“I’m not sure,” Saintonge surprised him by replying. He scraped the bristles of his new beard. “I know she is not what she professes to be. Her speech betrays her. She is no more a freed serf than you or I are high-born princes. The woman is a Norman, if not a lady outright.”

It was nice to have his suspicions corroborated. Yet if the woman lied to them, then chances were she intended some mischief. “I’d better check on Simon.” He rose quickly from his chair.

Sir Roger clapped a hand to his wrist. “Peace, my liege. A man stands guard over the baby. Sit you down and eat for a change.”

Christian eased back into his oak chair. “You left a guard alone with her?” The notion unsettled him. He knew firsthand the willpower it took not to stare at the nurse’s breasts.

“ ’Tis only Sir Gregory,” Sir Roger said, naming the oldest knight in their service.

Christian was mollified, but only slightly. He signaled to Peter to bring the water bowl. “He had best keep his eyes to himself,” he muttered, dipping his hands. “Marked you how the woman spoke to me?” he couldn’t help but add. It had been years since he’d shared a casual conversation with any woman, the most recent being with his mother nigh ten years ago.

“Mayhap she has yet to hear the rumors of your bloody past,” drawled the knight.

“She knows them,” he insisted. “I saw the fear on her face when she beheld my scar.”

“Then she is either brave or foolish.”

Trenchers of starling and pork pie made their way to the high table. “Where is the wench?” Christian wondered aloud. “I bade her sup with us.”

“Likely sleeping,” said Saintonge. “She was dead on her feet when I found her.”

Ah, yes, she’d fainted in his arms. Christian savored the memory of her softness against his armor. He ought to have thought of her welfare, but he was not as astute as Saintonge where women were concerned. Catching the eye of Dame Maeve, he waved her forward. “See you what the nurse is doing,” he commanded.

The woman pinched her lips. She gave the air a sniff as she turned to do his bidding.

What? Christian wondered, staring after her. He decided he should have asked a lowlier servant. The steward’s wife had better things to do than charge up and down the stairs. It was no secret that she was the true source of efficiency behind the simple-minded steward.

Harold, panicked by his wife’s desertion, began to pace before the dais. His white hair bobbed like a rooster’s comb as he oversaw the food’s distribution. The minstrel fell wisely silent as the men dug into their trenchers.

The meal progressed slowly. Christian looked up, happy to see the steward’s wife approaching the table at last.

“My lord, the woman is sleeping, and I was unable to awaken her,” she said with more deference.

“Well, what about my son? Who watches him?”

“The babe sleeps, also, and a knight stands guard outside his door.”

“All is well with the world,” Sir Roger added with distinct cynicism.

“Kindly prepare a tray for her,” Christian requested of the woman, “as I would not have her starve. I will carry it up myself,” he added, eager to share words with the woman.

“She is fond of boiled goat’s milk,” said Saintonge from the side of his mouth.

Christian indicated that the milk be added to the fare. Dame Maeve affirmed the order and moved away, calling instructions to the pages as she hastened to the kitchen.

“So,” Sir Roger said, reaching for his goblet. “You will deliver the tray yourself.”

“I mean to question her, ’tis all,” Christian groused. “We know that she has lied to us. I mean to discover why.”

“The answer depends on what she truly is,” his vassal reasoned. “If one goes by her speech alone, she could be a damned Parisian.” He deftly fingered his knife.

“Then she’s a lady,” Christian reasoned. “But what would a lady be doing traipsing through the countryside in search of work? ’Tis impossible.”

“ ’Tis possible if she bore her baby out of wedlock,” Sir Roger countered.

Her baby. Christian had forgotten that the woman had to have given birth first in order to have milk. God’s blood. Not only had she lost a husband recently but also a child. Having experienced that kind of loss himself, he felt a ribbon of pity wind through his heart. At least he was capable of such a basic emotion, poor woman. Had he been crass to her? He could have been more thoughtful.

He put the pieces together slowly. “So, if she bore a babe out of wedlock, then mayhap she lies about the husband.”

“ ’Twould explain the inconsistencies,” Sir Roger countered. He tapped the side of his goblet with his knife and narrowed his eyes. “Which brings up an entirely new possibility,” he murmured, after a moment of intense reflection.

“And that is?” Christian prompted.

“Perhaps she was a courtesan, a leman—”

“A mistress!” said Christian. Now, this explanation he preferred, for he could feel less guilty about the woman’s loss. “Aye, that would explain her candor with me, the jewelry that she wore about her neck,” he added with enthusiasm. “She said it was bronze, but I know the difference.” He remembered staring at the pendant to keep from ogling the woman’s wares.

“It also explains why she bore a child out of wedlock, why she has come to serve you as overlord of Glenmyre.” Sir Roger imbued the word with all its baser connotations.

Christian felt his ardor rise. The woman had come to serve him in the absence of her former lord. All at once, his excitement dimmed. “That means . . .” He reached for his wine, needing to chase a bitter taste from his tongue.

“That she might have been Monteign’s leman,” Saintonge supplied.

Christian thrust the unpleasant image from his mind. Monteign had been a big and burly man, more than twice Clare Crucis’s age.

They sat for a moment in private contemplation.

“Do you think she seeks a new protector?” Christian dared to ask.

Sir Roger wiped the sheen of grease from his chin. “We have taken our guesses to extremes,” he replied, crushing his lord’s burgeoning hopes. “She might also be a spy, sent to take stock of our defenses. Or to avenge a husband’s death.”

