Clarise’s eyes widened. She nearly tripped over her own two feet.

“Well, I don’t think her a spy. I think she’s beautiful,” said the girl. “Me sister Nell says she’s a gentlewoman.”

The girl was clearly kin to Nell and Sarah. Clarise was grateful for the vote of confidence, even if it came from an insignificant source.

“She might be a noblewoman for the airs she gives herself,” the cook replied, “but Maeve says she’s a leman. She overheard Sir Roger say it.”

Clarise stopped in her tracks. She, a leman? A nobleman’s mistress?

Surprise rooted her beside the bed of ivy. She considered the rumor, disdaining it at first for its inaccuracy. Yet she understood why the knight had come to his conclusion. She’d supposedly given birth to a child out of wedlock. And she’d claimed no family, no allegiance to anyone.

Just as suddenly she realized the idea had merit. Indeed, it gave her the perfect excuse for coming to Helmesly. Moreover, it explained Rowan’s song about the king’s mistress, for she could say that he had recognized her as . . . as Monteign’s mistress. She could barely swallow the thought of carnal relations with Alec’s father. Yet it was the best solution all around.

Still, if she didn’t get back inside the keep, it wouldn’t matter what story she gave. She glanced toward the rising sun, dismayed to find it peeking over the garden wall.

In the kitchen the servants moved away from the hearth to tend other tasks. Clarise dashed to the entrance and yanked open the door.

Thankfully, no one stood in the corridor that sped her to the great hall. There, she found Harold setting up the trestle tables one by one. He lives in his own world, Sir Roger had said. Clarise put that assessment squarely to the test and walked briskly toward the stairs. The steward never once looked up from his work.

She adjusted her grip on the pail and picked up speed. Her heart threatened to explode from her chest as she passed the Slayer’s solar and ran up the twisting tower stairs. Once within her chamber, she leaned weakly against the door and gasped for breath. She’d done it, thank the saints! And she would never, ever fetch milk at such a risky time again.

The baby, bless his heart, was still asleep. Clarise dropped a kiss on his cheek and went to light the brazier. She would steam the milk in the pail until it boiled. When Simon awoke, the formula would be ready for him.

Thoughts ricocheted within her mind as she went about her business. She would construct an identity based on the gossip she’d just heard. Her plan to cultivate the Slayer’s trust had been shaken but not destroyed. She would rise above suspicion yet.

There was still time left in Ferguson’s ultimatum . . . if she could only get word to Alec!

Clarise pressed the pillow over her ear. A pig squealed as though running from the cleaver. Hens clucked. The smithy’s hammer clanged, and the room was hot. She kicked off the blanket and admitted defeat. It was useless to try to sleep any longer.

The few hours’ rest she had gotten since dawn would have to sustain her in the hours to come.

With a lingering stretch, she braced herself for what was certain to be a trying day. Fresh air wafted from the window, cooling her bare calves. She wondered where the air was coming from when she had closed the shutters intentionally.

Someone must have opened them.

She lifted her head off the pillow and found her fears confirmed. The Slayer stood beside her bed with one hand upon the bedpost. His gray-green gaze pinned her to the mattress.

“Do you always enter women’s chambers without knocking?” she snapped, forgetting for the moment who he was.

“Do you always sleep so late?” he countered, with an even stare.

She noticed the stillness in him right away, and she sat up with a start. “Is it Simon?” she asked, directing her attention to the baby, now asleep in his cradle. She saw at once that he was snuggled in his swaddling and sleeping soundly.

“Nay,” said the Slayer. “He is peaceful. The midday meal is being served, and I would have you join us.”

The inevitability of the confrontation made her stomach clench. The warlord was impatient for answers, yet she doubted her ability to eat well and spin lies at the same time. “As you wish,” she said, resigned to getting it over with.

She tended first to Simon. By luck alone she’d pulled the nursing skin from his mouth and tucked it out of sight. Evidence of the early-morning feeding would have ruined her disguise.

As she put her legs over the end of the bed, she noticed the wrinkled state of her gown. She didn’t look the part of a leman.

As if thinking the same thing, the warlord asked, “Why do you sleep in your clothes?”

“My chemise is being laundered, and I have nothing else to wear.”

“Sleep naked,” he suggested.

She glanced at him sharply and was not surprised to see the watchfulness in his light green eyes. Now that she’d heard the rumors, she understood his reason for such suggestive words. This was as good a time as any to corroborate his suspicions. “To what purpose should I sleep naked,” she asked, meeting his gaze boldly, “when I sleep alone?” She raised her eyebrows at him.

Her pitch clearly worked, for a glimmer of interest entered the warrior’s eyes. He raked the length of her rumpled gown. “That’s an easy problem to remedy,” he drawled.

Alarm bells tolled in her head. “Oh, I forgot. I don’t sleep alone, do I? I sleep with Simon now.” She mustn’t let the Slayer think her favors were available for the asking. The mere notion sent panic swirling through her. The man was too large, too powerful, and by far too male. Today he wore a charcoal tunic that strained over the breadth of his chest. The sleeves were rolled back to reveal a dusting of hair on his powerful forearms. Black leggings hugged his long, muscular thighs.

She tore her gaze away. “Well, I’m up,” she said, coming to her feet. “Give me a moment to refresh myself and I will join you in the hall anon.”

“I wish to escort you,” he replied implacably. “You have tarried long enough.”

She weighed the wisdom of resisting him with the necessity of earning his charity. “As you will.” Shaking out a protective sheet, she lifted the sleeping baby and laid him on the bed. “Kindly wet this for me,” she instructed the Slayer, handing him a cloth, “and squeeze out the excess water.”

