurse in private, my lord. Kindly leave us and be assured that he will hunger no more.”
Christian felt his jaw slacken. He glanced at Sir Roger to see if he had heard the woman right. His vassal merely grinned.
By God’s right eye, the woman had just dismissed him from the room! He could think of no one—man or woman—who had dared such a thing before.
The novelty of it aroused him instantly.
Clarise was forced to mask her desperation. Hadn’t the warriors heard her? They behaved as if they were pegged to the stone floor, doomed to grow shadows on the wall. She stepped closer to reason with the pair.
The Slayer stood a full head higher than his vassal. His scowl alone would frighten the fleas off a hound, but she could not afford to be intimidated. If the men did not leave, her masquerade would end ere it began.
“Am I not to be given privacy?” she asked, her tone implying she would leave her post, if such were true.
Sir Roger shook his curly head. “My lord, we must talk,” he announced, backing out the door.
This announcement dragged the Slayer’s gaze from Clarise to the empty portal. But Saintonge was gone. The Slayer held his ground.
Clarise regarded him with acute awareness. The sky outside the window had deepened to azure. She could see nothing of his features now. As the baby threatened to sob again, she clutched him more tightly and prayed the Slayer would leave.
“Feed my son,” he said peremptorily.
Panic bloomed in her breast. “I . . . I require privacy,” she stammered. What purpose could the warlord have other than to watch her bare her breasts? She gave a thought to Ferguson’s treatment of female servants, and her blood abruptly thinned.
The floor was turning liquid under her feet. She cast about for a place to sit. But it was too late. She felt herself falling.
She never saw the Slayer move. But in the next second he was holding her upright. Strong arms banded around her, pinning both her and the baby to his chest. She struggled instinctively, panicked by the thought of being at his mercy. He dragged her toward an alcove and deposited her on a stool, where she shrank away, clutching Simon for protection.
“You are ill,” the warrior announced. He loomed over her, an unformed shadow.
“Nay!” Clarise protested strongly. A vision of Horatio’s festered face sprang to mind. “ ’Tis merely that I haven’t eaten in a while.”
Silence followed her answer. “I will see that you get some food at once,” he offered unexpectedly.
She opened her mouth to thank him, but he was already striding away, his boots ringing on the stone floor. Clarise waited until he was gone, and then she dashed to the cradle to seek the nursing skin that the servant must have used. She would need it as much as that woman had in order to feed little Simon.
She could see nothing in the blackened chamber. Cursing at the lack of tapers, she felt inside the cradle and along the floor. At last she found what she was looking for, but the bladder was full of milk, and the milk smelled rancid.
By the time the Slayer returned, Simon was livid with rage. Nothing short of a full stomach would satisfy him. Clarise sat on the stool, her back against the wall, her heart hammering her throat. She was certain her hours were numbered. The Slayer would kill her for failing to comfort his son.