Those same fears had coursed Christian’s mind like muddy rivers, sullying the relief that Simon had been saved. “I will get the truth from her yet,” he vowed, hurrying to finish.

With eagerness whittling away his appetite, he abandoned his trencher and stood. The knight’s parting caution echoed in his head as he took the tray from Maeve and carried it up the stairs.

Try subtlety, my lord. It works better than threat.

The room that Clare had been allotted stood adjacent to the nursery. Christian approached the knight who was supposed to be standing guard. Sir Gregory sat on the floor with his back to the wall and his head between his knees. He snored loud enough to herald an army.

“God’s toes!” Christian muttered, battling the urge to jerk the old man to his feet. He stepped over him instead and snatched the torch from the holder. Angling himself into the nurse’s room, he held the torch aloft and looked around.

Dame Crucis lay on the high mattress, fast asleep. By all appearances, she’d intended to join him. She wore the gown he’d found in his late mother-in-law’s discarded wardrobe. A brush lay loosely in her palm. It appeared that she had simply wilted onto the bedcovers, lulled by the warmth of the brazier.

In the innocent posture of sleep, she didn’t look capable of spawning any mischief. She did, however, fit the description of a female valued for her womanly charms. Brushed to smoothness, her hair poured fire over the bleached pillowcase. She had bathed the dust from her body, revealing pale, soft flesh beneath. The room smelled of lavender and woman.

Even in a dress more suited to a matron, she possessed a sensual allure. The turquoise bodice strained across her breasts, its laces scarcely meeting. Christian’s gaze moved from her tiny waist to the flare of her hips. Her skirts molded the shapely length of her splayed thighs, invited his gaze to fall into the indent between them. How simple it was to imagine himself moving over her, pressing himself into her vulnerable core.

Christian gave himself a mental shake. He could not afford to blind himself with lust until he knew the woman’s purpose.

The cry of his infant penetrated the wall of the nursery. Clare Crucis stirred but failed to waken. Witnessing the extent of her exhaustion, Christian placed the tray beside the bed and carried the torch to the nursery, stepping over the knight, who blocked the corridor.

The vision that awaited him brought choked denial to his throat. Simon lay naked in his box, his skin nearly blue with cold. The swaddling had been taken off him and tossed over the end of the cradle. He wore no soiling cloth, and the crib was wet with urine.

Christian threw the swaddling over his screaming son and caught him up. “Hush,” he soothed, rubbing the baby’s limbs to speed the return of warmth. The infant’s distress filled him with helpless rage.

How long had Simon lain there shivering? Had Clare Crucis done this to him? By God, he would tear her limb from limb if he saw guilt upon the nurse’s face! But first he would teach that doddering, old knight not to sleep on the job.

With his temples throbbing, he girded his baby’s loins in a fresh soiling cloth and swaddled him as best he could. His ministrations only enraged the infant more. Simon’s fists broke free of the inept swaddling, and he bellowed loud enough to make the chamber echo.

Sir Gregory muttered in protest as Christian stalked into the hall. “Get up!” the warlord snapped, prodding the man with his toe.

The knight threw his head up suddenly, smacking it against the wall. With a cry of pain, he scrambled to his feet, muttering unintelligibly.

“Someone took the swaddling off my son,” Christian told him in a voice that made his own blood run cold.

Sir Gregory’s mouth fell open. “Oh!” he cried. “I . . . I . . . I didn’t see anything.”

“Of course not, you sluggard,” Christian snarled. “You were sleeping! Go and tell Sir Roger what just happened, and stay well away from me!”

“Aye, m’lord,” quaked Sir Gregory. He hobbled away with a hand pressed to the growing lump on his head.

Christian glared after him. With some portion of his wrath thus exorcised, he turned to the nurse’s chamber. ’Twould have been a simple thing for her to perpetrate this mischief. His blood boiled at the thought. Recalling Sir Roger’s advice, however, he tempered his rage and pledged himself to subtlety.

The baby still wailed, but the woman slept on as Christian entered the chamber. He stared at her in angry disbelief, then deposited Simon by her hip. The baby grasped her gown and turned his cheek in a desperate search for milk. Christian watched his futile efforts for a moment. Then he put his hand on the woman’s shoulder and shook her hard.









Chapter Four


















Clarise pushed herself to run faster, but her legs kept tangling in her skirts. The hallways of Heathersgill seemed endless as she raced for the courtyard. At last she burst through the oak door. It was nearly too late. Her mother and sisters were lined up on the gallows with kerchiefs covering their eyes. They would die because she failed to do what Ferguson had commanded.

“Stop!” she screamed, racing across the cobbled area. The Scot was standing on the platform behind them. At her cry of protest her stepfather grinned through his flaming beard and shoved the stool out from her mother’s feet. Jeanette dropped abruptly, then dangled like a doll on the end of a rope.

“Nay!” Clarise screamed through a tight throat. “You bloody bastard! Murderer!”

The sound of her own voice snatched her from her dream. Her eyes flew wide in time to see a shadow looming over her, but it wasn’t Ferguson. She gasped and scrambled backward. The man was immense. Something small jerked against her hip. Its wail of distress oriented her at once.

She realized with horror that she had just called the Slayer a murderer. In the wavering orange light, she could barely make out his features.

“ ’Tis I,” he rasped, ignoring the epithet, at least for the time being. “Simon is hungry. You were sleeping and failed to wake to his cries.”

The accusation in his voice made her scalp tingle. He’d come alone to her chambers? Couldn’t a servant be sent to awaken her?