Christian felt himself pale. “You know about that?” he asked.
She kneeled on the mattress beside him. “Husband,” she said, cupping his jaw in her delicate hand and forcing him to look at her. “There is something you should know about yourself; something someone should have told you long ago.”
“What is it?” he asked, feeling poised on the brink of self-discovery.
Her amber gaze warmed him like the sun. “You, my lord, are a good man. You are honorable and noble, chivalrous and incredibly brave.” This time he could not mistake the sheet of tears that slipped across her eyes and made them glitter. “And I am honored to be your wife. I am honored that you nearly laid your life down in the belief that it would make you worthy. But if you ever do anything so rash again, you will answer for it,” she added, using his own words against him.
He’d never been called those things before. Christian felt a silly smile overtake him. The urge to laugh out loud tickled his lungs, but he feared he would croak if he tried.
“I love you,” she added, throwing her arms around his shoulders. She buried her face in his tunic as if she would cry.
“I’m up here,” he reminded her, desperate for a kiss.
She beamed up at him. “I love you,” she repeated, pressing her mouth to his. “I have loved you since the night you prayed by Simon’s cradle. I knew then that you were not what people said, but a man with a pure heart and pure needs.”
Aye, and his manly needs were about to explode if they did not find immediate relief. Her words rushed over him like springwater over mountain stone. Their mouths fused in a heady blend of hunger and joy. As his hands sought the weight of her breasts, they fell back together in a frenzy of need, too long restrained.
An hour later Christian lay on his back, thoroughly replete and damp with sweat. “Will you always forgive me so thoroughly, wench?” he panted. He felt utterly relaxed.
Clarise rolled on her side to face him. “Think you that I’m done?” she asked, in mock seriousness.
He groaned in surrender. “Hundreds of warriors have raised their swords against me, yet you bring me to my knees with your wanton appetite.”
Clarise laughed out loud, delighted by his wit. How was it that she’d overlooked this lighthearted vein in him? Now that she considered it, she remembered several instances when he’d injected humor into their exchanges. She’d been too blinded by fear to see it.
“My lord,” she purred, rubbing her sweat-slicked body against his side. “Did you ever think that everything would end so well?”
He gave her a look, then fastened his gaze on the cobalt bed canopy. “Too cynical for that, I fear.”
“What is there to fear?” she asked. “The abbot is gone; Ferguson is dead.”
A moment passed when all that came from Christian was the sound of his breathing. “Someone at Helmesly was loyal to the abbot. They sent him missives informing him of certain matters. He was advised of Ethelred’s visit, for example. I saw the warning myself written on a small scrap of paper in Gilbert’s herbal.”
A chill settled on Clarise’s moist skin. “Will it matter now that Gilbert is dead?” she asked.
He hesitated again. “I cannot say. But as long as there is reason for caution, Simon is in danger. We should advise Doris never to let him out of her sight.”
She suddenly recalled the mysterious offerings of goat’s milk. “Do you recall the day that Simon fell ill?” she asked.
“How could I forget it?”
Gooseflesh prickled her tender skin. “The milk I had given him that day was not milk that I fetched myself,” she admitted. “I found a full bucket awaiting me that morning. I thought it might have been left behind by one of the milkmaids. Simon was due to waken at any moment, so I took it, loath to make him wait any longer. I think, perhaps, that it was poisoned.”
He stared at her in silence, lines of his face growing suddenly harsh.
“Please don’t be angry with me.” She put a hand to his cheek to calm his wrath. “Believe me, there is nothing you could say to me that would chastise me any more than I have chastised myself. But here is the strange part, my lord. The bucket was there again the next day and the next. I poured it out,” she hastened to assure him. “I may be impulsive, but I’m not stupid.”
“Of course not,” He rolled onto his side to face her. “Thank you for telling me. And thank you for using your wits, even though you ought to have told me the truth by then.”
“I need to go get Simon,” she said, overcome by sudden panic.
“Stay but a while,” her husband begged. He dipped his head and flicked his tongue across the sensitive peak of her breast. “I trust Doris to guard him.”
“Nay, I have to check on him. I will bring him here, and we can play with him until supper.”
“No rest for the weary,” he groaned, burying his face between the swells.
She nipped him on the shoulder, then wriggled quickly off the bed.
“Vixen!” he shouted, reaching out to pinch her buttocks as she fled.
The banter continued as she quickly washed and dressed. Brushing the tangles from her hair, Clarise glanced out the window. The ground was scorched and thirsty for rain. The wildflowers had wilted in the heat. Yet, deep in her heart, a river of contentment flowed.
But then she remembered Christian’s suspicions, and alarm shivered through her. Putting down her hairbrush, she hastened from the room, blowing a kiss to her husband as she went.
Chapter Twenty
Rushing up the tower stairs to relieve Doris, Clarise barreled into Harold, who was hastening down the stairs. “Oh, Harold, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”
He mumbled an apology under his breath and kept right on going, his chin tucked against his chest.
Clarise watched him beat a hasty retreat. What was Harold doing on the third level? He didn’t usually venture beyond the great hall or the kitchens, especially in late afternoon with preparations for supper under way.
Determined to assuage her curiosity, she ascended the remaining steps as quietly as possible. Christian’s suspicions came sharply to mind as she tiptoed along the corridor. She peeked into the room she had formerly occupied and spied Doris, straightening the rumples from the bed.
Clarise drew back with a gasp. The evidence was overwhelming. Suddenly she knew who’d fathered Doris’s unborn child. It was Harold. Because of his mental infirmities and odd manner of speaking, she had placed him above suspicion. Now she recalled his agitation when Doris had gone into labor. He had feared that Doris would die as his niece had done.
Did Dame Maeve know about her husband’s liaisons? Could that be the reason for her bitterness and spite?
Clarise waited a minute longer, then stepped forward to knock on the door.
“Come, milady,” Doris sang out, clearly expecting her. As Clarise entered the room, the woman turned with the baby clasped to her ample bosom. “He is just waking from a nap,” she announced. Seeing the look on her mistress’s face, she faltered. Her doughty cheeks fell as her smile died.
“Doris,” Clarise said, sternly enough to make the nurse pale. “You have not been honest with me or, for that matter, with yourself.”
“Milady?” Doris croaked.
Clarise shut the door so they wouldn’t be overheard. “I just saw Harold leave,” she announced. “He was the father of your baby, wasn’t he?”
Doris cast a miserable look to the floor. “Aye, milady.”
“How long has this been going on?”