To her relief, he complied without protest. While his back was turned, she shoved the nursing skin farther under the bedcovers. She was glad she’d had the foresight to leave the pail inside the chest.

The warlord handed her the moistened cloth. The baby lurched into wakefulness as she placed it against his bottom. “He has a rash,” she commented, not knowing what else to say. “Perhaps Sarah knows of an ointment that will soothe him. Did you know she raised all eight of her siblings?” She realized she was rambling, and she clamped her mouth shut.

“My servants don’t share confidences with me,” admitted the mercenary shortly.

Clarise tossed the soiled linens into the basket Nell had set aside for her. She couldn’t resist giving him the tiniest bit of advice. “Perhaps you should speak with them first. Good servants don’t initiate conversations.”

He accepted her words without comment, though his eyebrows rose from their scowling line.

Clarise diapered the baby in fresh cloth, then dressed him in a gown of finest lawn. At last she spared a thought for her own pressing needs. “Here,” she said, thrusting Simon at his father. “Hold him for a moment, please.”

Their skin brushed as he put out his hands to accept the baby. Clarise hurried for the door, disturbed by the warm, smooth texture of the Slayer’s skin.

“Where are you going?” he called as she stepped into the corridor. There was a hint of panic in his tone.

She neither slowed her step nor answered him. There were some matters that were best kept private.

Abandoned, Christian gazed with consternation at his gowned son, who stared back at him with equal trepidation. It took a full minute to realize that the baby wouldn’t cry. Confidence reemerged, and Christian began to enjoy the close encounter.

He noticed right away that his baby’s cheeks were fuller. A link of fear fell away, making him breathe a sigh of gratitude. The nurse had saved his son from sure starvation. Even if Roger found she were a spy, he knew he couldn’t punish her. He owed Clare Crucis for saving Simon’s life.

He studied his son’s features, his tiny nose and watchful eyes. He could hardly believe that something so perfect had sprung from his loins. The awakening he’d felt at Simon’s birth was not fleeting revelation. The desire to be a good father burned in him like a steady flame.

He pressed a finger to Simon’s palm and received a hearty squeeze. Amazement coursed through his veins. The urge to laugh made his throat tickle.

He glanced toward the empty doorway, relieved that no one had overheard his rusty chuckle. The nurse was dawdling, he thought, with exasperation. She’d had time enough to recover from her travels. Now was the time for honesty. If she were linked to the minstrel’s subterfuge in any way, they would know it today.

Still, he had his doubts. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but the thoughts flickering in the nurse’s eyes were not shifty thoughts. There were times when she was truly afraid of him, but they were few and far between. Rather, she watched him as if assessing him. He hoped it meant she was toying with the notion of coming to his bed. His blood quickened at the thought.

He growled in irritation at her delay. The sooner the truth of the matter was unburied, the sooner he would know if his burgeoning desire would find release. It had been so long, so long since a woman had held him tenderly.

Ignoring the heaviness in his groin, he turned his attention back to Simon. The future Baron of Helmesly, he thought with bone-deep satisfaction. No one would call his son a bastard. He would be loved by all and, in turn, rule his vast demesne with justice and might.

Clarise lingered in the garderobe for as long as she dared. With the water that trickled through a pipe from a cistern on the roof, she wet a sponge and rubbed it on the harsh lye soap. The tales that she would tell today left her feeling less than wholesome. She gave herself a cat bath, then scrubbed her teeth and plaited her hair.

In vain she tried to smooth the rumpled dress, yet it didn’t really matter what she looked like, she decided, ceasing to groom herself. She might confess to having been a man’s mistress, but that didn’t mean she had to look the part.

Helping herself to a few stolen moments, she gathered her thoughts before returning to her chamber. She didn’t like to have to lie, and she prayed that Monteign’s soul would forgive her. She had always thought of him as her future father-in-law, and she was certain he had viewed her as a daughter. Nonetheless, this was the surest way to avert suspicion. The Slayer had come too close, too many times, to guessing who she really was.

Returning slowly to her chamber, she drew up short at the scene that awaited her. The Slayer had seated himself on the chest in which the pail of milk was stowed. With the baby in his arms, he looked halfway tamed, but for the locks of dark hair falling to his shoulders as he gazed intently down at his son.

She approached them cautiously and took in Simon’s rapt expression. “He wants to be like you,” she said, intending her words to be a compliment.

The warlord’s head came up swiftly. “Why the devil would he want that?” He gave her his fiercest scowl.

She would have thought the answer was obvious. “You’re a mighty warrior, the best there is.”

His eyes narrowed as he fixed them fully on her.

She realized she’d revealed too much of her own fascination for the man. “All boys want to be like their father,” she added belatedly.

He gave a smile that was more a baring of his teeth. “Not all,” he refuted.

She remembered suddenly that the warlord was a bastard. She wondered if he’d even known his father.

He must have read the question in her eyes. “My father was the Wolf of Wendesby,” he said in a voice as harsh as the lye soap she’d just used.

Clarise’s brain stuttered at the news. “The Wolf? But . . . that means you—”

“Killed him,” he finished for her. He rose swiftly, causing the baby to fling out his little arms.

Not just the Wolf, but every other living soul at Wendesby.

Clarise watched him stalk to the door. My God, she thought. Wasn’t it enough that he’d killed the Lady Genrose and the minstrel, too? Every time she thought the warlord worth redemption, she discovered another flaw in him.